I pulled over and called McCallen. When she answered her voice was low, as though she was speaking from underneath the blankets.
‘I’ve just seen Benz.’
‘Where?’
‘Heading for London. He’s driving a sapphire coloured Aventador.’ I reeled off the registration. ‘And he has a woman with him.’
‘Brommer?’
‘That’s my guess.’
I heard her relay the information to someone else. ‘We’re going to pick them up.’
‘Pity,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t. McCallen would know what I meant. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want me to come back sooner or later?’
‘Later would be good.’
I got it. The monosyllabic replies were code for ‘I’m still trying to save your skin’.
I drove against a tide of morning traffic. My endorphins had bunked off. I was filthy, in pain, and exhaustion was killing me. It took every effort to stay awake long enough to limp back home.
The house was fine. No nasty surprises. The clamour from neighbouring streets suggested that the remains of the constabulary of Gloucestershire were in the process of decamping from the Lansdown Road HQ to Cheltenham General. Suited me.
I showered, took a couple of painkillers washed down with strong tea and crashed out. I must have slept for around three hours. Stirring, and in time to catch the one o’clock news, I switched on Radio 4, not my usual choice, but good for serious coverage. Unsurprisingly, and in spite of the commotion, McCallen’s reappearance on the planet didn’t feature. Swinging my legs out of bed, I stood up and reached for a clean pair of jeans when an item, two below a shout line on more promising economic news, punched me full in the face.
‘A man found dead in the Thames last week has been identified as Horace Hayes. It’s suspected that rivals deliberately targeted Hayes, a former gangland boss, in a dispute over a cocaine deal.’
I sat back down. Simone had said that the guy who raped her wore a tropical shirt, not exactly the sartorial equivalent of a smoking gun and, no doubt, a wily defence lawyer would demolish any prosecution argument if suggested that it was, but it seemed a peculiar coincidence. It also left me with a can of maggots. Benz had no beef with me as far as I could tell. With Horace, aka China, out of the picture, who was out to crucify me?
I closed my eyes, went right back to the beginning, to Billy Squeeze. I’d come to believe that Billy was nothing more than a tool to wind me up, a noose in which to hang me, a raw nerve to press. Crazy thoughts crawled at the edges of my brain. What if, by some miracle, he’d survived? Failing this, what if, during those months of life on the run, he’d appointed a secret successor?
It’s said that when people die they take their secrets with them. Invariably, this isn’t so. Truth – a threatened, submissive commodity in life – has a habit of coming out fighting in death. The long-time mistress is revealed; the debts exposed; the faithful wife a serial adulterer; the kindly husband a cruel paedophile. Death doesn’t just level the dead. It levels the living. Rumour had it that Billy’s wife and daughters had been well provided for. Rumours, like Chinese whispers, can get lost in translation. I’d accepted at face value that Billy’s widow and family were left in the lolly because China had told me so. Either way, it was inconceivable that the Frankes didn’t now realise where the money had originated from, and it was a given that they knew more than me about other aspects of Billy’s life. I had to find out what it was.
First, I kept my word to Simone and, walking to the end of the street, flagged down a cab to take me to St Paul’s. I’m not superstitious, I’m target aware. If the security services were on the lookout for my car and me, I didn’t want to dish us up to them with all the trimmings. Hopefully, they were focused on Benz and Brommer. Even the security services had limited budgets and restricted objectives.
My taxi driver was chatty. ‘Don’t know what on earth is going on here today. The place is swarming with coppers.’
‘Probably a rugby match or something,’ I said, dismissively.
‘You’d think the doughnut was under attack.’
The driver dropped me off and I paid up. Angling myself past Simone’s car, I let myself in and, as a courtesy, called to the others that I was about. My voice bounced off the walls, hollow. There was no TV blaring, no music pounding, not even a snore.
Walking down the corridor and past the downstairs rooms, I tipped open the doors. Same old mess. Same idiosyncratic odour. Weirdly, I found the familiarity comforting. From the bottom of the stairs I called up and asked if anyone was home. No response. I went upstairs and, thinking Simone might be asleep, knocked softly on her door. Getting no reply, I pressed my ear against it. All quiet. I checked the bathroom, which was empty, and tapped again and called her name. Surely she hadn’t gone out? I’d been so specific about her security. Frustrated and angry that she’d disregarded my advice, I pushed open the door and felt the world shift beneath my shoes.
Every piece of furniture in the small room was smashed up and ransacked in a way that defied possibility. The bed was overturned, the mattress slit open, its innards spread across the torn up carpet; the shattered blind dangled from the window; one wardrobe door was wrenched from its hinges and upended; and these were the edited highlights. Anything that could be broken lay in pieces. A quick check told me that her limited luggage remained although the laptop had vanished. Most disturbing of all, so had Simone.
I thought back to the mystery woman in the car. Had Benz taken Simone against her will, possibly drugging her? Or had Benz taken and killed Simone, dumping her body, before making off with Brommer? Or …
I looked at my watch. Benz could be miles away. An agonising thought hit me. If the security services caught up with him, full firearms team in tow, there might be a shoot first, ask questions later policy. My mobile bleeped in my pocket. I took it out, recognised the number, and answered with dread in my heart.