Terror's Reach (6 page)

wardrobe. As well as nearly ten thousand pounds in cash and a couple
of cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phones, the box contained credit cards,
passports and birth certificates in two different names, including the
one by which his current employers knew him: Joe Carter. There
were also half a dozen photos, growing increasingly dog-eared but still
without question the most valuable items in the box.
After taking a cool shower and dressing in jeans and a short-sleeved
shirt, Joe packed a small rucksack with toiletries and a change of
clothes. He debated for a second, then added his Leatherman multi
tool to the rucksack and put one of the mobile phones in his pocket.
Before closing the box, he allowed himself a few moments to look
at the photos. He’d considered framing a couple and keeping them on
his bedside table, but the same cautious instinct advised against it.
He knew the other staff viewed him as an oddity because of his
reluctance to reveal anything about himself. It wasn’t always pleasant,
deceiving people on matters both trivial and profound, but he’d long
since learned to live with it. He didn’t have any choice.
And on that bum note, he locked the box and put it back in the
wardrobe. Picked up the rucksack and left the room, his heart beating
faster at the thought of making the call – and the question he would
be compelled to ask.

Like almost everything else in Dreamscape, the garage doors incorporated
a fancy gimmick. Operating on an electric motor, they were
constructed from what looked like rigid vertical slats of hardwood. But
instead of sweeping outwards, tiny hinges on each slat allowed the
gates to bend and retract into a housing concealed within the curved
side walls. It was an impressive sight as the gates shuffled apart and
seemingly disappeared, but Liam was in no mood to admire it.
As soon as the gap was wide enough he ran to the Renault, started
it up and drove into the garage. Then he hurried over to the van,
casually checking the road in both directions. No one in sight.

He was glad of that, but it also freaked him out. Five houses all on
their own on a little island. No pubs, no restaurants, not even a corner
shop. If you suddenly needed a packet of cigarettes or a crate of beer,
you were looking at an hour’s round trip to the nearest town.
Of course, most of the people who did live here had servants to
run errands like that. But it still wasn’t for Liam. No, he’d take their
money and get himself a place somewhere busy and vibrant and anonymous.
New York, or perhaps Madrid. He’d once been on an amazing
stag weekend in Madrid.
He reversed past the gates, pulled onto the driveway and into the
garage. Stood and watched the doors rattling together, and when they
were shut he gave a nod of satisfaction. Everything back on track.
He opened up the van and took out a couple of plastic restraints
from one of the kitbags. There was a lot more stuff to unload, but
most of it could wait until the other teams were here: a job for the
knuckle draggers.
A neat little Louis Vuitton case caught his eye. God only knew
what Priya had brought with her. A change of clothes and some
toiletries, fair enough, but somehow she’d managed to fill up a whole
case.
Maybe there was some nice lingerie, he thought. So far she’d
presented herself as quite the prim little maiden but, as he knew from
experience, that kind of woman sometimes turned out to be a tigress
in the bedroom.
Liam caught himself whistling as he retraced his steps through the
house. He was feeling lucky, thinking about Priya and lingerie.
Thinking about christening the snooker table. It wasn’t till he reached
the kitchen that he detected a subtle change in the air. Something
had gone badly wrong.
He recognised the smell immediately: hot, metallic, foul. The
stench of a slaughterhouse. A second later he reached the hallway
and saw the large spreading pool of fresh blood.

Nine

For a moment, Liam considered aborting the whole operation. It was
one thing to expect the unexpected. Quite another to foresee a problem
on this scale.
He watched the blood creep across the floor and settle, hot and
viscous, darkening the grooves between the sumptuous oak floorboards.
He’d never get it all out, he realised. No matter how rigorously he
cleaned up, traces of it would remain, soaking deep into the floor.
And blood meant
DNA
. It meant evidence that could put him in
prison for the rest of his life.
Almost as quickly, Liam understood that the job had to continue.
There were too many elements already in play. And far, far too much
at stake.
Tearing his gaze from the blood, he focused on its source. The
estate agent lay on his back, arms thrown out at his sides, one leg
straight, the other slightly crooked. If you lifted him upright it would
look like a dancer’s pose.
His throat had been slashed just below the Adam’s apple, but Liam
guessed it was one of the stab wounds to the chest that had killed
him.
'What happened?’
He looked at Priya. She was sitting at the foot of the stairs, her
elbows resting on her knees, her lower arms dangling free as if she
wanted nothing more to do with them. Her hands were covered in
blood, and there was a spatter line on her jeans, crossing both legs
just below the knees. Her head was tipped forward, her hair a graceful
curtain across her face.
There was no response, so he said it again. 'What happened? Did
he try to attack you?’
Priya raised her head, parting the curtain of hair. 'He said he felt
sick. Asked if he could go to the toilet. I said no.’ Her voice was even,
but sounded a little tight. She was very still, he noticed. Not trembling.
'He
started to get up, said he just needed to turn over, but then he
lunged at me. He grabbed my ankle, tried to pull me down.’
Liam sighed. This was precisely why he’d proposed that she move
the cars.
'I couldn’t let him overpower me. Not with so much at risk. I just. . .
I had to defend myself She gestured towards the weapon at her feet.
It was a military-style boot knife with a double-edged blade.
'Where did that come from?’
'I always carry it.’ She met Liam’s eye. 'For protection.’
He nodded, filing the information away. 'Wouldn’t a single cut have
subdued him?’
'He kept coming at me . . .’ She shrugged. 'I had to stop him. Let’s
face it, he was a dead man from the moment he opened the front
door.’
Liam grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He couldn’t rid
himself of the feeling that her explanation was a bit too slick. He was
about to say so when a burst of dance music startled them both. It
was coming from the estate agent’s body.
His phone.

When Joe went back upstairs the house was vibrating with the undercurrent
of panic that accompanies the preparation for any kind of
journey with young children. In the kitchen, Cassie was packing milk
and bottles and bibs for Sofia. Joe heard the fridge door open, followed
by a crash. Cassie swore, and Maria offered soothing words as she
came to the rescue.
Yuri appeared, dumped a couple of overnight bags in the lobby
and stalked away, muttering into the phone clamped to his ear. Joe
caught the words: 'Ten minutes, okay?’
Passing through the kitchen, where Maria was mopping up a spillage,
Joe used the internal door into the garage, which had the look and
feel of a school gymnasium. At Christmas Valentin had been briefly
gripped by the notion that Jaden should grow up to be a professional
basketball player, the better to earn his keep, and so he’d had hoops
and a synthetic floor installed. Not surprisingly for a six-year-old,
Jaden’s enthusiasm for the sport had quickly waned, and after a few
weeks the garage had reverted to its former use.
Vehicle keys were stored in a steel box mounted on the garage wall. Valentin’s beloved Porsche 911 was away for a service, which
left two other cars: a brand new Mitsubishi Shogun and a 7 series
BMW
. Joe opted for the Shogun, knowing Cassie preferred it to
the
BMW
.
As the big double doors swung open, the glare from the sun was
dazzling. Joe rolled the Shogun onto the driveway, got out and opened
the boot. Cassie was already at the front door, holding Sofia in one
arm. She was flustered.
'I can’t find her other sunhat.’
'It’s on the back seat.’
Cassie managed to smile and look annoyed with herself at the same
time. She reached for the baby’s buggy, propped against the wall. Joe
beat her to it.
You take care of the kids. I’ll load the car.’
She nodded. Frowned again as she realised that her son was still
absent. 'Come on, Jaden! We’ve got to hurry.’
There was a muffled shout from the toilet along the hall. Cassie
wasn’t amused.
'They obviously want me out of the way,’ she grumbled. 'All this
sudden rush, before his precious visitor arrives.’
Joe was searching for something constructive to say, without
mentioning the errand at the jeweller’s, when the toilet flushed and
Jaden came bowling along the hall. Ignoring his mother, he ploughed
into Joe, grabbing his legs and roaring like a lion. It was a game they
often played, but this time it took Joe by surprise, causing him to stumble.
You got me!’ he said, setting the buggy down and sweeping Jaden
high into the air. The boy squealed with laughter and swiped at Joe’s
face, narrowly missing his nose. Jaden loved physical play, the rougher
the better, and Joe was the only member of the household willing to
indulge him.
For Cassie it was just another source of tension, emphasising as it
did all that was missing from the relationship between Jaden and his
stepfather. Mindful of her discomfort, Joe lowered the boy to the
ground and pointed out through the door.
'Time to go,’ he said.

Liam moved first, circling round the body to avoid the pool of blood.
'Leave it,’ Priya said.
'Can’t. It’s probably his girlfriend.’
'So?’
'We don’t know where she’s calling from.’
Crouching down, he slipped his hand into the agent’s pocket and
retrieved the phone. Priya was climbing the stairs towards the big
picture window that flooded the hall with light. She looked out.
'She’s parked on the road.’ Then, more urgently: 'Coming this way.’
Liam felt a rush of giddy confidence. He loved this, he realised.
Loved the danger. Loved winging it.
You answer,’ he said.
Priya gaped at him. She trotted down the stairs as Liam made to
throw the phone. Cupping her hands like a cricketer, she caught it
deftly and retreated to the back of the hall. 'What do I say?’
'Pretend he’s cheating on her.’
Still unsure, she slid the fascia up and answered, her voice suddenly
deeper and slightly breathless. Yes?’
Liam took in the confused silence at the other end. Delighted, he
hurried over to Priya. She started to pull away, obviously fearing the
caller might pick up on his presence. Then it clicked: that was part
of the deception.
She said: 'He, ah, he can’t speak to you right now.’ She moved the
phone a couple of inches from her cheek, far enough for Liam to
hear the other side of the conversation.
'Who are you, then?’ a shrill voice demanded. 'Do you work with
him?’
'Not work, no.’
Another troubled pause. Liam moved closer and Priya stood her
ground, allowing him into her personal space. They maintained eye
contact, Liam smiling, Priya’s expression giving nothing away. But
he could sense her enjoyment of the charade, just as he sensed her
physicality; was aware of her thudding heart only inches from his and
the subtle intoxicating scent that rose from her skin.
There was a groan, like static in the tiny speaker, as the penny
dropped.
'Oh, I don’t believe this… the two-timing bastard.’
Priya didn’t respond, but made sure the woman could hear her
breathing. She could probably hear Liam breathing as well.
'I came all this way . . .’ the woman muttered to herself. Then, after
a big decisive sigh: 'D’you know, you’re bloody welcome to him, love.
He’s a wanker, and you can tell him that from me.’
The call ended, accompanied by a half-hearted slap on the front
door. Priya closed the phone, crept past the estate agent’s body and
back up to the window.
'She’s getting in her car. Not a happy bunny.’
Liam, delighted, said: 'She doesn’t know how lucky she is.’

Ten

Oliver Felton saw the woman arrive. He watched her walk up to the
house, a mobile phone at her ear. He watched her grow increasingly
frustrated, then return to her car and drive away. He watched and he
was intrigued.
Because he knew who she was, and he knew the house wasn’t empty.
Oliver had a voyeur’s instinct. He’d known for several weeks that
someone was using Dreamscape for secret liaisons with a cheap-looking
blonde. He worked out that it was an estate agent from the firm his
father had engaged, yet again, to try to offload the monstrosity on
someone.
He’d seen the couple sneaking in and out, and more than once
he’d watched them having sex in one of the bedrooms. He knew their
routine, and Friday afternoon was a favourite time.
But what he’d witnessed today made very little sense. A car, which
he recognised as the philanderer’s, driving into the garage. A moment
later another man, a man he’d never seen before and didn’t like the look
of at all, trotted out and got into a builder’s van parked on the road. He
drove the van into the garage and shut the doors behind him.
And now the cheap blonde had called, found no one in, and
departed angrily. It was perplexing, but Oliver didn’t mind that. There
were far worse things to be than perplexed.

With any number of possible explanations, he naturally latched on
to the most salacious. Perhaps the estate agent was bisexual: two-timing
the woman with another man. Or perhaps he’d invited the woman as
well, intending on a threesome, and then decided the woman was
superfluous.
But moving the cars into the garage? That seemed like excessive
caution. Normally the estate agent was content to leave his car on the
driveway, doubtless aware that his client spent most weekends in the
south of France. On the one occasion that Robert Felton had noticed
the car, he’d accepted Oliver’s story that the agent was just checking
the place over.
The last thing Oliver wanted was his father putting a stop to these
assignations. He enjoyed them too much.