Deadline (12 page)

There was one reason above any other why Tina
Boyd was always careful. She attracted trouble. It
hadn't always been like that. She'd had a happy
middle-class upbringing in the country, the
product of two parents who appeared to love each
other, and certainly loved her. She'd gone to
private school, then to university, studied English
and Psychology, did her time on the well-worn
backpacking trail. And then, while all her friends
took up their office jobs, she'd joined the police. It
hadn't been on a whim – well, not entirely
anyway. She'd never fancied office work, and
she'd always had an inquisitive mind. She was
interested in what made people tick. Maybe she
should have been a psychiatrist, but somehow she
thought she'd learn more about the human condition
as a cop. And she had, too, although she wasn't at
all sure that it had been a positive development.

For the first few years of her police career things
had been remarkably trouble-free. She'd spent
two years in uniform – and was one of the few
officers in her station who was never assaulted
once – before joining Islington CID as a detective
constable. As a graduate, she was on the fast track.
A senior position looked inevitable, and sooner
rather than later.

But then things had started to go wrong. First,
she was taken hostage by a suspect she'd been
investigating and was hit in the crossfire when he
was shot dead by armed CO19 officers. The
wound she suffered was comparatively light, and
she was back at work within six weeks, to much
fanfare and an immediate promotion to detective
sergeant. They'd even put her on the cover of one
of the issues of
Police Review
shortly afterwards. It
should have made her happy, but she knew she
didn't deserve the praise. She'd made a mistake
which had got her into the position of being shot
in the first place, and it looked like she was being
rewarded for that. If she was honest with herself –
something that she was constantly – then this was
the part of the whole incident that had scarred her
the most. Tina was a perfectionist, and when it
came down to it she'd been found wanting.

Barely six months later, trouble came calling
again, except this time it was with a vengeance. A
detective she'd been working with closely was
murdered while on a case they were both
involved in, followed only weeks later by the
apparent suicide of her long-term lover, also a
police officer, which turned out to be a murder
indirectly related to the same case. Suddenly, from
being the next big thing, she'd become tainted by
association, the kind of cop everyone wants to
avoid in case something should happen to them.
Someone had even nicknamed her the Black
Widow, and the name had stuck.

She never saw the people who'd killed the two
men so close to her brought to justice. It was
possible that not all of them had been. This knowledge
had scarred her too, and she'd resigned from
the force, hit the rails, and become very
depressed. She might never have recovered – at
one point, things had genuinely felt that bad – but
then she'd met Mike Bolt, who was then working
for the National Crime Squad, and he must have
seen something in her because he persuaded her
to join his team, and to move across with them
when the NCS became SOCA.

She appreciated what he'd done for her, and she
worked hard at her job to demonstrate this.
Sometimes she thought Bolt was attracted to her,
occasionally even that this was the reason he'd
hired her in the first place, and consequently she
tended to keep her distance from him in the workplace.
He was a good-looking guy, there was no
question about that. Tall, broad-shouldered, with
blond hair only just beginning to fleck with grey,
and piercing blue eyes that were so striking she'd
thought at first (wrongly) that he wore contact
lenses. She almost certainly would have gone for
him at one time, but things were different for her
now. She'd had her fingers burned far too badly,
and the experience had made her more cautious.
She'd become a loner, someone who kept herself
to herself both inside and outside a work environment,
and she knew that some of the team
resented her for it, putting her manner down to a
brusqueness that wasn't there.

She'd been a fun girl once. Had got drunk, got
laid, travelled the world. Smoked dope so strong
in northern Thailand she'd hallucinated. Swum,
awestruck, with dolphins on the Great Barrier
Reef. Had a real life. She didn't really have one
any more, and there were times – more often than
she'd like – when she was filled with an angry
regret over the path she'd chosen, and its bitter
consequences, wondering how things might have
turned out if she'd taken the office job.

But today wasn't one of those times. She was
actually feeling good as she walked along
Colindale Avenue in the direction of the
Underground, the autumn sun warming the back
of her neck. She was on her way back to the
Glasshouse and had already called ahead and told
Bolt about Pat Phelan's alleged debt problems, as
well as asking him to check out anything they had
on Leon Daroyce.

Bolt had seemed pleased with the lead – which
he should have been, because it provided them
with a motive for the kidnap – but he'd also
sounded under strain, which wasn't like him.
Mike Bolt was generally calm and level-headed,
the type of guy who was able to withstand pressure.
It was one of the reasons she enjoyed
working with him. She felt she could trust his
leadership.

'Hey lady, how you doin'?'

The words, delivered in a deep baritone with a
faux American twang, snapped her straight out of
her thoughts. She turned to see a silver Merc pull
up beside her. The man addressing her through
the open window was a well-built, smooth headed
black man in his thirties, wearing shades
and an expensive-looking suit.

'I'm not buying, I'm not available, and I'm not
interested. So piss off.' She looked away and kept
walking, but the car kept pace with her.

Tina didn't take kindly to being accosted in the
street by strangers. It happened now and again.
This was London, after all. She tended to ignore
them, and usually they went away, but it didn't
look like this guy was going to. She was a
hundred metres from the Tube station now, the
irony of the fact that she was only spitting
distance from Hendon Police College not lost on
her. God knows why this guy was picking on her,
but if he decided to jump out of the car and cut up
rough, then he'd get a lot more than he bargained
for.

She heard the guy chuckle. 'You got some spirit,
lady. I like that. A friend of mine would like to
speak to you. I hear you might want to speak to
him too.'

She stopped, turned his way, saw a white guy
with a tight T-shirt and big biceps beyond him in
the driver's seat.

'Is that right?' she said. 'And who's your
friend?'

'His name's Leon, but to you he's Mr Daroyce.'

Tina cursed to herself. How the hell had he
found out about her this fast? Then she thought of
that brassy bitch who'd taken her up to
McMahon's office, and it came to her. She must
have been listening at the door. And there she'd
been, saying how careful she always was.
Not
careful enough, darling
.

'Thanks for the offer, but I have a rule never to
get into cars with strangers.'

'Does it still count if we know you, Tina Boyd?'
The man gave her a predatory smile as he made a
great show of emphasizing the pronunciation of
those last two words.

The use of her name made Tina feel naked and
exposed. 'No, it doesn't,' she answered, beginning
to turn away.

'If you don't come now, we might have to come
and find you, Tina Boyd.' His voice had hardened
now, laced with threat.

She turned back. 'What does your friend want?'

'He just wants to talk.' He shrugged his
powerful shoulders. 'That's it. Nothing more. I
think he might have some information for you.'

He leaned behind him and opened the back
door of the Mercedes for her.

Tina made a quick calculation. If they knew her
name, they knew she was a SOCA agent. That
meant it was unlikely they were going to risk
hurting her. Especially when their car, and
possibly even their faces, would already have
been picked up somewhere on CCTV. And when
it came down to it, there was no reason for them
to hurt her anyway. She didn't owe Daroyce
money, had in fact never met him, which meant
the guy in front of her was almost certainly telling
the truth.

Those were the pros. There was only one con,
but it was a big one. What if she was wrong?

It was a big decision, but in the end – although
she'd never admit it to herself – part of the reason
Tina Boyd attracted trouble was that she was
always prepared to put herself in situations where
encountering it was inevitable. And this was one
of them. Taking a long look round so that the
people walking up and down the street might
remember her face if it came to it, she got inside
the Merc and shut the door.

'Let's go then,' she said, lighting a cigarette.

They drove through back streets heading west in
the direction of Queensbury. Tina tried to make
conversation, knowing how important it was to
create a rapport with the black guy, who was
clearly the senior of the two. But now she was in
the car, both men were worryingly reticent. The
white guy said nothing at all, his friend either
answering her questions with an uninterested yes
and no or ignoring them altogether.

The journey didn't last long, ten minutes at
most, before they pulled into a dingy dead-end
road lined with brand-new low-rise council flats
on one side and a pair of grim-looking tower
blocks on the other. The car pulled into a parking
space in front of the first of the blocks, next to an
overflowing bright orange wheelie bin that
seemed to be attracting the flies. A gang of half a
dozen kids on mountain bikes were messing
about by a rusty climbing frame over to one side.

'Nice place,' said Tina, wrinkling her nose
against the smell from the bin as she got out of the
car.

'Mr Daroyce likes to stay close to his roots,'
answered the black guy as they walked over to the
front entrance.

Tina noticed the kids give him respectful looks
as he passed, before passing more hostile eyes
over her.
Jesus
, she thought.
What is it about me? I
might as well be wearing a flashing blue light on my
head
.

They went up to the tenth floor in a graffiti strewn
lift with black smoke stains running down
two sides as if someone had tried to set it alight,
travelling in silence with only the creaking of the
cables for company. Tina was getting more and
more nervous. She didn't much like going alone to
isolated places with the kind of men your mother
warned you about, particularly when she was
unarmed and out of contact with her colleagues.
She thought about trying to leave but had a strong
feeling that they wouldn't let her.

As they emerged from the lift into a dingy
corridor only partly illuminated by noisy overhead
strip lighting, dark shadows flickering at the
edges, she was reminded of something that had
happened during her backpacking days. She'd
been caught in a sudden storm while travelling by
fishing boat between islands in southern
Indonesia. Huge dark waves had reared up and
crashed over the deck, sending the tiny boat spinning
and lurching. The fishermen had looked
terrified, their expressions terrifying Tina even
more as she clung desperately to her seat,
genuinely believing she was going to die. Then
the friend she was travelling with leaned over
and, with a grim smile on his face, had shouted
above the noise, 'It's not much consolation now,
but you're going to love telling this story one day!'
And she had, too. They'd made it across, the
storm had passed, and life had moved on. The
moral being, things are never as bad as they seem.

She told herself she'd be out of there soon
enough, life would move on, and she'd have a
good laugh about it over a long gin and tonic,
curled up on her sofa.

The flat they wanted was at the end of the
corridor. She knew which one it was going to be
straight away, because it looked like Fort Knox.
The doorway was covered with an iron security
grille, the door behind it reinforced with a series
of home-cut steel plates. No fewer than five separate
locks ran up one side, and attached to the
doorframe was a tiny CCTV camera, its lens
pointing out at head height through one of the
gaps in the grille.

The black guy produced a set of keys and let
them in, a process that took the best part of a
minute. The interior was cloyingly warm and
smelled of dope as they made their way through a
narrow hallway and into a dimly lit backroom
which was furnished with just a table and two
chairs facing each other on either side.

Sitting in one of the chairs, with his legs crossed
and his back to them, was a short, well-built black
man in a peach-coloured suit and fedora of the
same colour. The fedora was set at a jaunty angle
and had two small peacock feathers jutting from
the rim, giving the man the overall appearance of
a 1970s New York pimp. He didn't turn round as
the black guy moved out of the way and Tina
stepped inside, just motioned with a casual wave
of a hand for her to take the vacant seat.

'I hear you been asking questions about Patrick
Phelan,' said the man from beneath the fedora as
she sat down opposite him. 'You a cop, yeah?'

His voice was softer than she'd been expecting,
the accent local but with just a hint of something
more exotic. As he lifted his head she could see
that he was young, probably no more than late
twenties, with a round boyish face and dark intelligent
eyes. He was definitely not what she'd been
expecting, and now that the two men who'd
brought her here had disappeared into another
room, she felt herself relax a little.

'Yes,' she answered, 'I'm a cop.' She wasn't
technically, she was an agent, but it was never
worth explaining it like that since no one ever
seemed to understand the difference. 'I work for
the Serious and Organized Crime Agency. You
must be Leon Daroyce.'

He touched a finger to his hat and half-smiled.
'That's me.'

'And yes, I have been asking questions about
Patrick Phelan,' Tina continued. 'We're looking for
him.'

Daroyce nodded slowly. 'So am I,' he said softly,
hardly moving his lips as he spoke, so that his
words came out almost as a hiss.

He leaned forward in his seat and crossed his
hands on the table. They were small and surprisingly
dainty considering his build, dwarfed by the
gold sovereign rings on most of his fingers. He
exhaled slowly through pursed lips and fixed her
with a gaze that was almost hypnotic.

'Let me tell you something, Miss Boyd,' he
hissed. 'I'm an entrepreneur, a small businessman.
I lend money like a bank, except unlike a bank I
don't ask hundreds of questions. I don't make my
customers fill out a pile of forms. You know what
someone once said? A banker's a man who lends
you his umbrella when the sun's shining, then
asks for it back as soon as it starts raining.'

'Mark Twain.'

He shrugged, uninterested. 'Well, I'm not like
that. I don't turn people away. All I ask is you pay
me back the money you've borrowed, and the
interest on it. That's it. I'm providing a service.
And I provided a service to Pat Phelan. Except he
seems to have welshed on the deal. He owes me
thirty-five thousand pounds, Miss Boyd. And I
need to get that money back.'

'I don't see how I can help.'

'Because you're looking for him. What is it that
you people want to speak to him about?'

'We think he's involved in a fraud case,' she
lied. If Daroyce and his friends were involved in
the kidnapping then they'd know she wasn't
telling the truth, but she was beginning to think
that they couldn't be. Otherwise, why on earth
would they have brought her here?

'That sounds like Phelan. The guy's a snake. Is
he likely to get bail?'

'I don't know.'

'Listen, Miss Boyd, perhaps you and me can
help each other. I need to get my money back from
Pat Phelan, because if I let something like this go,
then it's going to look very bad on me and my
business. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'I think so, yes.'

'Now, if you hear where he is, all you need to do
is give me a call, let me and my people get there
first, and I'll pay you ten grand in cash.' He
reached inside his peach suit and produced a
huge wad of used notes, putting it down on the
table in front of her. 'Not bad for five minutes'
work, is it?'

She looked at the money, wondered who'd
suffered for him to get it, then back at Daroyce.
'I'll see what I can do.'

'No,' he said quietly, 'that's not good enough. I
want you to say you'll do it.'

His tone was cold now.

Tina made another quick calculation. She had
no intention of helping Daroyce, and she certainly
couldn't take his money. However, it seemed
prudent to say yes, just so she could get out of
there.

'OK, I'll do it. If we locate him, of course. Have
you got a number I can get you on?'

His half-smile returned. 'Sure.' He took a card
from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank
except for a handwritten mobile number.

She put it in her pocket.

'I still don't understand why you need me,
though. It looks like you've got eyes and ears all
over the place. You certainly found out about me
easily enough.'

'I've looked everywhere for Phelan, but he
seems to have done a better job at disappearing
than he ever did at gambling. He was supposed to
give me a fifteen grand down payment last
Sunday. He didn't turn up; neither did it. He
asked for a few more days. I told him he had
twenty-four hours. But he didn't come through
again. So, I've been hunting for him. I know
where he lives, but his car hasn't been there, and
from what I hear, neither has he. But,' he added,
regarding her almost playfully, 'I've got a little
clue that you might be able to use.'

'What's that?' Tina sat forward, interested.

'The thing is, Miss Boyd, can I trust you?'
Tina met his gaze, held it firmly. 'Yes, you can
trust me. If we find him, I'll let you know. What
you do after that is your concern.'

Daroyce nodded, seeming to accept this.
'Phelan's got a girlfriend. Good-looking chick. A
little bit old for my tastes, but she carries it well.'

'Are you sure it's not his wife?'

He shook his head. 'No, I know what his wife
looks like. It's not her. She's been here, too. The
girlfriend. She came with him to deliver a five
grand down payment on the debt a couple of
weeks ago. I don't know who she is, or where she
lives, but they were definitely close, and I had the
feeling that, you know, the five grand was her
money.'

'Can you describe her?'

'I can do better than that. I can show you a
picture.'

He leaned down behind the table and picked
up an envelope which he handed her. There was a
single photograph inside, a still from the security
camera outside Daroyce's door. It showed the
faces of a man and a woman, both of whom
looked nervous. The man's face was in the foreground,
and Tina recognized him as Pat Phelan.
The picture quality wasn't fantastic and the
woman's face appeared slightly grainy, but even
so there was no mistaking who it was, since Tina
had seen her picture on the website of Feminine
Touch Health and Beauty Spas only hours before.

It was Isobel Wheeler. Andrea Devern's business
partner.