The Blue Ring (6 page)

Grainger cradled the phone, pulled himself higher in the bed and tucked a couple more
pillows behind him. The phone call had warmed him; a contact with a distant
friend, a man who had been a stranger and arrived into his life and given him
the satisfaction of vengeance; a man whom he respected to his core. Of course the
conversation had been so abrupt as to be monosyllabic, but the contact and the
voice had blown away a loneliness. He recalled the days gone by with Creasy.
The man he had found drinking at the bar in his lounge late one night, the man
who told him that together they would take vengeance on those people who had
killed their loved ones. The man who had done what he had said he would do.
Grainger knew all about Michael and what he also had done on that trail of vengeance.

He decided to go right down the line on what Creasy had asked for. He picked up
the phone, flicked through his personal directory and dialled the number of the
director of the FBI.

When Creasy was shown back into Lars Pedersen's office he was greeted with deference
and even given a cup of coffee. Forty minutes later he was drinking another cup
of coffee and talking to Birgitte Jensen in her apartment.

"Marseille,"
she told him. "They left yesterday morning by air via Paris."

"Do
you know where they're staying?"

She
shook her head, looking worried. "No. Jens told me he would phone me in
four or five days. He expected to be away about a month." She paused and
said tentatively, "Michael told us something about you, Mr Creasy, and I
know why they've gone down there. Is there a great danger?"

He
shrugged and said non-committally, "I don't think so, but I'd like to
be there. Do you know if your husband has any contacts in Marseille?"

"Yes.
He will certainly have a contact in their Missing Persons Bureau."

"Do
you know his name?"

"No,
but it will be on file at police headquarters here."

"Would
you mind getting Lars Pedersen on the phone for me?"

She
smiled at the thought of phoning her husband's boss. A minute later Creasy was
talking to Lars Pedersen and two minutes later he had the information he
wanted. He turned to Birgitte and said, "Your husband's contact is an
Inspector Serge Corelli."

"Will
you phone him?" she asked.

Creasy
shook his head.

"No.
It's better that I wait until I get there. I'll be in Marseille by tomorrow
morning. As soon as I arrive I'll call you and give you the name and number of
my hotel. When Jens rings tell him to have Michael contact me there immediately
and to do nothing until I talk to him. If Jens phones tonight, get a contact address
and phone number."

He
moved to the door and as he opened it she said, "I'm glad you're going
down there. I feel better about it."

He
turned and for the first time smiled. "Don't worry. Your husband will be
just fine."

He
closed the door behind him and stood on the small landing. He moved towards the
lift but suddenly stopped and leant against the wall. Pain went through him. It
had only been three days since his operations. They had taken out the metal,
but the pain was still there.

He
dragged in air and created a mind over matter situation. His body would do what
his mind instructed. It had always been that way. Even when the blood flowed.
He thought again about the woman he had just left. The last words he had spoken
were for her comfort, but inside he had a suspicion that her husband might not
be fine. Creasy knew Marseille well. He had joined the French Foreign Legion
there many years before, and the one thing in his favour now was that he had
good contacts in the city. As he pressed the button to call the lift, a thought
struck him: Michael would need weapons. They had gone to Marseille via Paris,
and Michael knew where to get weapons in Paris.

He
turned back and knocked on the apartment door again. When Birgitte opened it he
said, "Sorry to bother you, but can I make a quick call to Paris?"

She
nodded. "Certainly."

She
understood French very well, but the side of the conversation she heard was
puzzling. On getting through Creasy simply said, "Do you recognise my
voice?...Good. Have you seen my son recently? Did you give or sell him
something?"

If
Birgitte could have heard the other side of the conversation she would have
heard a male voice saying, "Yes, two small silent ones. Did I do
wrong?"

"No.
Did my son leave a forwarding address?"

"No.
He had phoned earlier. I met him at the airport with another guy. I guess they
caught an onward flight."

"Thanks.
How's your father?"

"Getting
old and bad-tempered."

Creasy
smiled and said, "Give him my respects." He hung up and turned to
Birgitte. "As soon as I contact your husband, I'll tell him to call you.
Don't be worried."

It had
only taken six days for Hanne Andersen to become a complete heroin addict. She had not seen Philippe
again. After that first time a different man brought the tray with her friend on
it. He was tall, fair-haired, in his mid-forties and very handsome. During
those six days he also appeared to be charming, talking to her gently and
reassuringly. He told her that his name was Carlo. On the first occasion he had
freed her from her ropes and she was able to move around the windowless room.
He had also brought her a new red tracksuit and some cloth slippers and three
pairs of white panties. He spoke English with an Italian accent. The only other
person she saw was the old woman who brought her food and took her to the
bathroom down the corridor. She was only allowed to go to the bathroom shortly
after she had been injected so that she was completely placid.

After
the sixth day the injections stopped. They had allowed her to keep her watch.
It was a silver Georg Jensen, an eighteenth birthday present from her parents,
and her most valued possession. By the sixth day she knew that Carlo would
bring her the heroin every six hours, just at the time when she was beginning
to feel the pangs for it. At first the pangs were minimal, but as the days went
by they grew sharper.

On the
sixth day she kept glancing anxiously at her watch. The six hours stretched
out. After nine hours she was lying on the bed, shivering. She leapt up when
the key of the door turned. It was the old woman with the tray. On it was a
bowl of soup and a bowl of spaghetti.

"Where
is Carlo?" Hanne asked in a tremulous voice.

The old
woman silently walked across the room, placed the tray on the bedside table and
turned back to the door.

"Where
is Carlo?" Hanne asked again, and then repeated the question in French
more loudly.

Without
a word the old woman went through the metal doorway and the door clanged shut
behind her. Hanne heard the key scrape in the lock and the bolt slide home. She
sat up beside the bed and reached for the spoon. Her hand was shaking, and she
could hardly get the soup to her mouth without spilling it. It tasted of
nothing, and she dropped the spoon back into the bowl. For several minutes she
sat shivering on the bed, staring at the wall, and then she rolled onto her
back and pulled the blanket over her and suffered through the night.

He came
at seven o'clock on the morning of the seventh day. He was holding the small
metal tray with the syringe. She was sitting in the corner of the room, her
knees pulled up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes
only half open. He smiled at her.

She
pushed herself to her feet, asking querulously, "Where have you
been?" Her eyes were not on him. They were focused on the tray in his
hands. He smiled and held out the tray as though it were a present to a small
child.

"Here
is your friend," he said.

She
moved across the room, pulling up the sleeve of her tracksuit. He put the tray
on the bedside table. She moved towards it eagerly, but he held up his hand.

"Wait.
First I want you to do something."

"What?"

He
smiled disarmingly. "I want you to kiss me."

At
first her face was puzzled. "What?"

He
smiled again and spread his hands. "To kiss me, is that so difficult? Am I
so ugly?"

She
took a step backwards, her face now showing alarm. She shook her head as though
clearing it from a blow. "No," she mumbled. "No."

He
shrugged, picked up the tray and walked towards the door.

"No,"
she called loudly. "Don't go! Please give it to me."

He
turned with his hand on the doorhandle and said, "I will give it to you if
you give me a kiss."

Again
she shook her head as though in bewilderment, then said, "No...But I need
it...I need it badly...I'm feeling very ill."

Abruptly
he turned the handle of the door and went out, saying over his shoulder,
"I'll be back in an hour. Think about it."

An hour
later she kissed him. He held her close with his hands behind her head, his
tongue probed into her mouth. She felt nothing. Her mind was concentrated on
the tray on the bedside table. The tray with the syringe.

Afterwards
she lay down on the bed while he let himself out. She felt the warmth spreading
over her, felt the knots in her belly unravelling, felt the tension in her arms
and legs ease away. He came back eight hours later, carrying the tray. For the
past two hours she had been looking at her silver watch every two or three minutes.

Those
two hours had seemed like two years of her young life. This time to get the
injection she had to kiss him and let him caress her breasts and bottom over
the tracksuit. The third time she had to let him caress her whole body under
the tracksuit. The fourth time he came clad only in a dressing-gown and told
her that to get the injection she would have to let him make love to her. She
refused and he went away with the tray, leaving her pounding on the metal door
and screaming abuse at him in her native Danish. He came back two hours later
and she let him make love to her. Lying naked on her back she felt nothing. Her
eyes never left the tray a metre away from her head.

And so
it went on. Within a week she was performing acts of degradation that she had
never known existed. A few days later he was accompanied by another man, a
tall, thin, dark-skinned man with a black moustache. They used her body
separately and together. Sometimes it was painful. After two hours the
dark-skinned man got dressed and left. Carlo gave her the injection and then
lay naked on the bed, smoking a cigarette, watching her as the pain and
humiliation ebbed away with the effects of the drug.

Conversationally
he said, "Tomorrow you are moving to a different city."

"Where?"
she asked dully.

"It
doesn't matter," he answered. "It's a different country." He
smiled at her. "A nice country."

She
took this into her drugged mind and then asked anxiously,

"Will
you be coming with me?"

He
shook his head. "No, my job is done now."

Anxiety
registered in her mind. She pointed at the syringe. "What about
that?"

He
smiled again. "Don't worry about that. Someone will be there to give it to
you."

She
tried to think through the haze of her brain. "Will I have to do those
things before they give it to me?"

"Yes,"
he said nonchalantly. "But as time passes you won't mind so much."

She
turned away, knowing that she was now a slave.

The sun
was setting over the fishing harbour. Jens Jensen sat on the small balcony of
the apartment and took pleasure in watching the coming and going of the boats.
He loved the sea and its traffic, and his ambition was to own a house or
apartment in one of the small towns north or south of Copenhagen, which fronted
onto a harbour.

He
reflected on the last forty-eight hours since Michael had come into his life
and marvelled at the composure and confidence of the young man. Jens had been a
policeman throughout his working life and had seen and done a great deal. He
had worked in the CID, the Vice department and the Drugs department. He was
twice Michael's age and yet, since the moment they had got on the plane at
Copenhagen's Kastrup airport, he had deferred to Michael as the leader of this
particular operation. His first surprise had been at Charles-deGaulle airport
in Paris, where they had a two hour wait for the connection to Marseille.
Michael told him that they would not stay in the transit lounge but check
through Immigration. They had gone to the coffee shop, sat in a corner and both
ordered cappuccinos.

After five minutes a thin, dark-haired man in his early forties had slid onto a chair
beside Michael. No greetings had been exchanged. The man passed Michael a very
small briefcase and asked, "How's your father?"

"He's well," Michael had replied, "And yours?"

"Getting
old and bad-tempered."

Michael
smiled and said, "Give him my respects."

The man
nodded, and said quietly, "Nine zero nine," and then went away.

"Who
was that?" Jens had asked.

"He's
called Corkscrew Two," Michael replied, straight-faced, then smiled at
Jens' puzzled look. "His father was called Corkscrew. He took over the
family business when his father retired a few years ago."

"What
business?"

Michael
thought for a minute and then replied in a low voice.

"He's
based in Brussels, which used to be the centre for recruiting mercenaries and
similar types. His father has known my father for years. Corkscrew got his
nickname because he could get into anywhere in the world and then get himself
out. He could obtain almost anything from weapons to information. He passed on
his knowledge and skills to his son, who naturally became Corkscrew Two. It was
Corkscrew Two who set up the safe houses and equipment that we needed on that
operation in Syria a couple of years ago."