The Increment (4 page)

It doesn't matter how many times you look at it. The number's always the same.

His fist smashed down on the side of the desk. The computer shuddered as the force of the blow ricocheted through the machine, and a pair of folders fell to the floor. He wanted to run after Abbott, and beat some respect back into him. Abbott talked tough, but his flesh looked weak and flabby: a few hard blows would level up the score.

Get a grip, Matt commanded himself. Sure, you could probably kill the jerk with a pair of well-placed bare-knuckle jabs just below the temple. He'd seen it done, and he'd have no qualms about taking Abbott down. But it would make no difference. One Abbott would be followed by another, then another. The Firm had an endless supply of them.

No. If I'm going to fight my way out of this comer, I have to do it with my mind, not just my knuckles.

He stood up, and walked out of the office. Somewhere near the bar he could hear Gill calling for him, but he ignored her. Kicking away his shoes, he took the shirt from his back. Dressed only in his shorts, he jumped down the small, rocky pathway that led down from the restaurant to the sea.

The rain was beating fast against the beach as Matt climbed down. He could feel the tepid water seeping into his skin.
Maybe the storm will come down hard, and blow that bastard away.

TWO

Matram placed the binoculars back in the glove compartment of his Lexus RX300. A slow smile drifted across his face as he put the windows back up and turned on the air conditioning. So far the mission was playing out perfectly.

The murder was as beautifully engineered as the car he was sitting in.

It was just after six and the streets on the estate were empty. He had just watched Barry Legg walk out of his house and turn down the quiet road that stretched down past the local pub. It was a hot, steamy night – they were all hot and steamy this summer – and Legg looked slightly ridiculous wearing just shorts, dock shoes and a Liverpool FC football shirt: Steven Gerrard's, unless Matram was mistaken. Legg was alone, and apart from nodding to one man on the other side of the street, nobody seemed to have passed him on the way.

Matram checked his watch. Ten past six. Legg would be a few minutes early to watch his son.

Except he wasn't ever going to arrive.

'Target approaching,' he said into the hands-free mouthpiece he had hooked around his neck. 'Ready?'

'Affirmative,' replied Clipper.

The line was kept open. Matram watched as Legg rounded the corner. His pace was quickening as he stepped down from the main road on to the track that led towards the football pitches. Trench and Clipper started walking alongside him, Trench walking slightly ahead. As Matram watched them turn into the field, he took the car forward, turning the corner so he could keep them in sight. Both men were just ten yards away, out of sight of the houses.

'We're looking for the Fox & Hare,' he heard Trench say. 'Do you know which way?'

His tone was firm, noted Matram. Enough to stop a man and distract his attention, but not loud enough to provoke any suspicion.
Good training.

'You've passed it,' said Legg. 'A hundred yards back down the lane. Turn right. You can't miss it.'

Matram rolled up his binoculars towards his eyes, and adjusted the focus. Legg was speaking to Trench, but his eyes were looking up towards Clipper. The man was standing with his legs a yard apart. His shoulders were rock steady, and his right arm twisted slightly forwards.

Legg's a military man, reflected Matram. Even a couple of years out of the army, he still recognised the position a man took up when he was about to shoot somebody.

'I've seen you before . . .' said Legg.

'Stand still,' barked Trench, pulling the Smith & Wesson Magnum Hunter pistol free from his jacket.

The Hunter had a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel, much longer than any normal pistol, giving the bullet extra velocity and impact: perfect for a job like this where speed and accuracy were a lot more important than trying to conceal a bulky weapon.

'. . . across the water,' said Legg.

Clipper also pulled his gun from his jacket. He fired first, then Trench, both men delivering two rounds of fire. Four bullets ripped into Legg's body, two blasting through his brain, two severing open his heart. He crumpled to the ground, dead.

Through his binoculars now, Marram watched the small trickle of blood seep out into pathway.

Trench walked towards the corpse. From his pocket, he took a packet of Pampers baby wipes, and cleaned the traces of blood away from the grass. He stowed the wipe back in his pocket, hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, then walked back towards the car. Matram was waiting for them, the engine already running, and the body was laid in the back of the vehicle.

Matram gunned up the Lexus, and pulled away. By nightfall, the body would have been safely disposed of. His wife would have called the local police in a panic, but it would be a couple of days at least before they showed any interest in what had happened to him. Guys disappeared all the time, and usually they turned up a few days later with a terrible hangover; if the police started chasing all of them they wouldn't have any time to fill in forms.

Matram smiled to himself. By then, all traces of the execution would have been eliminated. The operation was a perfect ten.

One more off the list.

'What's got into you?' asked Gill.

The sentence was delivered in the same tone Matt had heard Gill use at the Dandelion nursery school in Puerto Banus where she worked every morning. Strict, insistent and determined: it worked on the three-year-olds, and it worked on Matt as well.

'You've been skulking in your kennel all day.'

A glass of Nestlé iced tea was sitting in front of him on the terrace of the Last Trumpet, but Matt had hardly touched it. The heatwave that had covered northern Europe over the past two weeks seemed finally to have hit southern Spain. The storms of the night had now blown through to the African coastline, leaving the skies completely clear. It was now almost noon, and the sun was starting to hit its peak. Sweat was forming on his brow, but it wasn't the weather that was responsible.

'I'm in trouble.'

He watched as her eyes sank. He'd seen that look before. A sudden resignation came over her, followed by a flash of anger. 'What is it?'

She sat down opposite him, her hands folded together, and her right index finger playing nervously with the single diamond placed at the centre of her gold engagement ring.

'What is it, Matt?' she repeated, her tone more insistent now.

'It's the Firm,' Matt answered. 'They want me to do a job.'

'No, Matt. You're through with all of that. We agreed.'

Matt paused. How should I tell her? He turned the question over in his mind, remaining silent, examining it from every angle. She's entitled to know the truth: he'd never believed in keeping any secrets from Gill, and anyway she'd always seen through him. But Abbott had threatened her with arrest. And there was no doubting his retaliation would be swift and vicious. The Firm didn't like being turned down.

I can't burden her with that. And whatever happens, my first duty is to protect her.

'It was that man in the bar last night,' persisted Gill. 'The one in the white suit.'

'His name's Guy Abbott. He's an officer with the Firm.'

'What does he want with you?'

'There's a job that needs doing. They reckon I'm the right man for it.'

'You're through with that, Matt,' repeated Gill. 'We agreed. No more missions. We're getting married, maybe having kids.' She paused, a trace of moisture already visible in her eyes. 'Making a life together.'

She's not going to like this.

'I know,' Matt started, his voice steely and grave. 'But there are debts, and now they're getting called in. One job, then he says the slate will be clean.'

Gill shook her head. 'No. We have plenty of money. We don't need them. Tell them to go screw themselves.'

'I already did.' Matt reached out to take Gill's hand. She drew it away. 'They've frozen all my accounts. We're broke.'

'They can't do that,' snapped Gill.

'They can, and they have.'

Gill turned away. 'We don't need the money. We're making money on the restaurant, I have my salary from Dandelion. We don't need to finish the house, it doesn't matter.' She turned to look at him again. The moisture in her eyes had turned into a tear now. 'We can sleep on the beach. So long as we have each other, that's what counts.'

I have to tell her, Matt decided.
There's no way she'll accept anything but the truth.

'It's not just the money. That's the carrot. I do the job and I get our money back.'

'What's the stick?'

'They'll press charges,' said Matt. 'For murder.'

Gill paused. With her left hand she reached up to wipe away the tear trickling down the side of her cheek. 'It wasn't murder. Fight it. You have to prove your innocence.' She leant forward. 'We can't live like this. There'll be this job, then another one, and another one. You'll be working for the bloody SAS for ever. Until they slam the lid down on your coffin, drape a Union Jack over it, and give me a medal to pin up on the wall. I won't do it, Matt. We fight them here and now.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Matt. He could feel the temper rising within him, a snarling knot of anger that started in his stomach and worked its way up to his throat. 'It's not just about me. They'll arrest both of us. Don't you understand, they'll break us.' He stood up. 'Just one job. I'll go to London, see what it is, and I'll get guarantees that it's just this once. If it's too dangerous, I'll tell them to get stuffed.'

Gill turned away. Her cheeks were reddening, and she pushed her hair out of her face. 'I tell you, you go to London, and it's over between us.'

'Christ, Gill,' shouted Matt. 'Do you have any idea what they'll do to us? They'll throw us in jail, then arrange one of those convenient accidents so we never get out again. Let's play them along, and see if we can get out of this mess with our freedom, and our money still in the bank.'

Gill took two steps back, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. 'You haven't changed, Matt,' she said softly. 'I thought I could settle you down, but I see now that I can't. There's always another job, another mission, another adventure. I thought you cared enough for me to give all of that up, but I was wrong. I don't think you can ever have a proper relationship, Matt. Because you'll never know how to put someone else first.'

She turned round, and started walking towards the house. 'I wanted to be your wife, Matt, not your widow. Now I don't want to be either.'

'So what do you serve the gangster boys for lunch around here, old fruit?' Abbott sat down at the table, glancing through the menu. Matt sat down opposite him, his expression sullen.

'I was hoping for a slice of the old horse's head.' Abbott laughed to himself, and started taking off his jacket. 'But I suppose I'll have to settle for the club sandwich, and a glass of rosé. Don't think I can face the sausage and mash in this heat. But good to see you have all the local specialities.'

'We serve what our customers want,' said Matt irritably.

Abbott wiped his brow with his handkerchief. It looked as if the back of his neck, the only bit of skin he left exposed to the sun, was starting to burn. 'So, you want your money back?'

'Tell me the job, and I'll tell you the answer.'

Abbott took a single sheet of paper from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and handed it across to Matt. 'I've booked you on to the five past ten BA flight back to London tomorrow morning. You can meet me for lunch at my club the day afterwards. I'll tell you then.'

Matt nodded. 'Which club?'

'The Oxford & Cambridge, on the Mall,' said Abbott, taking a sip from the glass of rose that had just been placed on his table. 'I'm sure you know it.'

THREE

The note felt flimsy in Matt's hands. A single sheet of blue writing paper, covered in a few lines of her familiar, rounded handwriting. Matt read it once, and was about to toss it towards the bin when he paused and read it again.

Dear Matt,
Go to London if you want to. I know you are doing what you think is right, but I also have to do what I think is right. I refuse to spend the rest of my life lying in bed alone at night terrified of what dangers you might be facing. If I'm going to lose you, I'd rather lose you now than later.

I'm breaking off the engagement, for the last and final time. Don't try to contact me.

Good luck.

Love, Gill.

Matt looked over the apartment. It was the same bachelor pad he'd had on leaving the SAS three years ago. Although he had hardly noticed it happening, the place had been girled up: some small beige cushions seemed to be arranged across the sofa; on top of the TV there were pictures of Gill and him together; the bathroom had acquired a new mat; and the hi-fi seemed to have been pushed back into a corner where you could hardly find it.

He put the letter into the magazine rack – something else that seemed to have turned up that Matt couldn't recall buying – and stepped outside. He still had an hour or so, before he had to be at the airport, and he wanted to check into the bar first. Maybe Gill would be there.

Even though it was just after eight in the morning, the sun was already rising in a smooth arc across the clear blue skies. Matt started walking the five hundred yards from the apartment block to the bar. He was carrying a small case with the few items of clothing he planned to take to London.

She'll be back, he told himself. We've argued before, split up before, and patched things up before. She flares up like a sergeant major, but it blows over soon enough. With any luck, the Firm will have a nice simple job, and we'll be back together in a couple of weeks.

Give her a few days and she'll cool off.

'Seen Gill?' he said to Janey as he stepped into the bar.

The manageress was a woman in her early forties, with streaked blonde hair, and a winning smile. Janey had run one of the best pubs in Chingford before splitting up with her husband, and moving out to the sun. There was very little she didn't know about running a bar. Matt relied on her completely.

'No. Trouble?'

Matt shook his head. 'Just wondering where she's got to.'

'Sorry. Someone was calling for you, though,' continued Janey, closing up the ledger where she had been recording last night's takings. 'Some lady who said she was calling on behalf of Sandy Blackman. Said it was urgent.'

Sandy? Matt turned the thought over in his mind.

In the Parachute Regiment, Sandy's husband, Ken Blackman, had been his closest friend. Matt had served alongside him for five years, before he'd left to join the SAS. Ken had done a couple more years in the forces before handing in his uniform. Then he'd gone back to Derby where he was born, married his girlfriend Sandy and settled down. He'd been working as a truck driver, mostly hauling stuff up and down the Ml for Tesco. A couple of times he'd done long cross-Continent trips out to Spain, and about nine months ago he'd spent a night at the Last Trumpet. It had been a great session. About ten beers each, finished off with a bottle of port and a rough North African cigar. For a while they'd both been back in a windy, desolate barracks in Aldershot, wondering what they'd signed up for.

Whatever happens to you in life, nothing compares to the frozen, hungry, exhausted misery of your first few weeks in the army. The bonds you make in those few weeks are among the strongest of your life.

Last time he'd seen Sandy had been three years ago. At the christening of their first daughter, Jade. She'd be up and walking around by now, and so would the next one, Callum.

Why wouldn't Ken be calling himself?

He punched the numbers into the phone, looking out to sea as he waited for it to be answered. A man picked up the phone. A man he didn't recognise.

'Tell Sandy it's Matt on the phone,' he said. 'Matt Browning.'

'Haven't you heard what happened?'

Matt hesitated. He knew those words, he'd heard them often enough in the army.

'Look it up on the
Derby Evening Telegraph
website,' the man said.

The phone went dead. Matt checked his watch. Half an hour until he needed to be at the airport. He walked to the back office and fired up his computer. It took a few seconds on Google to find the site for the local paper. He clicked on the link, and watched as the front page of last night's paper downloaded itself. A one per cent hike in council tax, that was the day's news in Derby. That and the threat of some more redundancies at Rolls-Royce.

Maybe it was a few days ago? A crash, a fight?
What could Ken possibly do to get himself in the paper?

He flicked back a couple of days. The announcement of a new ring road, some revelations about the business associates of the deputy council leader. No. Then, from three days ago, a picture flashed up at him. Ken. At its side, the headline was spelt out in 64-point black type:
DERBY MAN IN HORROR KILLING SPREE.

Matt's finger stabbed on to the mouse, scrolling down the page to read the story.

Truck driver Ken Blackman, of Pride Park, Derby, went berserk today in a doctors' surgery, killing two people, injuring two others, then attempting to kill himself.

In a horrific shooting incident, Blackman shot Dorothy Houghton, 56, and Alan Miter, 24, both of whom were waiting for appointments at the surgery of Dr Rondy Toogut and Dr Marjorie Kent on Palmerston Road.

He injured Anthea Mills, 46, the receptionist at the surgery, who was shot in the leg, and Charles Bertram, 41, who was hit in the chest. Both victims are recovering in hospital, and are expected to be discharged in the next few days.

The incident happened just after 11 o'clock this morning at the Palmerston Road Medical Centre. Blackman had asked for an appointment with his GP, complaining that he was suffering from depression. His appointment with Dr Kent was delayed, and after ten minutes of additional waiting, he started shouting angrily at the receptionist. Then he pulled out a gun, and started firing at the other people in the waiting room, before turning the gun on himself.

David Holton, 29, who witnessed the incident, said: "It was just chaos. He started shooting randomly, and everyone started taking cover and trying to get out of the building. Then he just turned the gun on himself. He looked like a man possessed."

According to local police, Blackman is now in a secure room at the City General Hospital on Uttoxeter Road. His condition is described as critical but stable.

Blackman is 38, and a driver for the local haulage operator, E.H. Berris & Sons. An ex-serviceman, he is married with two children, and lives in the Pride Park district of the city. He has no criminal record. His wife could not be contacted today.

Matt leant back in his chair. A memory was playing through his mind. It was a couple of weeks after they'd joined the army, and both of them were just eighteen. Another new recruit, a Scottish kid called Ben, was finding it tough to cope with the daily hammering of military training. They all found it tough, but this boy was on the edge of a breakdown: he was sobbing in his bed every night, and couldn't even focus on getting his kit clean and straight. Matt noticed how Ken got up in the middle of the night and made sure Ben's uniform was straight and his boots polished so the sergeant major wouldn't give him a monstering in the morning. Ken never spoke to Ben or anyone else about it: he just occasionally went out of his way to make life more bearable for the other men.

Ken was one of the kindest, gentlest men you could ever meet. What could possibly make him do something like that?

The temperature in the foyer of the Oxford & Cambridge Club just off St James's in London's West End was surprisingly cool. He'd just worn chinos and a linen jacket – it was thirty-three degrees outside in the London traffic – but he'd stashed a tie in his pocket because he knew he needed one.

A gentle breeze was blowing in from the garden as Matt slipped the tie around his neck and knotted it. He could see the man at the desk casting a pair of disapproving eyes across him, but just turned back to the mirror to check his tie was straight.

Which college? Matt wondered to himself with a wry smile.
The college of getting shot at for your country.

Abbott was already waiting for him in the restaurant, a bottle of white wine chilling in an ice bucket at his side. He looked down at the ground. 'Better keep your feet under the table, old fruit,' he said disapprovingly. 'The club recommends black brogues. And you're wearing brown.'

Matt looked down at his canvas shoes, then back up at Abbott. 'If they throw me out, we'll just have to go to the pub around the corner.'

Abbott smiled thinly. 'A glass?' he said, as Matt sat down next to him.

Matt shook his head.

When you're lunching with a rattlesnake, keep your head clear.

Abbott shrugged. 'I've already ordered your lunch,' he said. 'And a glass of Italian white. You don't have to drink it if you don't want to.'

'I can order my own food,' snapped Matt. 'Tie my own shoelaces, brush my teeth, the works.'

'Of course you can, old fruit,' said Abbott, his eye following the hemline of a passing waitress. 'Just trying to hurry things along.'

'So what's the job?' said Matt.

Abbott paused while the waiter put a plate of baked salmon down before him. He picked up the fork and toyed with a mouthful of food. 'There's a company called Tocah Life Science,' he started. 'Big drugs company. They need some help. You know, wet work. I think you'd be just the man for the job, old fruit.'

Matt glanced down at his own food, a fillet steak served with chips. It was a while now since he'd attempted to make any money from playing the stock market, but he'd heard of Tocah – he'd even owned some of the stock for a few months, and it had been one of the few shares in his portfolio that had gone up rather than down. Set up by a Frenchman named Eduardo Lacrierre twenty years ago, it had been one of the big successes of the industry in the last two decades. It specialised in drugs for heart disease, and had grown dramatically. It wasn't quite in the league of GlaxoSmithKline or AstraZeneca, but getting close.

'They are a respectable pharmaceuticals company, with money to burn,' said Matt crisply. 'What do they need with me?'

'Counterfeits. An illegal trade in knock-off copies of some of their best-selling medicines. It's a big and very dangerous business. And they need it stopped at source. To go through all the retailers and stop it that way would take years.'

Matt chewed on a mouthful of steak, 'Real medicines with real ingredients, or just smarties with a different coating on them?'

'They're real all right,' said Abbott, refilling his glass of wine. 'That's what makes it such a clever racket. They steal the formulas for the drugs, then they copy them in some of the corners of the old Soviet Union where nobody minds too much what you do so long as you pay off the local mafia monkeys. Then they smuggle them into Western Europe. Some of these pills are charged at twenty or thirty quid a tablet, mostly paid for by the jolly old taxpayer. You don't need to be Einstein to run the maths on that.'

'And it costs Tocah a lot of money, right?'

Abbott smiled. 'That's what I like about you, Matt. You catch on quick.'

Matt could feel his heart thumping against his chest.
I'd forgotten what it's like to be patronised by the Ruperts.

Abbott paused, taking a sip on his wine. 'A doctor writes out a prescription for one of Tocah's drugs, then the patient gets it filled out at the pharmacy, all as usual. The doctor is innocent, so is the pharmacist. Neither of them knows anything wrong is happening. But what has happened is that someone at the
wholesaler
has replaced the real drug with the fake one, and the gangsters are creaming off the profits. Like I said, it's clever, but it's dangerous as well. As you may imagine, pharmaceutical drugs are manufactured to exacting standards. The gangsters are using the same basic formula, but obviously they don't take the same care.' Abbott shook his head. 'People could die as a result of this.'

'You can save me the Tony Blair sanctimonious git of the year impression,' said Matt. 'What do you expect me to do about it?'

'Take out the factory.'

Matt looked down. He could see a trickle of blood oozing from the side of his steak. He speared the meat, holding it on his fork a few inches from his mouth.

'It's not a difficult mission, not for a man of your experience. Go in there. Blow it up. Run like hell.'

'Why me?'

Abbott shrugged. From the expression on his face, Matt judged the question bored him. 'Why not you?' he replied. 'Ex-regiment. There aren't so many of you around.'