Ian Rossiter stared at the amber liquid at the bottom of the crystal glass, eyed the bottle of twenty-year-old malt on the corner of his desk, and then changed his mind.
He pushed the glass away, rested his elbows on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. He glared at the oak panelled door that led into his office, and waited.
Ten hours ago, Gregory had slipped into the room, closed the door and confirmed his two hired thugs had located Will Fletcher.
They had followed him to the church in Bracklewood but he’d escaped. They had let him run, rightly assuming that they could simply follow the GPS tracker fixed to the underside of his car.
The fact that Fletcher had suddenly become mobile and left the city originally confused Gregory’s intelligence sources, until they had clarified that he’d borrowed the car from a work colleague at the museum before turning up to the press conference.
Rossiter grunted. He had to give Gregory credit. If he hadn’t arranged for the tracking device to be fitted to the car, they’d have had no way of finding the man. Not without raising suspicion.
Then, eight hours ago, the two men had contacted them once more.
Fletcher had arrived at a motel, and they had parked in a side street opposite the car park. They’d watched as he’d locked the car and entered the building via a side door.
‘What about his backpack?’ Rossiter had asked.
Gregory had held up his hand and relayed the question to his contact, before shaking his head. ‘No good,’ he’d said. ‘He took it inside with him.’
They’d agreed the men should wait and watch the motel from their vantage point.
Gregory had discovered the reception duty manager’s shift changed at four o’clock in the morning and it was decided the two thugs would enter the building fifteen minutes before, while the receptionist was more likely to be distracted by the thought of handing over to the morning shift and getting some sleep.
Rossiter rubbed at his eyes and glanced at his watch. Only minutes to go now.
Gregory had urged him to get some rest, his argument being that if Rossiter had to face the news cameras again, he’d better look presentable.
Rossiter had dismissed the suggestion vehemently.
‘No – let them see me looking like shit,’ he’d growled. ‘It’ll make my injury look more realistic.’
Gregory had shrugged. ‘It’s your choice,’ he’d said. ‘But I’m going back to my office to get my head down. I’ll wake you when we’ve got some news.’
‘Make sure you do.’
Rossiter had waited until the door had clicked shut, then launched himself at the liquor cabinet.
The first measure had simply served to wash the painkillers down his throat.
He’d taken his time with the second, larger, measure, adding ice and watching the cubes melt into the alcohol as the night progressed.
He shifted in his chair and groaned as the stitches in his shoulder protested, and vowed to take it easier, once the election was over.
He heard Gregory’s voice outside in the hallway a brief moment before the man burst into the room, his phone pressed to his ear, his face pale.
Rossiter’s heart lurched in his chest as he saw the man’s expression, adrenalin surging through his veins.
Gregory stumbled across the carpeted floor, then turned and slammed the door shut, before he hastened towards Rossiter, still talking.
‘No, no – I understand. What’s that?’ His eyes widened. ‘No! Absolutely not. I repeat, do not pursue that course of action. Not unless I sanction it.’
Rossiter rose, standing behind his desk, his palms planted on the surface, sweat pooling onto the mahogany under his fingers.
He longed to take the phone from Gregory, to find out what was happening. The terror in the man’s eyes spoke volumes.
Either the mission hadn’t gone ahead as planned, or something had gone very wrong.
He forced air into his lungs, stared at the man in front of him, and waited.
Gregory ran his hand through his hair, appeared to freeze for a moment, and then sprang into action once more.
‘Okay. I’ll tell you what to do. Drive around, check out the other motels in the area. He can’t have gone far without his car. Keep me posted.’
Rossiter closed his eyes as Gregory ended the call.
He sank back into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He heard Gregory slump into one of the armchairs on the other side of the desk, and opened his eyes.
‘What went wrong?’
Gregory didn’t waste time with detail. The less Rossiter knew about how his people broke into buildings in search of people or property, the more deniable his involvement remained.
‘He wasn’t there.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘They don’t know.’
‘Explain.’
Gregory sighed. ‘When they got to the room, it was empty. It looks like he left in a hurry. The bed hasn’t been slept in today, but the bathroom had been used.’
‘How long has he been missing for?’
‘They’re not sure. They didn’t see him leave.’
‘Shit.’ Rossiter pushed back his chair and began to pace the room.
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
Gregory held up his phone. ‘Will Fletcher had a visitor last night, before he disappeared.’
Rossiter snatched the phone from the man’s grasp and stared at the photograph.
‘It seems Mr Fletcher may have had some help from your niece,’ said Gregory.
Rossiter ignored the note of smugness in the man’s voice.
Blood rushed in his ears and he blinked away the tiredness that only moments before had threatened sleep. Fury consumed him as he held the phone closer and glared at the image.
It was definitely Erin, her long hair wet from the rain that fell in swathes onto the concrete perimeter of the motel.
The photographer had captured her as she was raising her hand to push open the door of the side entrance to the building, her head turned towards him as she’d checked over her shoulder to see if she was being followed.
‘Do they know who she is?’ he asked, his eyes flicking to Gregory before returning to the image.
‘No. I haven’t told them, and they’ve never met her.’
Rossiter threw the phone onto the desk with such force that the screen shattered.
‘I’ll kill her,’ he snarled.