Capital Punishment (41 page)

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be clean.’

‘No police,’ said Dan. ‘And nobody following you. If we get the slightest suspicion you’ve got others in tow, the deal is off. I’ll ask you to drive around a bit so that we can check you’ve got no tail.’

‘How much time will you need between receiving the money and telling us where Alyshia is being held?’

‘A maximum of two hours, hopefully less.’

‘I’d like an interim proof of life to be given at ten-thirty,’ said Boxer.

‘Like what?’

‘You call us, we ask a question, you get the answer and call us back.’

‘Why do you need that when her mother’s going to talk to her an hour or so later?’

‘It maintains a level of trust,’ said Boxer. ‘Your contact with us has been pretty erratic. Now we’re getting to the crucial moment, Isabel wants to be sure that you’re absolutely serious.’

‘We’re serious,’ said Dan. ‘I’ll call you at ten-thirty. That’s it until then.’

Boxer hung up, looked at his watch: just gone 8.30 p.m. He turned to Rick Barnes.

‘We’ve got two hours to find Frank D’Cruz, make sure the money is in order and in the required sports bag,’ said Boxer. ‘I’m going to pick up the Golf and get some white overalls from Pavis.’

‘We can do that.’

‘No offence, but I want to be sure that everything is clean.’

‘He’s bluffing, isn’t he?’ said Barnes. ‘There’s just the two of them. He referred to “my partner”. They’re not going to follow you on your route; they haven’t got the manpower for it.’

‘Does that mean you want to jeopardise the smooth handover of the hostage by trying to make an arrest at the same time?’

‘These guys are wanted for murder.’

‘How long do you think they’re going to last out there?’ asked Boxer. ‘They’re probably going to have to steal a car, or a number of cars, now that they’ve dumped their van. They’ve got two gangs, plus the Met, looking for them. There’s been a national news alert. I’d give them maximum twenty-four hours’ survival time, even if they do have a place to hole up.’

‘We want information from them as quickly as possible on the original kidnap,’ said Barnes. ‘There are national security concerns.’

‘Then nothing I say is going to make any difference,’ said Boxer. ‘These are decisions that will be made by your boss, and the people in Thames House. But my position is that I’d like to get Alyshia safe first. She might have the most important information of all, unless I’ve read it wrong and Skin and Dan aren’t a couple of likely lads, but, in fact, highly professional operators.’

Barnes said nothing, called DCS Makepeace, told him about the offer and the drop details, asked about Frank D’Cruz. He listened and hung up. Boxer sat back, waiting for Barnes to give out.

‘Frank D’Cruz was under MI5 surveillance,’ said Barnes.

‘I don’t like your use of the past tense,’ said Boxer.

‘He hasn’t been seen since four-thirty p.m.’

‘And where
was
he last seen?’ asked Isabel, hammering away at that past tense.

‘He appeared to be doing some pre-launch checks for the electric cars he’s going to manufacture in the Midlands. Giving talks, taking potential investors to the sites where the prototypes have just been unveiled.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘There are two in the City, one outside the Royal Exchange, in front of the Bank of England, and the other in St Mary Axe, between the Gherkin and the Lloyd’s Building. The other two are outside the main stadium at the Olympic site in Stratford.’

‘Yes, he told me about this,’ said Isabel. ‘He wants to create awareness and bring potential investors on board. So what happened?’

‘MI5 lost him somewhere between the City and Stratford,’ said Barnes. ‘Mr D’Cruz’s limousine arrived but he wasn’t in it and he hasn’t been seen since. His mobile has been turned off and cannot be traced.’

‘Was anybody in the car?’

‘His UK personal advisor, a young Indian guy, who was wearing Frank’s coat, and the woman who runs his residential property portfolio, Nicola Prideaux.’

‘And the money he said he’d raised for the ransom?’ asked Boxer.

‘Neither of the two people in the car seemed to know anything about that,’ said Barnes. ‘The driver had seen him earlier with a briefcase, but not its contents.’

‘What is he playing at?’ said Isabel.

‘Let’s hope whatever it is, he’s being very careful,’ said Boxer. ‘Given that someone’s already tried to kill him.’

Hakim Tarar was working with his team of five people. He’d been methodical, starting in his own territory of Bethnal Green, then moving north to Haggerston and Dalston, then west to De Beauvoir Town and now south to Hoxton and Shoreditch. So far, only the dealers in Bethnal Green seemed to know anything about the two kidnappers wanted for murder, but that was because they were a cut above, supplying investment bankers and other City folk who’d moved out east. By the time Tarar got to them, they were edgy as hell after visits from the members of two gangs and feeling the heat of the police all over the area. Nobody else had seen the news, and remained largely unaware of the flyers scudding about in the cold night air.

The Muslim team was not happy. They knew they still had to go through their dealers in Spitalsfield, Whitechapel and Stepney before Tarar would let them off for the night. But Hoxton and Shoreditch was a big job. There were more heroin users amongst the young crowd of these two areas than in the four they’d just been through.

There were two dealers in the Colville Estate alone: Delroy Dread, the huge Jamaican, who catered to the black crowd, while MK supplied the whites. Tarar took Rahim with him, a six foot three hard man, whose family originated in Peshawar and who was used to carrying firearms and discharging them at people.

Tarar decided to see MK first, as Delroy Dread didn’t have any white people among his close associates. He sent two of the other gang members to have a talk with the Jamaican, just to make sure.

MK lived off the estate in a sixties block. They went up to the third floor and knocked.

A white-faced kid with explosive hair opened the door, knew who they were just by the way Tarar stood with the looming presence of Rahim behind him.

‘We’re here to see MK.’

‘You’d better come in,’ he said, well-spoken, not local.

It was hot in the flat, the kid was barefoot, wearing a Vampire Weekend T-shirt and black faded skinny jeans. He led them into the living room, where there was a girl in her teens, with long blonde hair in a curtain over her face. Her head was bobbing to some music she was listening to on the MP3 player in her lap. MK was lying back on the sofa, black shirt, jeans, trainers and curly hair. He was staring up at the ceiling, listening to the music playing in the room, which was electronic trance. When he saw Tarar, he came off the sofa as if it had gone live.

‘Hakim,’ he said, shocked that he was getting a visit from the man himself, which could only mean trouble. He used the remote to turn off the music.

Tarar glanced at the girl and the kid. MK footed the girl, who pulled out her buds and came out of the curtain of her hair. She got the message. The kid was already pulling on his grey converses, had his jacket on and was out of the flat in seconds, dragging the girl with him.

‘Can I get you some tea?’ asked MK.

Tarar shook his head, sat down. Rahim stayed by the door with his terrifying Pashtun stare fixed on MK.

‘Seen the news?’ asked Tarar.

‘Don’t watch much telly,’ said MK. ‘Depresses me.’

Whereas dealing heroin to junkies, who have to steal or prostitute themselves to afford it, doesn’t, thought Tarar. He had a very strong antipathy to all the dealers who bought his product. They were unbelievers with no moral core, making money out of misery. He despised them.

‘Been outside?’

‘Don’t go out Monday or Tuesday. I work long hours at the weekend. It’s my chill time.’

‘There’ve been these flyers in the street,’ said Tarar, taking one out, unfolding it. ‘The police are looking for two men who’ve killed people. Rahim and I would like you to tell us if you know either of them.’

‘Are they in the business?’ asked MK, reaching for the paper, which Tarar withheld.

‘They might be,’ said Tarar. ‘But not necessarily our business.’

‘If the police are after them, what’s your interest?’ asked MK, finding some confidence now that he knew the visit wasn’t directly linked to his heroin dealing.

‘They’ve stolen something which an important friend of ours believes is his,’ said Tarar.

‘And if I can find these two guys?’ asked MK.

‘Then we will show our appreciation.’

‘How exactly?’

Tarar had to control his loathing of this man. It only ever came down to money with him. The concept of honour was as strange to him as Arabic script.

‘Some free product.’

‘What are we talking about?’

Now, you see, he was already negotiating, weighing up in his mind how much effort he should expend in return for what.

‘Two for one on the next deal,’ said Tarar, barely masking his contempt.

‘Can I see?’ asked MK, holding out his hand.

As Tarar handed over the flyer, he and Rahim searched MK’s face, looking for the tell-tale signs, the little tics, because they knew that dealers were as practiced in human nature as poker players.

MK blanched inside as he saw his old friend’s face looking back at him.

‘Can I keep this?’ he asked, needing to say something that might bring back blood flow to his internal organs.

‘You don’t know either of them,’ said Tarar, ‘never seen them on your rounds?’

‘They don’t buy from me, I can tell you that,’ said MK, careful not to lie, making sure each step was on the solid ground of truth. He’d learnt things in his time.

‘You sell tabs, right?’ asked Tarar.

MK shrugged, as if he was embarrassed by this lowlier trade.

‘The guy on the left used to be a nurse,’ said Tarar. ‘Did time for stealing drugs from hospital. That’s why we’re going around the dealers in the area. Maybe he’s got his hand in that business or he’s a user. We know he rents a flat in Stepney.’

‘You tried talking to the dealers there?’

‘There’s been a lot of heat already in Stepney. We’re waiting for things to cool down before we go in there.’

‘I have three chemists from up north who supply me with what I need for my tab trade. They work out the formulae and test the prototypes and then I get them made in China and sent over,’ said MK. ‘I’m not in any open market for that stuff. The kid who just left moves most of my gear around the parties and clubs in London. I don’t deal in any prescription drugs, which is where you might expect to find a nurse, or an ex-nurse, operating.’

‘Do you know anybody in that business?’

‘The only guy I know lives up in Dalston. I’ll call him, tell him you’re going to drop by.’

Tarar nodded. MK made the call, wrote down the name and address. They got up to leave. Tarar turned at the door, Rahim’s hairy fist around the handle.

‘As I’ve just told you, our friend will show his appreciation to those that help us find these two men. You know the reward. What I haven’t told you is what he’ll do if he finds anyone in our dealer network who’s been holding out,’ said Tarar. ‘He has a special sound-proofed room in a basement he’s had dug out below his house in Upton Park. The people who go in there never come out with the ability to speak. They’ve done all the talking they’ll ever do in that room. You understand me?’

Rahim nodded that into him, opened the door.

Neither of them spoke as they went down the stairs and out of the building. They walked down the street in silence and only spoke once they’d turned the corner.

‘He knows something,’ said Rahim in Urdu.

‘I’m sure he knew one of them; the nurse, maybe,’ said Tarar. ‘Did you see how still he went?’

‘We should go back there,’ said Rahim. ‘Before he warns them.’

‘I’ll call Saleem.’

Rahim stood at the corner, kept an eye on the block’s entrance, while Tarar called Cheema. A few minutes passed and MK came out of the building. Rahim tapped Tarar on the shoulder. They watched as MK walked away from them, towards the Colville Estate. Tarar hung up on Cheema as they jogged after him. MK turned left into Branch Place and walked around the corner to some buildings that looked like workshops. He searched his pockets for a set of keys.

‘Take him,’ said Tarar.

For a big man, Rahim moved fast and with extraordinary stealth. Tarar saw MK’s legs give way with fright as he felt the hardness of Rahim’s .38 in his kidneys. He put an arm round him, guided him back to Tarar. They pushed him round the corner, out of sight of the workshop.

‘I thought you didn’t go out Mondays and Tuesdays?’ said Tarar.

‘It’s my workshop,’ said MK shakily. ‘I was going to do some painting.’

‘Got any interesting models in there for us?’ asked Tarar, nodding to Rahim, who kicked MK in the side of the leg so that he went down hard on the tarmac. He got his arm in a lock, rammed his foot into the shoulder joint and started twisting the wrist so that the shoulder started to pop. MK screamed.

‘They’re in there, aren’t they?’ said Tarar.

MK couldn’t speak with the pain in his shoulder, face against the icy ground. He nodded.

‘You know where we’re going now, don’t you?’ said Tarar.

Rahim released him, pulled him up to his feet, which drew a shout of pain from MK, who held onto his shoulder, bent double. He burst into tears, sobbed with fright, so that Rahim swatted him across the back of the head in disgust. They walked to the car while Tarar called two of his team, posted them at either end of Branch Place, told them to call if there were any movements in or out of the unit.

Rahim sat in the back with MK. Tarar got behind the wheel. MK collapsed against the window and wept harder than he had as a child, going back to boarding school.

9.40 P.M., TUESDAY 13TH MARCH 2012

Isabel Marks’ house, Aubrey Walk, London W8

Still no Frank.

The three of them sat around the table with the empty sports bag as the centrepiece, Isabel strung so tight Boxer could hear the tension humming along the wires stretched within her. He wanted to say something to relieve the pressure, but he’d learnt early on in his career that humour never worked in kidnap situations. He wanted to put his arm around her, kiss her neck, say something intimate, but Rick Barnes was there, earphones on, although Boxer couldn’t be sure he was listening to the recordings.