Terror's Reach (7 page)

Joe picked up the overnight bags and followed Cassie outside. Jaden
was already at the Shogun, wrestling the back door open. While Joe
stashed the bags in the boot, Cassie manoeuvred the baby into the
child seat. Sofia immediately began to scream and thrash about. Joe
hovered at Cassie’s shoulder, pulling silly faces, but even this normally
reliable distraction technique had little effect.
'She’s shattered, that’s the problem,’ Cassie said. 'She knows the
journey will put her to sleep.’
Joe was returning for the buggy when Valentin Nasenko appeared
in the doorway. He seemed to recoil at the sight of Cassie’s tussle with
Sofia and hesitated, pretending to let his vision adjust to the bright
sunshine.
Valentin was fifty-four, an unfortunate mix of flabby and thin: bony
limbs and a football-sized paunch. His face was long and narrow, with
bags under his eyes and a loose turkey neck, but his nose was thick
and fleshy. His hair was grey, combed back in a high widow’s peak,
and his eyes were a filmy pale blue. Despite the heat, he was wearing
tailored trousers and a striped purple shirt. A nest of wiry silver hairs
protruded from the open neck.
He looked like a minor civil servant, or perhaps a head teacher at
a failing school. Joe still found it hard to reconcile such a mild appearance
with the knowledge that this grey, anonymous man had tumbled
through the Soviet Union’s chaotic transition to a market economy
and emerged with interests worth hundreds of millions.
Only when Sofia was subdued did Valentin approach the car. Cassie
looked up and saw him, and Joe caught a flash of panic on her face.
Then, with a nervous smile, she opened her arms and received a
quick, clumsy embrace from her husband.
Joe turned away. Gary McWhirter was walking towards him, holding
the baby’s buggy. Valentin’s adviser was in his late forties, a slender
South African with wispy reddish-blond hair and a handsome windburned
face, marred by slightly bulbous eyes.
'Forgot this?’
'I was coming back for it,’ Joe said, taking the buggy.
McWhirter yawned expansively and stretched, throwing his arms
out wide. There were sweat stains on his shirt.
'Days like this, I envy you. Where is it you’re staying tonight? The
Blue Anchor?’
Joe nodded. The Anchor was a boutique hotel on Brighton’s seafront
in which Valentin had a substantial financial interest.
'Perfect summer’s evening, you’ll be out on the terrace, knocking
back Cokes without a care in the world.’ He smirked. 'Eyeing up
Cassie’s friends, too, you lucky bastard.’
'Beats working,’ said Joe, electing to play along.
You bet it does. I tell you, man, you ought to be paying me commission.
Must be the cushiest job you’ve ever had.’
Joe didn’t respond. He carried the buggy over to the Shogun.
Valentin was speaking in a low voice, forcing Cassie to lean close, her
face earnest and dutiful. She looked like a child being addressed by
a parent. Joe rebuked himself every time he made the analogy, but
sometimes it couldn’t be avoided.
After saying his farewell, Valentin leaned into the back of the car
and kissed Sofia, who promptly started wailing again. As Cassie scurried
round to the front passenger seat, Valentin slammed the rear door
shut without so much as a word or a glance for Jaden.
He turned to Joe. 'Take care of them.’
'I will.’
Valentin gazed at the Shogun, nodding absently to himself. 'Make
sure Cassie enjoys tonight. She deserves it.’

Today Oliver Felton had been late coming to his post. His sister had
called again, for the third time that afternoon. This after a barrage of
emails and texts, until finally he’d relented and picked up the phone.
'What are you doing?’ she’d demanded.

'Preparing to be lectured by you.’
'Hilarious. I mean, why are you skulking down there on your own?
You’re supposed to be at Ginny’s.’
'I didn’t go.’
His sister groaned. 'Dad spent ages setting that up.’
'Best reason to stay away.’
'Christ, Ol. Don’t tell me you haven’t got the hots for that girl,
because I know you have. You can’t walk straight when you see her.’
'I’ve never denied that. But she thinks I’m a freak.’
'And this was the perfect opportunity to correct that impression.
You agreed, Oliver. I heard you promising Dad. Honestly, I despair
of you when you act like this.’
A peevish silence followed. Oliver could picture her expression in
every detail. With just a year’s difference in their ages their mannerisms
were virtually identical, except that Rachel had a habit of pushing
her bottom lip out to emphasise her displeasure. Allegedly this was
the look that made so many men want to sleep with her, but all it
inspired in Oliver was an urge to slap her until she bled.
When his apology failed to materialise, Rachel pressed on. You
know what Dad’ll say? Turning your back on something you want,
just because he wants it for you as well — '
'“Cutting off your nose to spite your face”,’ Oliver intoned in a
passable imitation of his father’s reedy drawl. 'Well, so what? I’ll chop
my whole fucking head off before I let him control my destiny. He
seems to think marriages are just another form of strategic alliance.
That’s partly why Mum was eliminated, remember? Once she’d served
her purpose.’
'Oliver, don’t start. I won’t speak to you about Mummy.’
You can tell him that I have no intention of moving out, and the
more it irritates him, the longer I’ll stay. And if I don’t outlive the old
Satanist then I want to be buried in the garden, with a fucking great
headstone.’ He laughed. 'Better still, build me a monument of jagged
shrapnel, dripping with blood. Dad’s great gift to the world. Here lies
Oliver Felton, laid to rest on a bed of bullets.’
From upstate New York, Rachel let out a sigh that might have crossed
the Atlantic under its own power. She started to say something, thought
better of it mid-way through the word 'regret’, and ended the call.
Replacing the phone in its cradle, Oliver was surprised to see the
handset flecked with spittle. Perhaps he had argued his case rather
too vehemently.
Afterwards, in need of a pleasant distraction, he’d made his way
to a landing between two of the guest suites. A hidden switch
opened a hatch in the ceiling, concealed by a decorative coving,
and a lightweight aluminium ladder slid down, powered by an
almost silent electric motor.
This led up to a tiny room, about six feet square, slotted into a
peculiar corner of the arched faux-Gothic roof. His father, who had
designed both this house and its neighbour, Dreamscape, had wanted
lots of unusual nooks and crannies. As a result the library had a
bookcase that opened to a secret music room, and the gymnasium
could be reached via a fireman’s pole from the floor above.
The eyrie, quickly forgotten, became Oliver’s hideaway. All it
contained were a couple of beanbags and a fine Swarovski telescope,
mounted on a tripod and stationed at the small window. The room
was on the north-east corner of the house, on the landward side, and
the shape of the roof obscured all but a sliver of sea. But the elevation
gave him an interesting vantage point from which to observe
Dreamscape, and a little of the house beyond it.
To his father and his sister, the room was his observatory, and it
was true that for a time he had developed an interest in astronomy.
The box of Kleenex he kept up here told a slightly different story, but
Oliver didn’t much care what they thought. He never had.
Now he mulled over the developments at Dreamscape. As far as
he was aware, his father hadn’t commissioned any building or maintenance
work. So why would the van need to go into the garage?
'Unloading something?’ he murmured to himself.
Plausible. But why close the doors?
'Unloading something . . . fragile? Private?’ The philanderer must
have some sort of scam going, and Oliver wanted to know what it was.
Of course, there was one easy way to find out. Dreamscape still
belonged to his father, after all. There was a set of keys downstairs.
He could simply go next door and let himself in.
Potentially thrilling, and not a little dangerous. But would it be as
much fun as watching, he wondered. So often in life the real pleasure
was to be found in anticipation, in allowing the marvellous fertility
of his imagination to be unleashed, free from the constraints of grim reality.
For now, Oliver decided, it was better to wait.
And watch.

Joe climbed into the driver’s seat, searching for the phrase that summed
up his predicament. Between a rock and a hard place probably said it
best.
He started the engine. Glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw
Valentin and McWhirter retreat inside the house.
'What did he say?’ Cassie asked.
'Nothing much.’
'He must have said something.’
'Just told me to look after you.’
Cassie didn’t push it, but there was a strained quality to the silence
that followed. Joe eased the Shogun through the open gates and turned
onto the road. There was no one in sight in either direction. With
just a single row of houses along the shore, the opposite side of the
road was bordered by Smugglers’ Copse: several acres of boggy woodland,
intersected by a network of overgrown paths. Protected from
development by a covenant, these woods formed a barrier between
the residential area and the training camp.
It was half a mile or so to the bridge, and Joe kept his speed low.
Checking his mirror again, he saw Sofia’s head beginning to droop,
her eyes heavy. Cassie was staring out of her window, perhaps to avoid
conversation.
Just before the bridgehead they passed the entrance to the Ministry
of Defence land: a set of high double gates, plastered with stern warning
signs. Joe checked to his right out of habit, but he hadn’t seen any
activity at the camp for months.
Next up, on the left, was the big dilapidated shed that had once
housed the chain ferry. The bridge was built alongside the route that
the ferry had taken. Barely wide enough for two cars, the bridge was
about a hundred and fifty feet long and elevated above the causeway
by fifteen feet.
Today, unusually, Joe had to pull in and wait for an oncoming car.
It was a black Cadillac limousine, straddling the road as it crossed the
bridge. The driver wore a dark suit and sunglasses. He seemed to be
staring straight ahead, as though no one else on the road mattered a
damn.
It was only when the car drew alongside that Joe caught a glimpse
of the single passenger in the back. His impression was of a large,
bulky figure, a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Completely bald,
with strong, square features and a brooding gaze.
Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second, but Joe felt a jolt
of recognition. His reaction was mirrored in the other man’s face, and
then the Cadillac swept past.
Joe drove onto the bridge, trying to place where he might have
seen him before. He glanced to his left, intending to ask if Cassie
had got a clear look at him, and saw there was a vehicle tucked in
front of the ferry shed. A plain white Citroen van, no livery. The
driver’s window was open, a man’s arm protruding from it, holding
a cigarette.
Must be here to do maintenance work, Joe thought, although twenty
past four on a Friday seemed an odd time for it.
But it was the identity of the Cadillac’s passenger that was uppermost
in his mind. He waited until they were across the bridge, then
looked at Cassie again.
'I take it that was your husband’s visitor?’

'I suppose so.’
'Do you know who he is?’
'Not a clue.’
Joe smiled. He couldn’t tell if she was resentful of him, or of Valentin,
or just that the line of enquiry bored her.
'What about that enormous boat sitting off the island?’
'Oh, I heard them talking about that. Valentin chartered it. He was
moaning because the minimum term is a week and he only needs it
for today.’
'What’s wrong with his own yacht?’
'Not impressive enough.’
'For this meeting?’
She nodded. 'He’s thinking of replacing his one with something
bigger. I saw him looking at brochures the other day.’
Joe pondered for a moment, then risked another impertinent
question. 'That’s a brave move in the current climate, isn’t it?’
'It’s crazy, if you ask me. But it’s up to Valentin. He knows whether
or not he can afford it.’
The van driver watched the Shogun until it was out of sight. He took
a final drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt towards the water. It
fell short, landing on the wet mud at the foot of the slipway. He turned
to his colleague, who was hunched over, writing on a notepad balanced
on his knee.
'Got that?’ the driver said.
'Incoming, a Cadillac limo, two male occupants. Outgoing,
Mitsubishi Shogun. One male, one female, two kiddies.’
'That was the Russki’s lot.’
'Ukrainian,’ the passenger corrected. 'Nasenko’s from the Ukraine.’
The driver shrugged. You’re confusing me with someone who gives
a fuck.’

Eleven

Priya wanted to leave the estate agent’s body where it was, but Liam
vetoed the suggestion.
'Someone else might turn up. We can’t open the front door while
he’s lying there.’
Reluctantly she agreed, and helped him unload some of the lighter
equipment from the van: the kitbags containing their clothes, masks
and gloves. For wrapping up valuables they’d brought rolls of bubble
wrap, heavy-duty garbage bags and packing tape, plus paper towels
and bleach to erase any trace of their presence.
Not that he’d envisaged a job on this scale, Liam thought.
Donning latex gloves, they placed the body on a bed of garbage
bags, then wrapped it and bound it with tape. Liam scouted the downstairs
rooms and found an office that would suffice for temporary
storage.
Mopping up the congealed blood was a much tougher proposition.
Priya had found a bucket in the garage, which she filled with hot
water and bleach. Taking a stack of paper towels each, they knelt on
opposite sides of the slick and set to work.
Within seconds they were both gagging. The rich metallic odour
of the blood was bad enough. Mixed with the acrid tang of bleach
and the thick stench of bodily waste, it was almost overpowering. Liam
fetched a couple of ski masks and handed one to Priya.
'Try this,’ he said. 'It might help.’
Priya nodded. Her posture was unnaturally straight as she tried to
keep her head as far as possible from the mess on the floor. She worked
with slow, thrifty movements, often with her eyes averted. Not shirking
from the task, as he first assumed; but definitely unhappy about something.
Liam
endured the mask for less than five minutes, then pulled it
off and hurled it over his shoulder. Too hot.
Shortly afterwards Priya did the same. For the first time today there
was a sheen of sweat on her face. A few strands of hair had escaped
her ponytail and glued themselves to her cheek. Glaring at the floor,
she began to scrub harder, grunting angrily, and that was when Liam
understood.