Boot Camp Bride (28 page)

‘Last time I eat mussels,’ she explained, patting her stomach.

‘Food poisoning, Montague? Why am I not buying that? You have the constitution of an ox - you said so yourself.’ Now it was his turn to send out a: ‘what’s going on in that fevered brain of yours,’ assessing look. ‘Shall we, Pumpkin?’ Charlee took his arm and went into the dining room just as the amuse-bouches arrived.

The night wore on but Ffinch hardly said a word during the five courses. He appeared preoccupied, on edge, and kept glancing at his watch or looking over his shoulder into the darkness beyond the windows.

As if he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

Chapter Thirty-three
Zero Dark Thirty

At eleven o’clock the tables were cleared and the nearly-weds returned to the reception area to collect their commemorative photographs while the dining room was made ready for dancing. Ffinch showed little interest in the photographs so Charlee went over to the table and picked up the wallet herself. The disco was announced and, as Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something to Me’ played, several of the brides-to-be exclaimed it was their choice for the ‘first dance’ at their wedding and led their fiancés onto the floor.

‘At our wedding reception,’ Charlee said loudly to the couple nearest to them, hoping to shake Ffinch out of his introspection, ‘we’re dancing to “I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie”. Like the couple whose wedding video went viral on YouTube? Isn’t that right, Rafa?’ she asked provokingly. But Ffinch, alternatively glancing out of the window or down at his watch, didn’t rise to the bait.

‘Hmm, that’s right,’ he mumbled. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’ Taking the photographs out of Charlee’s hands, he tossed them onto the coffee table and then led her onto the dance floor. The slow, insistent beat of the song matched the blood beating thickly through her veins as Ffinch pulled her into his arms.

‘I love this song,’ she said almost to herself, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes.

‘Charlee …’ Ffinch said quietly, but in a tone that ensured he had her full attention.

‘Yes?’

‘At the end of this song, I want you to go quietly to your room and pack …’

‘We’re going home? Tonight?’ she asked, pulling back from him. ‘Thank God, I’m sick of this place.’

‘Yes. But listen, you must be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. And maybe not by the front door, either. Are you up for that?’ He whispered in her ear and a heady mixture of excitement and old-fashioned lust lanced through Charlee and goose bumps pimpled her skin.

This was more like it. This was what she’d been waiting for … the real deal!

‘Yes. But, Ffinch, what -’

‘No time for questions. Soon, everything will become plain.’ With the greatest reluctance, he pushed her away from him as the music ended. Then the DJ chose another romantic track. Charlee turned on her heel, picked their presentation pack off the coffee table and without a backward glance headed for the downstairs cloakroom. Then she made a sharp right and walked quietly up the servants’ staircase to her room hoping that no one had noticed. Once in her room she changed into tracksuit, fleece and trainers and packed everything she owned into her zip-up holdall.

Then she dragged her chair over to the window - and waited.

By midnight, when Ffinch hadn’t appeared, Charlee wondered if she ought to ring him, but some sixth sense told her that a phone call might jeopardise whatever he was engaged in and she put the phone down and waited. Then, at half past midnight the central heating switched off, the last fiancé drove away and the boot camp settled down for the night. On the drive below Charlee’s window, catering vans were loading up with the empty stainless steel trolleys which had transported the food for the Gala Dinner. They trundled awkwardly over the drive, their wheels almost buckling as they dug into the pea gravel.

Dragging a blanket off her bed, Charlee draped it round her shoulders to ward off the cold. In spite of her state of excitement, she nodded off, briefly. When she jerked awake around one fifteen, the catering lorries were getting ready to leave. Curiously, the security lights which normally picked up every movement outside Thornham Manor, had been switched off and the vans were getting ready to make their way down the drive - also with their lights off.

Getting to her feet, Charlee threw off her blanket and moved closer to the window. Below her, Natasha, the boot camp manager - wrapped in a quilted coat with a fur collar turned up against the wind - was standing next to a stocky man with a bull neck.

Mr Potato Head! Charlee clamped her hand over her mouth and moved back into the shadows. Luckily, they hadn’t seen her; they were too preoccupied watching the last of the catering vans loading up and getting prepared to leave. Charlee let out a frustrated sigh. Whatever Ffinch had thought was going down tonight, clearly wasn’t. On top of that, he was nowhere to be seen and it didn’t look like she’d be leaving the boot camp until tomorrow morning. Without bothering to undress, she flopped down on her bed with a huff of annoyance and lay in tracksuit and trainers watching the full moon climb slowly, hypnotically, up and over the window’s Victorian glazing bars. Lulled by its inexorable progress and with a feeling of anticlimax, Charlee fell asleep. She woke moments later when small pebbles clattered against her window. Rushing over, she found Ffinch, dressed in birdwatching gear and wearing a black balaclava, throwing pebbles up at her. He signalled for her to open the window.

‘Charlee, get your things. We’ve got to get out of here, fast!’

At that moment, the whole frontage of Thornham Manor was illuminated by the full moon and the intermittent blue flashing lights of police cars. Then the previously silent marshes were pierced by wailing police sirens and barking dogs.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

‘No time for all that, now. Throw down your belongings and then lower yourself out of the window.’

‘Lower myself out of the window? Are you kidding? It must be at least a twenty-foot drop. I’ll kill myself or break an ankle.’

‘Man up, Montague. It’s only about fifteen feet if you lower yourself out of the window, hang on by your fingertips and then let go …’

‘Fifteen feet? Hold on by my fingertips! What’s going to break my fall? Oh, I see, you are!’

‘I’ll catch you, no problem. Just as well you didn’t have that second helping of profiteroles, though,’ he joked, clearly in an attempt to boost her confidence. His tone made plain there was no time for debate. ‘Come on, Carlotta - you can do it.’ This time his voice was soothing, cajoling. Charlee threw out her holdall, coat and handbag, climbed over the window ledge and dangled her legs. It was a long way down.

 ‘Ffinch, I can’t …’

‘I’m not leaving without you, Montague. We’re partners, remember?’

‘Ha. Now he remembers?’ she asked the moon, sarcastically.

‘Trust me. I wouldn’t let anything bad happened to you,’ he said softly, looking up at her. Then, tearing off the balaclava, he changed tack. ‘Just get your arse over that window ledge, Montague, turn around and lower yourself down and then hang on by your fingertips. On my count of three - let go.’

Charlee had been chosen for this mission because she was a gung-ho, up for anything kinda gal. Now was the time to prove it. Taking several deep breaths and then exhaling, she did as commanded. Holding on by her fingertips, she dangled from the window ledge, her arms almost pulling out of their sockets.

Suddenly she felt afraid. ‘Ffinch …’ she wailed as loudly as she dared, feet dangling in thin air.

‘I’m here. I’ll catch you, darling. On three - One. Two … Oof.’

Charlee was so surprised to hear Ffinch address her as darling without his usual sarcastic inflection that her grip slackened, she let go of the window sill and gravity exerted its pull. She scraped and banged her knees against the brickwork on the way down, fell into Ffinch’s outstretched arms and then landed in a heap on top of him. Expertly, Ffinch rolled her over and ran his hands over her to ensure that nothing was broken. Charlee considered that he lingered just a tad too long over the curves of her breasts and hips, but seeing as she found the examination quite pleasurable, she didn’t protest.

‘You are bloody marvellous, Charlee. Know that?’ Pulling her onto her feet, he jerked her into his arms and gave her a relieved, if none too gentle, kiss. He looked as if he’d like to say more but knew this was neither the time, nor the place. Instead, he picked up her holdall, coat and handbag, and stood ready for flight.

‘Oh, my back.’ Charlee stretched out her bruised spine and flexed her arms.

 ‘You okay?’

‘Think so,’ Charlee stammered, winded and still reeling from the kiss. Ffinch grinned at her in the moonlight, his grey eyes alight with excitement - more animated and alive than she’d ever seen him. Charlee realised that this was the old Ffinch standing before her. The one who hadn’t led an abortive expedition to South America, lost two research assistants to the Black Eagles, had nearly died and was haunted by recurring nightmares.

She liked the transformation.

‘I think we may have put Romeo and Juliet into the shade, don’t you Montague?’

‘I don’t recall him asking her to leap off the balcony,’ Charlee said pertly.

Ffinch laughed and kissed her again, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Then all at once he became businesslike. ‘We have to get through the gardens unseen. The Vee Dubbya is parked on the darkened slip road that leads to the caravan park, the one we took a short cut through. Remember?’ he asked over his shoulder, edging them round the side of the house, using its bulk to conceal them. ‘Keep your head down, Montague, we’re not out of the woods, yet,’ he commanded, grimacing at the unintentional pun. Holding her hand, he led her at a crouching run across the parterre and into the spinney.

The police sirens and flashing blue lights were getting louder as more officers arrived, and Charlee fancied that above the shouting and screaming, she’d heard the pop-pop of hand guns.

 ‘Why are we running away from the police? We haven’t done anything wrong,’ she began breathlessly. Then she thought - or should that be, I haven’t done anything wrong?

‘I’ve got the scoop on Trushev, on what’s really been going on at the boot camp. I’ve tipped off the police and they’ve stopped the catering vans leaving. The food trolleys are full of uncut heroin, fresh from Colombia. I’ve given the police all the evidence they need to convict him, he won’t wriggle out of their grasp this time. I - we, need to get back to London and break the story before other journos beat us to it.’

‘Colombia? Heroin?’ Charlee whispered. ‘I don’t get it …’

‘I’ll explain in the van on the way home,’ Ffinch said, leading the way through the undergrowth. He paused for a moment as their eyes met over his use of the word ‘home’ and they nodded at each other. Then he pulled her forward and didn’t allow their pace to slacken until they reached the camper van and were driving out of Thornham as if the wild hunt was on their tail.

Chapter Thirty-four
Home is Where the Heart is

Around half past three Charlee woke up, stiff, cramped and uncertain of where she was and … had she just been kissed?

‘We’re home, Charlee.’ The note of longing in Ffinch’s voice made Charlee wish this was their home and they were returning to it after landing the scoop of the century.

‘What time is it?’ She struggled to gather her wits about her as Ffinch parked the camper van in front of the garage doors and waited for her to climb out.

‘Almost four a.m.; you’ve been asleep for hours.’ Charlee gave an extravagant yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Her slim fitting T-shirt rode up, exposing her midriff to Ffinch’s appreciative gaze. Insanely, considering that he’d seen a lot more than that a few nights ago, she felt shy and pulled it down.

‘Sorry, I should have stayed awake and kept you company.’ Had she snored and dribbled slack-mouthed all the way back from Norfolk? She hoped not!

‘I was quite glad of the breathing space, actually. I have things to sort out now the police have their evidence and Trushev in custody,’ he added with a note of satisfaction.

Sickness lodged in the pit of Charlee’s stomach and her breath snagged. Now that they were on his home turf the balance of power had subtly shifted. They were no longer two journos with a common goal, enjoying (almost) equal status. She’d reverted back to being the rookie; albeit one who’d helped expose a massive drugs bust, befriended the villain-in-chief’s girlfriend, leapt out of windows and dashed back to London in the middle of the night.

Ffinch was the hero of the hour and had his copy to file before anyone else broke the story. If she was really lucky he might let her proofread it for typos. And what had she got to show for her time, apart from a bag of upmarket toiletries?

Zilch. Nada. Jack Shit.

And her mobile, iPad and camera were languishing back at the boot camp.

‘Yes, I have things to think over, too,’ she said, not wanting to be left out. But what those might actually be, escaped her at that moment. Slithering out of the camper van, she walked stiffly to the front door and unlocked it - she guessed she’d be returning the spare set of keys along with Granny’s ring tomorrow. As she disarmed the alarm, she wondered if Ffinch would change the code once she’d left, just in case she morphed into a crazed bunny boiler, unable to accept that their ‘engagement’ was over.

Argh - why did these extreme thoughts keep popping into her head? And at this time of the night, too? Tomorrow, Ffinch would coolly thank her for everything, drop her off at her bedsit after breakfast and that would be that.

Hasta la vista, baby …

When Charlee pushed the door open, the mews was warm and welcoming. The sitting room smelled of polish and there were fresh flowers in the tiny hearth, placed there by Ffinch’s tame Mrs Mop who’d worked her magic in their absence. Charlee bet there would be milk, bread and butter and a ready meal of some variety in the fridge. She shut her mind to the state her bedsit would be in after lying unoccupied since the day after Boxing Day. It wouldn’t just smell of blocked drains and sardines - as per usual - it would smell as though a Japanese whaling fleet had taken up permanent residence in the kitchen.

‘You make the coffee, Charlee, and I’ll carry the bags upstairs,’ Ffinch said, closing the outside door and making her jump.

‘Coffee, right, yeah.’

‘Make it a large pot, double strength, something tells me I won’t be sleeping tonight.’ Charlee’s heart sank as she noted his use of the personal pronoun - what’d happened to we, all of a sudden? She stood without moving and then Ffinch spoke again. ‘You okay, Montague?’

‘Yes, just tired.’ She gave an extravagant yawn. ‘Coffee. Fully leaded. Coming up.’

She returned to the sitting room some time later carrying a tray of coffee, Mrs Mop’s home-made cake, a bottle of cognac and two glasses. Ffinch was on the floor leaning back against the sofa, one knee raised and viewing photos through his expensive digital camera. Charlee took up position behind him on the sofa, looking over his shoulder as the slideshow played. She resisted the urge to run her fingers through his mussed up dark hair, lean forward and drape an arm casually across his shoulder; breathe in his unique body scent. Kiss his neck.

It was time for plain talking … even if it was the middle of the night. There might not be time tomorrow when he drove her back to her bedsit. Taking a deep breath, she placed her hands on her knees and plunged straight in.

‘Ffinch, don’t you think I deserve to know exactly what’s been going on?’

‘I was going to tell you on the journey home but you fell asleep,’ he teased, half-turning towards her.

‘Stop playing games. I want answers - now!’

Ffinch put his camera carefully to one side, poured two mugs of coffee and then took up residence on the cube-like footstool, facing her. He sent her one of his considering looks and then said: ‘I guess you’ve earned the right, so fire away.’

Charlee had been expecting another of his ‘need to know’ speeches and was taken aback by this sudden willingness to divulge all. Marshalling her thoughts into some kind of order, she began.

‘First of all, why was it necessary for me to attend the boot camp? From what I saw, you could have got what you wanted and informed the police about Trushev without my help.’

Ffinch nodded. ‘You’re right. My original intention was to enter the boot camp at night and gain access to the files on their computer. The police felt they had enough information to raid the boot camp - but without written evidence Trushev could still come out of this unscathed. You were my backup plan, my Trojan Horse. If I couldn’t gain entry through a window or door - conveniently left unlocked by you - the Gala Dinner would provide me with a second chance. I planned to slip away during the dancing while everyone was preoccupied and go through their files.’

‘So the whole story about photographing Anastasia and spiking
Mirror, Mirror
’s exclusive was just so much … smoke and mirrors?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes and no. Okay, don’t give me that look, I’ll explain.’ He reached over for a slice of cake. ‘After what happened in Colombia I was too ill to travel home immediately. The authorities in Bogota wanted to find the kidnappers almost as much as I did and called me in for a couple of debriefing sessions.’

‘I can imagine that your kidnap and two researchers being killed did nothing for their tourist industry,’ Charlee said dryly, earning an encouraging look from him.

‘Quite. I managed to do some preliminary digging around during my convalescence and discovered that the trail led from Colombia to England where the drugs were processed and then sold on the street. The whys and wherefores I couldn’t figure out, because every time I got closer to unravelling that particular Gordian knot, I ended up with a dead end.’

‘So, how did you make the giant leap connecting Trushev to drug smuggling and money laundering?’

‘A lucky break. I kept coming across his name when I was planning my trip to Darien. He’d set up a number of foundations in Colombia to educate poor children and give them a better chance in life. I didn’t buy into the whole ‘philanthropic Russian businessman helps street children in Bogota,’ for a moment. Why travel halfway round the world to help orphans when you could just as easily have helped children in your own country? In Belarus, for example, where the fallout from the Chernobyl disaster continues to claim lives.’

‘Good point. Anastasia told me about the charitable foundation she’d set up in Odessa to provide playgrounds and green spaces for orphaned, disabled and deprived children. Yevgeny could have concentrated his efforts there.’

‘Exactly,’ Ffinch said. ‘Although in a way he has. He’s twinned his foundation with hers, giving him the perfect excuse to travel between Colombia and Russia without arousing suspicion. When one is on a humanitarian mission - and greasing palms along the way - paperwork and visas have a tendency to get passed through on the nod.’

‘I can’t believe that Anastasia’s been party to any of this. She’s a good person …’

‘Maybe you’re suffering from a kind of reverse Stockholm syndrome?’ Ffinch suggested, delicately reminding Charlee of her place in the pecking order. ‘It’s when …’

‘I know what it is, thank you,’ she snapped and then continued in a more conciliatory tone. ‘It’s when victims of trauma or kidnapping sympathise with their captors.’

Ffinch nodded. ‘Only in this case you’ve done the reverse and bonded with Anastasia, which has clouded your judgment.’

Charlee ground her teeth but kept her peace knowing she couldn’t afford to give vent to her anger before she’d heard the entire story. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘This next bit is conjecture and I will admit that I lack documentary evidence. I’m pretty certain that the money raised selling drugs on the streets is used by Trushev to purchase white goods: fridges, washing machines, freezers. The white goods are then shipped to the former Soviet Bloc where they are sold, the money “laundered” and used to finance further expansion of the poppy fields in Colombia.’

Charlee let out a long, slow whistle. ‘A drugs triangle? That’s some theory - but with nothing to back it up … that’s all it will remain.’ She shrugged her shoulders and Ffinch nodded.

‘I know; that’s why it was so important to get into their office. There was bound to be some documentation lying around …’

‘Somehow I don’t think Natasha and Trushev would be that careless. I mean, really?’ Now it was Charlee’s turn to imply that he was being naïve. Ignoring her sardonic aside, Ffinch continued with his story.

 ‘I want to nail Trushev and his gang. Not only do they flood this country with cheap heroin, they force the indigenous people of the Amazon Basin into slavery and use them as drugs mules. Their way of life is vanishing along with the rainforest and I want to do something about it.’

‘I get it,’ Charlee interjected. ‘This is your way of repaying them - and honouring Elena and Allesandro’s memory. ’ She wanted to make clear that she understood his need for closure - for revenge, even. Maybe, once he achieved both, the nightmares would end, too.

Ffinch nodded, openly pleased that she was on his wavelength.

‘My original trip to Darien was twofold. To write the last chapter in my book but, more importantly, to follow the drugs/money laundering trail I’d uncovered - wherever it led. That’s when I became unstuck.’ Pulling a self-deprecating face, he rubbed at the marks on his wrists and lower arms reflexively, an unconscious reference to his kidnap. Charlee now understood that those marks had nothing to do with tramlines or shooting up; they were the result of his being tied up by the Aguilas Negra.

‘So that’s why the proceeds of your book are going to the Cat People,’ she said with a flash of insight. He rubbed the scars again and nodded. Her heart went out to him and she wanted to close the gap between them and kiss the lesions on his wrists until they stopped aching. But she held back; there were still elements in this story that she didn’t understand, hadn’t had explained to her.

‘Exactly. What I didn’t know, and had to be certain of before I involved the police, was how the drugs came into the country. Trushev is rich and powerful, his money can buy him anything he wants - information, friends in high places and immunity from prosecution.’

‘I see.’ Charlee realised that by witnessing Trushev and Natasha supervising the loading of the drugs into the catering vans she’d put herself in danger. But she said nothing to Ffinch; she preferred to keep a lid on that - for now.

‘Of course, the boot camp is ideal cover for his smuggling activities,’ Ffinch explained. ‘It’s close to Lowestoft and Harwich where big ships can drop anchor and offload drugs onto smaller vessels out at sea. It’s right on the marshes, which conveniently flood at high tide several times a year, enabling dinghies and smaller boats to go night fishing.’

Charlee was ahead of him.

‘But in reality, ferrying the drugs backwards and forwards? Of course; those were the lights I saw on the marshes. I thought them highly suspect at the time.’ Although she despised Trushev, she acknowledged that he ran a well-oiled operation. ‘But how does he get the drugs out of there and sent to factories to be processed and ready for selling on the streets?’

‘The Gala Dinners are key to the whole operation. Food is brought into the camp by a Kings Lynn catering company owned by one of Trushev’s associates and the drugs are taken out of the boot camp in empty food containers. Neat, huh? All I needed was to persuade the UK authorities to look into my suspicions about Trushev. Luckily, I had the Colombian Narcotics Squad on side; they corroborated my story and convinced the Met it was time to act.’

He picked up his mug, drained it, poured himself a fresh coffee and sipped his cognac. Charlee, suspecting this was going to be an all-night session, followed suit.

 Ffinch continued. ‘When you mentioned the night fishing expedition yesterday in the camper van, I knew that the Gala Dinner would be our last chance of catching them red-handed until the next high tide in early spring. If they’d suspected the authorities were onto them they’d have abandoned the boot camp and we’d be back to square one.’

Charlee blushed; she’d been too consumed with lust in the steamed-up camper van to be fully aware of what she’d said to him. But she did remember the conversation she’d overheard in the kitchen.