Ultimatum (17 page)

She turned and caught her reflection in the glass of Brozi’s front window. She was slimmer than she’d been in a while, courtesy of her obsession with the gym. Her hair looked different too. She’d dyed it jet black and had it cut short like it had been a few years ago – more to differentiate her from the woman whose photo had appeared all over the media after the Stanhope siege than because she liked the look, although it had begun to grow on her. She still looked attractive, but there was a hardness about her that seemed to become more pronounced year on year, as if it represented an accumulation of all the bad things that had ever happened to her. And Jesus, there’d been plenty of those.

A thought suddenly struck her just as she was about to start feeling sorry for herself. When Brozi had been threatening her and Bolt on the street with the gun, he’d had a mobile phone sticking out of his front pocket. But she didn’t remember seeing it when they’d arrested him. She hadn’t seen him drop it either, but then he could easily have done so when he’d been running away from her down the street.

Stubbing her cigarette underfoot, she called Mike Bolt, but he wasn’t answering, which she supposed was no great surprise under the circumstances. She left a message asking him to find out if Brozi had had a phone in his possession when he’d been nicked, then walked back down to the area where she’d wrestled him to the ground. A single drop of blood on the pavement marked the spot, and she wondered whether Brozi would try to press charges against her for assault.

If he’d thrown away the phone when he was running, it would be round here somewhere. He’d had the gun in his left hand the whole time so he’d have to have thrown the phone away with his right, meaning it would most likely be in the road or under one of the parked cars. She crouched down and looked beneath the nearest one. There was nothing there, so she looked under the next one, then the next, slowly retracing Brozi’s steps, pleased at least that she now had something to do, however mundane it was.

She’d been absorbed in this activity for several minutes when, out of the corner of her eye she saw a group of uniforms looking across at her. One said something and the others laughed, although they all looked away fast enough when she returned their gaze. She ignored them and continued her careful search, almost level with Bolt’s Freelander now, beginning to lose hope of finding anything.

Then she saw it. A newish-looking black iPhone, identical to the one Brozi had been using in his bedroom. It was on the tarmac beneath the bumper of a stationary van, about a foot from the kerb. Not exactly well hidden, but then Jetmir Brozi had been a man in a hurry.

Feeling a rush of vindication, she picked it up and switched it on. There was no password lock, as was often the case with criminals who were constantly changing their mobiles, and it was clear that Brozi hadn’t had it long because there were only six calls in the call log, all of them made in the past four days to different mobile numbers. The last call was the one Brozi had been making in the bedroom. He’d been speaking English then, even though she hadn’t been able to hear what was being said, but Tina had a feeling that the conversation might have been important. She checked the email section but it was blank, then almost as an afterthought, she opened the photos section.

There were two grainy shots of a man in profile coming out of a house. They weren’t the best photos in the world but Tina felt her heart jump, because she recognized the man in them instantly.

It was the man she’d seen run over by a lorry only a few hours ago.

The terrorist who’d bombed the coffee shop.

Thirty

16.25

TINA WAS STILL
staring at the photo of the bomber when her mobile phone rang. It was Mike Bolt.

Briefly she explained to him what she’d found.

‘And are you absolutely sure it’s him?’ he asked when she’d finished.

‘I won’t forget his face as long as I live,’ Tina said, suddenly feeling vindicated. ‘So now we’ve got a direct link between Brozi and the bombers.’

‘That’s brilliant, Tina. Well done.’

‘You’re pleased with me now then, are you?’ she said, unable to resist having a dig.

He sighed down the other end of the phone. ‘It still doesn’t detract from the fact that your actions almost got us both killed, but it’s a great lead, there’s no question about that.’

‘We need to lean on Brozi fast.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘There’s only three and a half hours until the terrorists’ deadline, and I’d bet anything that he knows their identities.’

‘But we can’t. You know that. First of all, he’s going to deny the phone’s anything to do with him. We didn’t even see him drop it. And secondly, after what happened with him shooting at us, I’m not even allowed to see him in case it prejudices future proceedings. We’ve got a team from HQ coming over to interview him but they haven’t arrived yet, and nor has Brozi’s lawyer.’

‘So we’re just going to hang around until Brozi’s lawyer and the interview team decide to show their faces? Hoping that he might deign to cooperate with us?’

‘This isn’t
24
, Tina. We can’t torture the information out of him. Just like we can’t torture it out of Fox either.’ He sighed. ‘Listen, it’s obvious from all this that Fox knows what’s going on. I need you to talk to him again.’

‘You’re not going to send me back to the prison, are you?’

She could hear the smile in Bolt’s voice as he answered. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to have you out of the way, but no, I’m not. We’re going to set up a secure line at Islington and you can call him from there.’

‘I need to offer him something. Otherwise he’s got no incentive to help us.’

Bolt was silent as he thought about this. ‘Tell him we’re organizing moving him to a secure safehouse, but that it’s going to take another day or so to sort the paperwork.’

‘He won’t fall for that, Mike. He’s no fool. Let’s try to be a bit creative here. It’s clear from what’s happened that his info’s good. This isn’t a set-up.’

‘Right now, I haven’t got the authority to offer him anything else. I’ll speak to the commander but I doubt they’ll even contemplate moving him. It would be political suicide. Use your charm, Tina. You’ve got a name out of him already. See if you can get something else.’

Politics, thought Tina. Policework, like everything else, was all politics, and covering your arse. She sighed. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

Thirty-one

16.35

VOORHESS’S TARGET, AZIM
Butt, was bound tightly with bungee rope to a leather armchair in his spacious first-floor living room, and wearing wrist and ankle chains. A ball gag had been placed in his mouth, making it impossible for him to talk, and a blindfold covered his eyes. He’d been conscious for several hours now and after a lot of initial moaning beneath the gag, he’d long ago fallen silent.

Voorhess sat down on a chair next to him with a bowl of hot noodles and removed the gag. ‘I’m going to feed you now, Mr Butt. Open your mouth.’

‘I’m not hungry. Please, can you not just take what you want and leave?’

‘I’m afraid not. I may need to stay for a little while.’

‘But why? What do you want? I haven’t done anything.’ There was a note of pleading in his voice.

‘I know it’s early to be having supper, Mr Butt, but there may be a delay until your next meal, and these are very tasty noodles. I’ve just eaten a bowl myself. I stir-fried some spring onions, ginger and chicken thighs in with them, then added soy sauce, rice wine and a splash of sesame oil. So I would appreciate it if you would do as you’re told.’

Mr Butt wisely decided to acquiesce, and allowed himself to be fed from the bowl, chewing in a manner that suggested that, actually, he was quite hungry. When he’d finished, Voorhess put a bottle of water to his mouth and let him drink.

‘Am I some kind of hostage?’ asked Mr Butt, looking up at him from behind the blindfold.

Voorhess put the bowl and the water down on the coffee table. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. All I can say is that if you cooperate, you’ll come to no harm. As you can see from the fact that you’ve just been fed, I’m not here to hurt you.’

‘I don’t want to die,’ said Mr Butt quietly.

‘And you won’t,’ Voorhess told him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Just sit tight, stay calm, and I’ll be gone later this evening. I promise.’ His words had a soothing effect, but then Voorhess was good at that. He’d once been told by a nurse he’d gone out with back in Cape Town that he would have made an excellent doctor, because he had the perfect bedside manner, his voice exuding a potent mixture of confidence and kindness. It was, he thought almost ruefully, ironic that he did the job that he did.

The downstairs buzzer sounded, reverberating round the whole house.

Voorhess saw Mr Butt stiffen.

‘Who could that be?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

Mr Butt’s voice was quavering now, which made Voorhess suspicious.

‘Are you expecting anyone?’

‘It might be my girlfriend. What’s the time?’

‘It’s quarter to five.’

‘It’s a bit early, and I wasn’t expecting her. But it might be her.’

The buzzer sounded again.

‘Will she go away if there’s no answer?’

Mr Butt didn’t reply. He looked scared.

‘Mr Butt,’ said Voorhess slowly, the bedside manner gone now, replaced by a cold, businesslike tone, ‘will she go away?’

Mr Butt swallowed. ‘She has a key.’

Ach, thought Voorhess, always complications.

As if appearing to read his mind, Mr Butt looked up at him imploringly from behind the blindfold. ‘Please don’t hurt her. She’s everything to me. We’re getting married.’

He would have said more too but Voorhess replaced the ball gag in his mouth and tightened it, before leaning down so that he was close to the other man’s ear. ‘Don’t make a sound, Mr Butt, because if you do, you will put your girlfriend in mortal danger. Nod once if you understand.’

Mr Butt nodded once.

Voorhess had already taken possession of his phone, and he picked it up now. The phone vibrated and a text appeared. It was the girlfriend asking where he was, with lots of question marks. She finished the message by saying she was extremely horny and was coming in to wait for him.

Oh dear, thought Voorhess, walking out on to the first-floor landing.

Darkness was beginning to fall and he made his way through the unlit gloom to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, then started down the stairs as a key turned in the lock.

She had just closed the door behind her and switched on the lights when Voorhess reached the bottom of the staircase. It was the girl from the photo in the downstairs toilet. She turned round with a bright, sexy smile that vanished when she saw that it wasn’t her boyfriend but a big man in overalls, holding a gun in one hand and a towel in the other.

In the flesh, she was even more attractive – a tall, willowy blonde with golden skin, wearing a short red dress that showed off her long shapely legs, and high-heeled red court shoes that Voorhess reckoned she probably wore when she was having sex. A short red leather jacket completed the ensemble.

‘Oh God,’ she said, her mouth dropping open in shock.

‘It’s OK,’ he said calmly, lifting the gun. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Put your hands in the air for me.’

As she raised them uncertainly, he shot her once through her left eye, catching her as she stumbled, and simultaneously wrapping the towel round her head to stem the bleeding. The gun he’d used was the one he’d requested from the client, a .22 calibre with low-velocity bullets, designed to take people out at close range without making much noise or mess. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he knew from experience that it was always best to plan for any eventuality.

She was still moving, clearly not dead yet, and he brought her slowly down to the carpet, placing her in a sitting position so that she was leaning back against him, her body juddering in the crook of his shoulder, the warmth of her skin giving him an unpleasant feeling. He didn’t like this kind of thing. Putting the gun down on the carpet, he produced a lock knife from his overalls, flicked open the blade and drove it deep into her heart to finish her off and stop it pumping blood, holding her while she died in his arms.

When he was sure she was gone, Voorhess tied a knot in the towel, impressed at how little blood had been spilt, threw the body over one shoulder, and carried her into the adjoining garage. Mr Butt didn’t drive, preferring to take taxis everywhere, and Voorhess had parked his Shogun in there. He thought about putting the body in the Shogun’s boot, but that would just complicate matters. Instead he laid her down at the back of the garage, trying not to look as her dress rode up to reveal a bright red lacy thong with a black flower in the centre. It seemed such a terrible waste, destroying something so beautiful, and at such close quarters too, and he gave a sigh of relief as he covered her with a sheet of dusty tarpaulin, glad he didn’t have to look at his handiwork any more.

Mr Butt didn’t make a sound as Voorhess walked back into the room where he sat bound to the chair, but tears were streaming down his face. It was obvious he knew what had happened. The .22’s retort hadn’t been loud, but he would still have heard it.

Voorhess found a tissue and wiped away his tears.

This was the cue for Mr Butt to make a long keening sound beneath the gag, like a wounded animal, and Voorhess turned away, having no desire to watch the other man’s pain. At the same time, there was a bleep from the mobile phone the client had provided him with.

He slipped it from his overalls and checked the message. It read simply:
GOODS READY FOR COLLECTION TWO HOURS. FOR USE 8 P.M
.

Voorhess nodded slowly, looking over at the holdall on the sofa. The black explosives vest was poking out and he picked it up, along with the medical kit containing the diazepam.

It was time to make the final preparations.

Thirty-two

16.52

ISLINGTON NICK HELD
plenty of memories for Tina Boyd. She’d done two stints there as a detective – the first for four years, the second for two. It was the place where she’d fallen in love for the first and only time in her life. DI John Gallan had been her boss, a good-looking, good-hearted man who’d been snatched away from her far too quickly.