Relentless (11 page)

15

We drove through a variety of back roads. I only know this
because the driver kept the speed at no more than thirty and
made a lot of turnings. During the whole time I remained in the
same uncomfortable position, not daring to move. When I tried
to speak, wanting to ask these men where they were taking me
and where my wife was, I was told by the one sitting next to
me to keep my mouth shut. 'We'll talk later,' came the ominous
promise.
My mouth and throat felt bone dry. The only thing I'd drunk

since three o'clock that afternoon was a glass of water during the
police interview. During the last five hours I'd been attacked
with a knife, knocked over by a police car, accused of murder, chased by the law, and now kidnapped. It was safe to say that I'd
worked up a thirst.
After about half an hour, the car slowed up and stopped.
Remarkably, I wasn't actually that scared. At least these men
weren't actively trying to kill me, which meant they wanted to
talk. It gave me an opportunity to put my side of the case and
hopefully convince them that I had nothing to do with any of
this. As long as I didn't get a good look at their faces I ought to
be all right. That was the theory, anyway.
The driver cut the engine, and the car was suddenly silent. I
could hear the two men shuffling about, and then the blanket was
pulled from my head and I was told that I could now look. As I
sat back up, my eyes already accustomed to the gloom, I saw that
they were both wearing black balaclavas. The one sitting next to
me was still holding the gun, and it was pointing at my midriff.
Outside, darkness had fallen and it had begun to rain.
They got out, and the gunman leaned back in and beckoned
for me to follow. I clambered across the seats, pushing the
blanket to one side, and stepped out into the open air. The rain
felt refreshing on my face. We were in a small, walled parking
area with room for about three cars at the back of a dirt-stained
and windowless two-storey industrial building. A single flight of
metal steps led up to a battered steel door that was the only sign
of an entrance. There was a faint smell of old fried food coming
from somewhere, and I noticed a line of overflowing dustbins
against the wall.
The driver started up the steps and the gunman prodded
me with the barrel, indicating that I should follow. I didn't argue.

The driver used a key to open the door and went inside, switching
the lights on. Sandwiched between the two men, I was led down
a narrow corridor. The smell of fried food was stronger here, and
a black binliner, packed high with empty food containers and
paper, was propped up outside a door on the right. A second door
on the right had a gents toilet sign on it and several holes gouged
out near the bottom where it looked like someone had tried to
kick it in. There was no noise coming from anywhere, and apart
from the smell, the place had a deserted, stale feel to it.
We stopped at a door at the end of the corridor and the driver
searched for the right key. I finally risked speaking as he placed
it in the lock. 'I don't know anything,' I said. 'I have no idea why
people are chasing me, I promise you.'
The driver opened the door, and a breath of warm, fetid air
belched out. He then turned round and, in one rapid movement
that was almost a blur, grabbed my shirt at the shoulder with
one hand and punched me twice in the face with the other,
two savage little jabs that felt more painful than anything I'd
suffered that day, mainly because they were so unexpected. I
lurched, and my legs wobbled precariously, but he steadied me
with a firm hand and kept me upright before swinging me round
and flinging me bodily into the airless darkness of the room.
I landed hard on one shoulder blade and rolled several times
along the cool concrete floor until I came to a halt, facing the
ceiling. The striplights above me came on and I saw I was in a
large, windowless room about twenty feet square with old floorto-ceiling
storage shelves stretching round the walls. Most of the
shelves were empty but one contained a cluster of five-litre tubs
of vegetable oil and a couple of sacks of rice. One of the sacks
had split and spilled much of its load on the filth-stained floor.
They came into the room, the driver with a purposeful gait,

the gunman following more slowly behind. As I tried to get to
my feet, the driver kicked me in the face, knocking me onto my
back. I felt blood pour out of my nose and my vision turned
fuzzy for a couple of seconds. But I didn't hang about, immediately
rolling myself up into a protective ball as he kicked me
again, his shoe striking my forearms as he tried to get me in the
face again. The worrying thing was that the beating was being
carried out in complete silence, with neither man feeling the
need to speak. They were softening me up, breaking down my
resistance, and I knew there was no point begging for mercy. I
pulled my body into an even tighter ball, eyes clenched shut, as
the kicks kept coming.
Then, without warning, I was hauled to my feet and dragged
across the room. In front of me was a sturdy wooden chair that
had been bolted to the floor. It had a high, straight back and
there were looping iron shackles attached to the arms and legs. I
started struggling, but a leaden punch to the kidneys, delivered
with a studied ease that was almost nonchalant, took the fight
completely out of me, and I was unable to resist as the driver
forced me into the chair and slammed my head back against the
wood, gripping my face painfully in his gloved hand. Without
speaking, he used the other hand to secure my wrists with the
manacles. I heard them click as they locked.
The driver released his grip, took a step back and backhanded
me across the face, catching me perfectly on the fresh stitches,
and reopening the wound. Drop's of blood splattered onto the
floor.
'Where the fuck is it?' he demanded.
'Where's what?' I gasped.
'Don't fucking play the innocent. You know what I'm talking
about.'

'I don't. Honestly. I have no idea what the hell it is you want
to know.'
He turned to the gunman who was standing a few feet back,
watching events impassively. 'Blow his fucking kneecap off,' he
said, and moved out of the way.
The gunman strode forward, bringing the gun up from his side
and pointing it at my kneecap. I wriggled wildly in the seat,
utterly helpless, the fear coursing through me in hot, crippling
waves. The gun's barrel got closer and closer until it was only a
foot away. I could hear the gunman's breathing. His eyes were
grey and blank. There was no sympathy in them at all. I turned
my head away so I no longer had to look into them.
'Last chance to tell us where it is,' said the driver. 'Otherwise
my friend here pulls the trigger.'
'He's right, I will,' said the gunman calmly, 'and I won't lose a
second's sleep over it either. You know that, don't you?'
'Please. You're making a mistake.'
'I'm going to count to five,' said the driver. 'One. Two.'
What do you say in that sort of situation? Men are threatening
to maim you for life. They will probably kill you after that, and
dump your body. You will never see your wife and children
again. You are thirsty, you are hungry. You are in pain, and
most of all you are confused. Because these men want you to tell
them the whereabouts of something, and you have absolutely no
idea what it could possibly be.
'Three. Four.'
I twisted, wriggled, fought against the shackles, craned my
neck as far away from the gun as I possibly could, teeth clenched
ready for the impact of the bullet that was going to bring
hideous pain and a limp for the rest of my days, if indeed I had
any days left.

'Five.'
'No, please!' I screamed, my words echoing around the empty
room. 'Don't fucking do it!'
'Are you going to talk?' asked the driver evenly.
I turned in his direction imploringly, feeling the blood running
down my face. When I spoke, the words came out in a series of
pants. 'If you just tell me what it is you think I know the
whereabouts of, then I can help you. I'm sure.'
The driver shook his head. 'You're fucking us about.' Then to
the gunman: 'Do it.'
The gunman's finger tensed on the trigger and this time I
met his eye. I was shaking my head, silently begging him. He
stared back. Was there doubt there? Did I see a flicker of
doubt?
A mobile rang. The tune was different to the phone I'd heard
earlier at the university. The one that belonged to the knifeman.
This one played 'Suspicious Minds' by Elvis Presley. It seemed
very apt.
The driver reached into the pocket of his black bomber jacket
and answered it, at the same time indicating for the gunman to
hold his fire. He turned away with the mobile clutched to his ear.
Although I couldn't hear what he was saying, his tone was
respectful, and it was obvious that whoever was on the other end
of the line was his superior.
The gunman took a couple of steps back and lowered the
weapon to his side, looking aw£y from my gaze. I could hear
my heart thumping in my chest. My thirst was horrendous, so
desperate it made it difficult to speak. It's hard to explain,
but somehow it was even stronger than the fear. I would have
given anything - anything - for a glass of water at that moment.
The driver came off the phone and replaced it in his pocket.

'That was Lench,' he told his colleague, and there was something
close to nervous awe in his voice when he mentioned that name.
'He's five minutes away. He told us to leave this one until he
gets here.'
He walked up to me, and I flinched as he brought back his
hand to strike me. Then, as the hand came forward, he stopped
it suddenly a few inches away, enjoying my reaction, and patted
me lightly on the cheek, bringing his face so close that I could
smell his sour, hot breath. He smiled, and I could see that his
teeth were stained and uneven. 'You're going to talk now, mate.
When Lench gets here you're going to talk, you're going to
scream, and you're going to fucking beg like a dog. Because he
can get information out of anyone. You'd rather sell your kids to
paedophiles than hold out on him.'
'I can't tell you anything,' I said wearily, 'if I don't know
anything.'
But even as I spoke, I knew the words made no difference.
They would torture me until either they got what they wanted or
there was nothing left of me to torture. And the problem was, I
knew it was going to be the latter.

16

No-one knew him as anything other than Lench, a state of affairs
he liked well enough. No-one knew his background either, nor
did they enquire. People feared him, and he fed on that fear,

enjoying the sense of power it gave him, aware that he was a
natural predator in a world overcrowded with prey.
It wasn't simply his immense bulk that created that reaction,
although it was a factor. At six feet four, and with a body made
outsized and bulbous through the obsessive lifting of weights, he
towered over most men, his rounded shoulders and huge, vein
popping arms giving him a vaguely primitive, ape-like appearance.
Yet this was offset by the cruel, probing intelligence in his
eyes. When he fixed a person with one of his unyielding stares, it
made the recipient feel as if he was looking right into their soul,
uncovering and devouring each and every secret. 'Snake's eyes'
someone had called them once, when Lench was well out of
earshot, and there was some truth in the description. They were
very thin and very dark, and the skin of his eyelids hung down
over them like cobras' hoods.
Lench licked his lips with a long fleshy tongue, the tip brushing
along the bottom of his nose and leaving a cold trail of saliva.
He didn't see the people in the other cars as he drove through
the dark night streets towards his destination, nor those crowding
the pavements. They didn't exist to him. If he looked their
way, he saw only blurs through the rain, lit up by the watery
glow of the street lights. Only those he hunted took any real
shape, became flesh and blood. And tonight, he was hunting.
Lench had killed many times in the thirty-eight years
he'd walked the earth. To him, torture and murder were little
more than a pastime, a means of gaining pleasure. He knew that
in this he was very different to other people, but he rarely
thought about the reasons behind his strange, bleak desires,
since he could see no point. He was what he was, and nothing
was going to change that. Instead, he felt uniquely lucky in that
he»was paid for his crimes, and was therefore doing a job he

loved. The main reason he was trusted by his employer - the
only man in the world to whom he felt he owed a debt - was that
he was reliable. He was imaginative in his methods, and more
importantly, he didn't make mistakes. If someone had to die,
Lench was the person the employer turned to. The necessary
instructions would be given, and that would be the end of the
employer's involvement. Lench would make all the arrangements
and ensure that the job was carried out, either working
alone or with help from his own people. Although on a personal
level he always liked to prolong the suffering of his victims, since
much of his enjoyment derived from watching them die, he
knew that sometimes this wasn't possible. The key, he felt, to
successful killing was making the most of your opportunities.

An old Ford Escort pulled out from the kerb in front of him
without indicating, forcing him to brake. The deep, throbbing
bass of some crappy hip-hop effort blasted out of the open
windows, and he could see figures in the back, heads covered
in hoodies, passing a joint between themselves. Arseholes, he
thought, imagining for a moment cutting the driver's throat and
hanging him up to bleed, but ultimately not worth bothering
with. Lench never took pointless risks. Like many psychopaths,
he was a pragmatist at heart, and having been incarcerated once
in his life he had no desire to go back.
Tonight, too, there were bigger fish to fry. The employer had
a serious problem, one that had to be dealt with decisively.
Already things were beginning to get complicated. They'd had to
kill Calley prematurely, and out in the open too, and now the new
target, the man called Meron, had come dangerously close to
slipping out of their grasp, something which couldn't be allowed
to happen. At least not before they'd got their information.
He finished the call to Mantani, one of the two men currently