Relentless (13 page)

gloating message so that he knew exactly why he was going to
die, but unfortunately this was no longer possible. However,
Lench was thankful that he had had such an ingenious weapon
of surprise, and he'd kept it ever since, wearing it as often as was
practical.
He crept up the steps and, hearing nothing, stepped inside.
The door to the store room was half-open and the lights were on
beyond it. He walked forward, making no attempt to disguise his
footfalls. He had been trained in ambush techniques and building
clearance and knew exactly what to look for. There were few
places to hide in here, and he guessed that no ambush would be
forthcoming.
He stopped at the door and saw through the gap one of his
men lying on the floor, still clad in his balaclava. He was moving
and making the odd quiet moan, and by the squat build Lench
guessed it was Mantani.
For the first time in a long while he felt something akin to
fear. It wasn't that emotion exactly, more a combination of
disappointment and anxiety. He'd let down the only man he
feared letting down.
Then the rage came. It was a cold yet intense anger, one that
tightened the features of his face and made his eyes narrow, but
which remained perfectly controllable. He knew how and where
to channel the energy it gave him.
He kicked open the door so hard it slammed against the wall,
then strode inside, eyes darting left and right to confirm his
suspicion that no-one was waiting for him, and made directly for
Mantani. The injured man's moans were louder now and he was
attempting to sit up. Lench suspected this was entirely for his
own benefit, a feeble attempt to show how badly hurt he'd been,
so that he might be spared punishment. He must have known it

wouldn't work, but most people will try anything when they're
terrified.
Leaning down, Lench slipped a hand under Mantani's chin
and wrenched him to his feet. He turned him round and held
him steady at arm's length by the throat, using the arm with the
jet knife attached. Behind the mask, Mantani's brown eyes were
wide and fearful, as well they should have been. His boss was not
a man to displease.
'What happened?' asked Lench in a curiously high-pitched
voice that belied his bulk and physical strength.
'Daniels,' he gasped. 'The bastard hit me over the head with
his gun when I wasn't looking . . . Left with the prisoner ... It
was just after I spoke to you. I'm sorry ...'
If Lench had been a man who let his immediate instincts get
the better of him, he would have used the jet knife on Mantani
there and then. He could tell Mantani was afraid he still might.
After all, he had been one of the people on the boat that day the
knife had last been put to use. But Lench knew better than to
act on instinct. Mantani had made a mistake, but then he had
made one too. He should never have hired Daniels. The man
was too intelligent to use as a hired thug and had clearly not
been trustworthy. But Lench didn't have many men working
for him who could be trusted to kill on his behalf. It takes a
special type of person to murder another without compunction
or remorse, while at the same time being capable of understanding
and obeying orders. They were a rare breed, and
Mantani was one of them. To get rid of him now would be
counter-productive.
'You fucked up,' Lench said quietly. As he spoke, he increased
the grip on his employee's windpipe until Mantani's
breaching came out in thin, pained rasps.

'Please, sir ... can't breathe ...'
'I pay you well, Mantani. Better than an ex-con with no
hope or prospects deserves. For that I expect some reliability.
Tonight, you haven't given me that. Make the mistake again and
I'll work on you until your eyes bleed. Do you understand?'
Mantani managed to nod, and Lench let go and allowed him
to fall heavily to the floor. He lay where he'd been dropped,
propped up on one arm, rubbing his throat, while Lench turned
away.
'Go down to my car and wait for me inside,' he ordered. 'I
have a private call to make.'
When Mantani had left the room and Lench could hear him
going down the steps, he took out his mobile and made a call he
wasn't looking forward to.
After ringing for close to a minute, the phone was picked up
at the other end. There was the distinct buzz of chatter in the
background, punctuated by loud female laughter. That would be
the employer's wife. She'd clearly been drinking again. Over the
top of the noise, the employer spoke four words: 'Have you
found it?'
'There's been a problem.'
'Wait a minute, let me go outside.' There was a pause of
perhaps thirty seconds, the sound of doors being opened and
shut. Finally, the background noise faded to nothing. 'How bad's
this problem?' the employer asked at last.
'Manageable. We've lost target one.' In keeping with operating
procedure, Lench made no mention of names over the
phone.
'And you're sure that's manageable?'
'He took one of our cars,' Lench answered, not adding that
one of his own men had sprung him, 'but we can follow him.'

'How?'
'It's got a tracking device on it. If we're lucky, he'll lead us all
the way to target two.'
'I don't want to rely on luck,' the employer said, and for
the first time there was the hint of reproach in his voice. He
almost always treated Lench with an unquestioning courtesy
that bordered on affection, as if he was the son the employer had
never had, and it was for this reason more than any other that
Lench showed him such loyalty. It was also why the rebuke
made him flinch.
'Don't worry. We'll get him. I swear it.'
'And when you do, make sure he talks. We have to conclude
matters as soon as possible.'
'Oh, he'll talk all right,' said Lench, staring down at one of his
immense gloved hands, imagining it breaking fingers one by one.
'First he'll scream. Then he'll talk.'

19

'By the way,' I told my rescuer as we drove down a quiet street
of terraced housing with monolitMc council blocks in the background,
'you've still got the balaclava on.'
'Oh yeah.' He pulled it from his head in one swift movement
and chucked it down between the seats, revealing a dark-haired
man of about thirty with the lean, wiry features of an athlete and
the l jok of someone who'd been in the forces.

'So,' I said, looking at him, 'if you're a police officer, how
come you were going to shoot me?'
'I wasn't. I was bluffing. There was no way I would have
pulled the trigger. I'm here to protect you.' He checked the
rearview mirror again, still concerned that our pursuer might be
following, before making another turning.
I asked him what his name was.
'Daniels,' he answered. 'I've been working undercover for the
man who was coming for you. Lench. I don't know his other
name, but what I do know is he's a stone-cold killer. That's why
I got you out.'
'You hit me in the gut out on that street,' I said indignantly,
remembering the way he'd got me into the car in the first place.
'That's because I was undercover. I was playing a part. I'm
meant to be a former armed robber who once kneecapped a
fellow gang member. I can hardly go all faint when things turn
nasty.'
'It hurt.'
'Sorry about that,' he said, not looking sorry at all. In fact,
he appeared completely unruffled by events, as if a night
out kidnapping and torturing was par for the course, which I
suppose in his undercover role it was.
I was still very unsure of him. He could have been a copper,
but then again he could just as easily be a crook. I'd run into
enough of those today to know that there were plenty of bad
guys about.
'You know, this whole thing took months to set up,' he said,
staring at the road ahead, 'and now it's been blown. My bosses
are not going to be pleased.' His tone suggested this was my fault.
'Forgive me if I don't sympathize,' I said. 'Six hours ago I was
living a normal life. Now, for some reason I still can't fathom,

people I've never met are trying to kill me, and my wife's
missing.'
'Welcome to the big bad world, Mr Meron.'
'How do you know my name?'
He gave a hollow chuckle. 'You really have got a lot to catch
up on.'
There was certainly plenty of truth in that statement, but I
wondered if he was going to be the one to update me. He made
another turning, and a patch of wasteland opened up to our left.
I began to get an uneasy feeling.
'Where are we going?' I asked him.
'Well,' he said, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket
and pulling out a pack of Marlboro Lights, 'I'm figuring that
you're telling the truth about not knowing anything about what
it is we're after.' He put one of the cigarettes in his mouth and
depressed the car lighter.
'I am telling the truth. And can I have one of those cigarettes?'
He proffered the pack and I took one and put it in my mouth.
'So, would you be so kind as to tell me what the it we're looking
for is exactly?'
The car lighter clicked and he used it to spark up his cigarette
before passing it across to me. I lit my first smoke for ten years
and took a long drag. I felt light-headed, but then I felt lightheaded
anyway. I repeated the question.
'Well, that's the problem. I don't know what it is either.
Neither does Mantani. We were\ nly meant to get you over to the warehouse so that Lench could question you. I'm assuming
he knows what it is.'
I shook my head, feeling utterly confused, and took another
drag on the cigarette. It tasted strange. 'Then what the hell do
we do now?'

'What we do now,' he replied evenly, 'is find your wife.
Because I'm telling you now, if you don't know what or where it is, she does.'

20

Bolt and Mo arrived at the pub at five to nine. It was a small,
old-fashioned place on the corner of one of the residential roads
running off Highgate's main drag, the sort that's slowly being
shut down to make way for the bigger, louder chains with their
bars like aircraft hangars, which are steadily swallowing everything
else up. The interior was threadbare, with a worn-out
burgundy carpet peppered with cigarette burns, and walls and a
ceiling that had long since been transformed from cream to a
nicotine-stained pastiche of brown and yellow. The tables were
arranged in a U-shape around a small central bar lined with a
variety of draught beer pumps, behind which stood an ancient,
stick-thin barman with a waxed moustache and skin the same
colour as the walls. Even at this time on a Saturday night, it
was quiet. A handful of older guys all of whom obviously knew
each other sat on barstools chatting away to the barman, while
perhaps a third of the tables were occupied by couples and
groups of the same age.
Just around the corner, not quite out of sight, and occupying a
large booth, was the woman they were here to see. She saw them
and nodded a greeting, then waited while they bought their

drinks: an orange juice and lemonade for Bolt, who would have
preferred something else but felt that two officers on alcohol
wouldn't look so good, and a Becks for Mo, who was officially
off duty.
Tina Boyd was an attractive woman in her late twenties, but
the events of the past few months had taken their toll. Her dark
hair, fashioned into a jaunty bob in the Police Review photo,
hung lifelessly, and the skin beneath her eyes was puffy and
tired. Even her posture as she stood up to shake hands, slumped
as if she'd just finished shrugging her shoulders, suggested she'd
taken one hit too many recently. She was dressed demurely in a
plain white blouse, navy-blue cardigan and jeans, and wore no
jewellery or make-up. Her smile wasn't exactly forced, but nor,
thought Bolt, was it on her face entirely of its own free will.
Bolt and Mo made their introductions and joined her at the
table. Mo got out his cigarettes and, seeing the open pack on
the table in front of Tina, offered her one.
When her cigarette had been lit, Bolt leaned forward in his
seat and got straight down to business. 'So, what have you got
for us?'
Tina picked up a half-full glass of wine and took a good-sized
sip. Bolt noticed that her fingernails were chipped and bitten,
revealing thin slithers of red-raw skin at the edges. He remembered
how perfectly manicured they'd been in the photo on the
cover of Police Review.
'How far have you got with your case?' she asked, just as
directly. 'Does it look like suicide?'
'At the moment that's the official line but, as I said earlier, we
were at the scene of a murder of someone close to him tonight,
and that makes us suspicious.'
'You should be,' she said.

'Did you know our victim?' asked Mo. 'The Lord Chief
Justice?'
She shook her head. 'No, I didn't, but I know something about
him, something that no-one else knows.' She took a drag on her
cigarette. 'Let me start from the beginning. You know about my
ex-boyfriend, John Gallan?'
They both nodded, and Mo said that he was sorry about what
had happened.
'Just after Christmas last year, John started acting a little
strangely and it was obvious that he had something on his mind.
Our relationship was getting quite serious, so I asked him about
it, but he just told me there was nothing wrong. He could be
close-lipped when he wanted to be, but it still worried me. We
didn't tend to have secrets, or at least I thought we didn't, but as
the weeks went by I began to get more and more concerned. He
was still acting strangely, and I couldn't work out why this was.
I'd even gone to the lengths of letting myself into his flat when
he was out, and looking through his stuff.' She gave them a sheepish look. 'I'm not usually so paranoid, but to be honest, I
thought he was having an affair.'
She sighed.
'Anyway, one evening towards the end of January, we were
out for dinner and he got a call on his mobile in the middle of
the meal. He excused himself and went outside to take it, and
when he came back in he was really agitated. That was it, I'd had
enough. I was sure it was a woman so I confronted him about it.
I was surprised by his reaction. Very quietly, very seriously, he
told me that a few weeks earlier he'd received some confidential
information from an anonymous source about a criminal matter.
He hadn't been able to talk about it until he got the necessary
security clearance; he was in discussions with liaison officers