Dead Man's Gift 01 - Yesterday (4 page)

In his rear-view mirror, he could see a dark figure – medium height, slight to medium build – jogging purposefully in his direction.

Tim Horton stopped by the window, saw Scope, and got inside the car, the fear etched hard into his otherwise boyish features. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said breathlessly, putting out a hand. ‘I haven’t got much time.’

‘Tell me what’s going on,’ said Scope, shaking it quickly.

‘We got a call this afternoon. Max has been kidnapped. We have no idea by whom exactly, but I think there’s more than one. They killed the nanny and left her body behind.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen it. They cut her throat.’

Scope nodded slowly, taking in this development. ‘What do they want?’

Tim exhaled with an audible moan, his whole body stiff with tension. ‘They want me to kill myself. My life for Max’s.’

‘Jesus. Who’s got a motive for wanting you dead that badly?’

‘I’ve been thinking non-stop for the last four hours and I think I might have an idea who’s behind it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Tomorrow I’m one of the MPs on the Culture, Media and Sport select committee hearing. The subject is match fixing in football games. This is a huge worldwide problem, Scope. There are a number of Asian betting syndicates who we believe are bribing officials and players to fix the results of various matches, both in this country and abroad. It’s a much bigger problem than most people realize and the amount of money involved is phenomenal. We’re talking billions of dollars. At the hearing tomorrow we’re interviewing a very well-connected football agent who’s currently under police protection at a secret location. Very few people know about this, but we’ve been told to expect some major revelations about the extent of match-fixing in this country – including premier league games. What I’m saying is that there are people with a huge amount of power and money who won’t want him to get the chance to talk.’

‘But what’s this got to do with you sacrificing your life for Max’s?’

‘The main kidnapper – the man I’m talking to – hasn’t given me any details of what I have to do exactly, but he let slip that I’m going to have to do it at the same time as the committee hearing. I think they want me to do something dramatic that brings the hearing to a very rapid end. And maybe something that also neutralizes the sports agent as a threat, but right now, I have no idea what it is.’

Scope sighed. It was pretty obvious to him what they wanted Tim to do, but he didn’t say anything. ‘What’s the security like at these hearings? I seem to remember some guy getting into one and chucking a custard pie at Rupert Murdoch.’

Tim grunted. ‘It’s not good. You have to pass through a metal detector but you’re rarely body searched, and people are in and out of the Commons all the time. If you’re well organized, as I believe these people are, then you’d be able to bypass it easily enough.’ He paused and looked at his watch. ‘Listen, I haven’t got much time. They’ve got cameras in the house, watching us. I had to say I was going to be sick to leave the room. They’ll expect me back very soon.’

‘You need to go to the police, Tim. Call them in now. They’ll know how to handle this.’

Tim shook his head vehemently. ‘No way. Not the police. They’re too damn slow, and there are too many things that could go wrong. These betting syndicates are run by organized criminals. They’ve got ears everywhere.’

‘Then you’re going to have to help me out here, because I’m one man on my own, and I’m no detective either.’

‘But you know how to find people, don’t you? I know about the men who sold drugs to Mary Ann.’

Scope bristled at the mention of his daughter, and the fact that Tim knew something about what had happened afterwards. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘Look,’ Tim continued. ‘I’ve never said a word to anyone about it, but I know that the man who sold the heroin that killed Mary Ann was found dead, and that the man who sold him the drugs ended up with a bullet in the head as well. I’ve kept that information to myself for years and I always will do, but it’s the reason I called you and not the police. You’re prepared to get things done.’

Scope didn’t say anything for a few seconds. It was true he did get things done. And he wasn’t afraid to kill either when circumstances warranted it. It angered him that Tim knew that he’d gone after the men who he held responsible for his daughter’s drug-fuelled death, aged only eighteen, killing them one by one, and had chosen to mention it only now. ‘Whatever you might think, I can’t find Max if I don’t have a clue where to look for him. And I don’t. I’m not a miracle worker, and I’m not a vigilante either.’

‘I’ve got a lead to go on. This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’ve been having an affair for the past two months.’

Scope wasn’t surprised, and doubted it was the first time either, but he didn’t comment.

‘The girl’s name’s Orla. I met her during a House of Commons tour for members of the public. She was a striking girl and she made it quite clear that she was interested in me. We managed to exchange numbers at the end of the tour, and I’ve been seeing her ever since. Believe it or not, I was with her today.’

‘I believe it.’

‘I was a fool. I thought she genuinely liked me, but now I’m sure she’s something to do with this.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘The killers have definitely got cameras in the house, so they’d have needed to bypass the alarm system. I took her back home once for a night when Max and Diane were away. I didn’t want to, but she insisted. Said it would show some commitment.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘Christ, I should have known something was up. She was always asking questions about the family, about our comings and goings. At the time I just thought she was curious, but in hindsight she must have been gathering information.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘She never wanted to go back to her place, but I insisted, so I’ve got her address and I’ve got her home number. I’m going to text it to you now. Plus a photo. She never liked having her photo taken – which should have got my suspicions up – but I lifted one from her phone anyway.’ He pulled out his own phone and started pressing buttons. ‘I want you to pay her a visit.’

Scope grunted. He wasn’t going to make it easy for his former brother-in-law. ‘And then what? Beat a confession out of her?’

Tim fixed him with a desperate look. ‘Do anything you have to do. Not for me. I’m realistic enough to know you’ve never liked me much, and I don’t blame you. I’ve always been a pompous arsehole round you. But for Diane. She and Michelle were very close. And do it for Max, too. Please. He’s only seven years old and they’ve got him strapped to a bed in some filthy, dark room. They’ll kill him, Scope, without your help. I know they will …’

It was shameless emotional blackmail, but Scope let it go. He sighed. ‘I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘We haven’t got much time.’

‘I’ll start work right now, and I’ll contact you by text when I can. If you get any more information, make sure you contact me.’

Tim nodded, pressing another button on the phone. ‘Thank you, Scope. I owe you for this. If all goes well …’

‘If all goes well, you’ll forget me in an instant. Look, I don’t want your gratitude. Now get back to Diane before anyone wonders where you are.’

Scope watched as Tim ran up the quiet, tree-lined street, past all the big, rich people’s houses in the direction of his own, before disappearing from view. He checked his phone. Tim had sent him an address in north London, a good hour away, along with a photo of a woman in her mid to late twenties with straight peroxide blonde hair, and a knowing expression in her big blue eyes. Putting the phone down, he turned the car round and pulled away.

It was already 8.30 p.m. and it looked as though it was going to be a long night.

The girl, identified by Tim Horton as Orla Reilly, didn’t show up anywhere on the net when Scope googled her name. There were plenty of Orla Reillys on Facebook and LinkedIn, and all those other places where individuals advertised their presence to anyone who cared to look for them, but none who matched the photo. This didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course, but it roused Scope’s suspicions.

The address he’d been given for her was a flat in one of a row of tall, slightly rundown 1960s townhouses across a main road from an estate of even more rundown tower blocks, somewhere on the border of Stonebridge and Harlesden. Traffic was light, but there was nowhere to stop on the road so Scope continued past, seeing lights on every floor inside the house he wanted. He found a parking spot two roads down and got out of the car, memorizing the location. The night was cold and it had started to rain steadily, keeping people off the streets, which suited Scope well enough. Slipping on a pair of gloves, he pulled up the collar on his jacket and started walking.

From the width of the house, he guessed there was only one flat per floor. Orla lived in Flat B, which was unlikely to be at ground level. It was a pity he couldn’t ask Tim, but that was the problem he had now. He was operating alone, and with very little information. He’d already decided not to try to get into Orla’s flat by ringing the bell. There was no way she’d let him in at this time of night, and it risked alerting the kidnappers to his presence. His plan was to break in, search the place for clues if she was out, question her if she was in. Which led to his second problem. How to make her talk, then keep her from contacting anyone once he’d got the information he needed – if, indeed, she had it in the first place.

He shook his head. The whole thing was a mess, and one that could very easily come back and bite him on the arse. He felt a flicker of doubt about what he was doing, then pictured Max as a two-year-old with Diane, a laughing, doting mother, and his wife’s sister, who’d genuinely seemed pleased to see Scope when he’d turned up on their doorstep all those years ago. Whichever way he cared to look at it, they were still family. If he could help them, he would.

The house’s front door faced directly on to the street, with the buzzers for the three flats next to it. It looked like the original door, as well – old-fashioned plywood and not particularly sturdy, with just one lock. Scope had learned his housebreaking skills from an ex-soldier friend of his who’d left the army to become a locksmith. He’d broken into half a dozen residences during the period he’d spent hunting down the various individuals he held responsible for his daughter Mary Ann’s death from an overdose of unusually pure heroin. He was no expert, but he’d not been defeated yet, and he wasn’t going to have a problem with this door either. Removing a set of picks from his jacket, he got to work, using a pocket-sized torch held between his teeth to illuminate his work.

It took him close to two minutes to unlock the door, but, with the rain battering down, no one came past during that time and he slipped inside unnoticed, finding himself in a small, dark foyer with the door to Flat A on one side and a shelf on the other with slots for each flat’s mail. Flat B’s, he noticed, was empty. There was a timer light switch on the wall, but he didn’t turn it on. Instead, he moved quietly up the stairs through the darkness until he came to a narrow landing with the door to Flat B at the end.

He stopped in front of it and listened. There was music coming from inside. Nina Simone, if Scope wasn’t mistaken.

But there was something else too. It sounded like a muffled scream, followed by a faint, but distinctly male, grunt of exertion, and the sound of furniture being knocked around.

Whatever was going on in there it was bad, so Scope took a step back and, using the banister for support, launched a ferocious two-footed kick at the door, striking it just below the lock.

The door flew open as the wood splintered and Scope stepped inside, shutting it behind him. Directly in front of him was a tiny enclosed kitchen. It was empty, but the light was on and there were a couple of takeaway cartons scattered with Chinese food, a couple of plates and a half-full bottle of red wine on the sideboard. The music and the sounds of struggle were coming from behind a door to his right.

Pulling out the knife he’d brought with him, Scope rushed inside and found himself in a bedroom where a woman was lying on her front on a double bed, while a powerfully built man sat astride her, holding a plastic bag over her head as she kicked and bucked beneath him.

The man must have heard Scope come in the flat, because he’d already turned in the direction of the bedroom door and, rather than panicking, was reaching round behind him to pull out a small-calibre revolver from somewhere beneath his clothing. He pointed it straight at Scope, an angry expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe someone would have the temerity to disturb him.

Scope didn’t have a lot of options and he was already charging the gunman, keeping as low as possible and trying to put him off his stride as he pulled the trigger. Luckily for Scope, the woman with the bag over her head still had some fight left in her and her struggles knocked the gunman off balance and his bullet went wide as Scope hit him head on. He grabbed the gunman’s gun hand and yanked it to one side, before driving him backwards off the bed and into the opposite wall, keeping the knife down by his side, knowing he had to keep this man alive.

But the gunman didn’t let go of the gun, even when he hit the wall with a hard thump. Instead, it went off with a loud pop, putting a bullet in the ceiling. The gunman was carrying a lot of weight-training muscle and, with an angry roar, he tried to throw Scope off him. But Scope was fit and strong himself, and he held his ground, driving his head into the gunman’s chin before bringing up his knife and pushing the blade against his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scope saw the woman remove the bag and jump from the bed, heading to the door. He didn’t get a good look at her, but from her long blonde hair he guessed it was Orla. However, that momentary lapse in concentration cost him. The gunman shoved him hard, and Scope saw him flicking the wrist on his free arm. A half second later a wicked-looking four-inch blade shot out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket, its tip only a couple of inches from Scope’s gut.