At Risk (23 page)

“What did you do there?”

“We dreamed of leaving. Of finding a better life in Pakistan.”

Falling silent, he appeared to sink into a reverie. His eyes were open but his expression was blank. Finally he seemed to rouse himself. “In the end, it became clear that there was no way that we could legally cross the border. We could have found a way through—there were couriers who would take you over the mountains for a price—but we had no wish to be stateless refugees. We considered ourselves better than that.

“After several years of nonstop warfare my father returned. He had been wounded, and he could no longer fight. With him, though, was a man. A man whom my father had persuaded to take me with him, across the border to Pakistan. A man of influence, who would enroll me in one of the
madrassahs
—the Islamic colleges—in Peshawar.”

“And this is what happened?”

“This is what happened. I bade goodbye to my parents and my sister, and together with this man I crossed the border at Chaman and journeyed north. A week later we were in Mardan, northeast of Peshawar, and I was taken to the
madrassah.
As at the border, I was admitted without question.”

“So who was this man? This man of such influence?”

He smiled and shook his head. “So many questions, so little time. What would you have done with your life, had things been otherwise?”

“They were never otherwise,” she replied. “For me, there was never any other path.”

L
iz insisted that she and Mackay travel in her car. The meeting with Zander was her operation and she wanted Mackay to realise that he was a passenger, there strictly on sufferance.

Mackay, sensing her determination, did not argue. Instead he made a point of deferring to her, even going so far as to check his appearance with her. This she okayed. It wasn’t the clothes by themselves that would attract attention, although the tan leather jacket and chinos were visibly of better quality than most; it was the clothes in combination with the personality. In a crowded room, he was the sort of person you noticed straight away. He looked flash.

In Pakistan, Liz guessed, a European was a European. Different by definition. In Essex, however, there was an infinity of subtle distinctions in the way that people presented themselves. Liz had brought her work wardrobe with her, and had changed into the leather jacket and jeans. The jacket, in particular, was cheap-looking and unfashionable. Single mum doing the shopping. Dab of make-up, lank hair, sharp expression. Invisible in any high street.

Soon they were making their way southwards towards the town of Swaffham. Liz drove carefully, pointedly observing the speed limits.

“Tell me again why Zander should exert himself on our behalf,” said Mackay, reaching back to adjust the Audi’s headrest. “What’s in it for him, apart from your approval?”

“You don’t think that’s enough?”

He grinned ruefully. “Well, I guess it’s not so easily won; I could certainly do with a little of it myself. But yes, apart from that.”

“I’m his insurance policy. He knows that if he comes across with good product then I’ll stir myself on his behalf if the drugs squad or the CID march in and scoop him up on a charge. That’s why he wouldn’t talk to Bob Morrison. Morrison’s the kind of hard-nosed Special Branch officer who despises the Zanders of this world on sight, and Zander knows it.”

“Seems a bit short-sighted of Morrison.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a point of view. My suspicion is that sooner or later the police are going to pick up Melvin Eastman and make something stick, and when that happens they’re going to need someone like Zander to go into the witness box and testify against him.”

“From what you say, this guy Eastman wouldn’t be too happy about that. He’d take out a contract on him, and Zander must know that.”

“He does, I’m sure. But if he trusts me—and I’ve always played fair with him—then maybe I can still persuade him to give evidence.”

They arrived in Braintree with forty minutes to spare, and followed the signs to the railway station.

“Can we just run through again how you want to play this?” asked Mackay.

“Sure. He’s expecting me to arrive alone on the top level of the multistorey car park, so I’m going to drop you off a couple of minutes’ walk away, outside. I’ll drive up to the top storey and park; you follow on foot, install yourself near the staircase, and start logging incoming cars. As soon as I see Zander I’ll call you and describe his car. As soon as you’re sure that he wasn’t followed in you call me back, and I’ll approach him.”

Mackay nodded. This was standard tradecraft. Frankie Ferris was a naturally cautious man, but it was just possible, given the events of the last couple of days, that Eastman might have put a tail on him.

Liz pulled up at the kerb outside the station, and they switched their phones to silent vibration and loaded in each other’s numbers. Mackay then zipped up his jacket and slipped off into the shadows, while Liz drove up to the top floor of the car park.

In the course of the next half-hour, as she sat there, three cars left the top level. Several others entered the car park, but all occupied vacant bays on the half-empty lower levels. Finally, at five to eight, a silver Nissan Almeira climbed to the top level, and Liz recognised Frankie Ferris’s pale features at the wheel. Quickly, she thumbed the speed-dial button on her phone.

“Give me a couple of minutes,” came Mackay’s voice, muted. Frankie parked in the corner furthest from her, and she saw him glance at his watch before turning off the Nissan’s engine and lights.

At three minutes past eight her phone rang.

“He was followed,” said Mackay.

“I’m aborting, then,” said Liz immediately. “Meet me on the pavement outside in five minutes.”

“No need. Go ahead with the meet.”

“The meet’s compromised. Get out of here.”

“Zander’s tail met with a problem. He’s immobilised in the stairwell. Go ahead with the meet.”

“What have you done?” hissed Liz.

“Secured the situation. Now go for it. You’ve got three minutes.” Her phone went dead.

Liz looked around her. There was no sign of any movement. Deeply apprehensive, she climbed out of the Audi and crossed the concrete floor. As she approached the silver Almeira she saw the driver’s window slide down. Inside the car’s plush interior Frankie looked thin and scared.

“Take these,” he said, his voice shaky. “And make like you’re paying me.” He handed her a small paper bag, and Liz reached into her pocket and pretended to pass him money.

“Mitch,” she said urgently. “Tell me.”

“Kieran Mitchell. Transport man, fixer, enforcer, whatever. He’s got a big place outside Chelmsford on one of those gated estates.”

“Works for Eastman?”

“With him. Got his own people.”

“Do you know him?”

“Seen him. He drinks with Eastman. Nasty-looking bastard. White eyelashes like a pig.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, he carries. Now get out of here, please.”

Liz walked quickly back to the Audi and drove to the ramp. A level down, she picked up Mackay, who was leaning against a barrier. “What the hell is going on?” she asked angrily.

He jumped into the passenger seat. “Did you identify Mitch?”

“Yes, I did.” She turned the steering wheel to full lock to negotiate the downward spiral ramp. “But what the bloody hell were you up to?”

“Zander was followed. Eastman obviously suspects something’s up. The tail parked on this level. He arrived about a minute after your man went up to the top.”

“How do you know he was a tail?”

“I followed him to the stairwell, and he went up, not down. So I zapped him.”

She braked sharply, the Audi’s tyres squealing on the ramp. “What do you mean, you zapped him?”

Reaching into his pocket, Mackay extracted a slim black plastic object resembling a mobile phone. “The Oregon Industries C6 stun-gun, aka the Little Friend. Delivers six hundred thousand volts straight into the central nervous system. Result: target incapacitated for a period of three to six minutes, depending on physical constitution. Ideal for cell clearance, resisted take-downs or the restraint of violent mental patients.”

“And completely unlicensed for use in the United Kingdom,” retorted Liz, furious.

“Undergoing trials with the Met as we speak, actually, but let’s not get too anal about all that. The point is that zappers are established criminal accessories, which is why I relieved our man of his watch and wallet. My guess is he’s going to keep quiet about the whole thing. He’d look pretty stupid admitting to Eastman that he failed to do his job because he was mugged in a stairwell.”

“You hope.”

“Look, Zander was blown,” said Mackay. “The fact that there was a tail at all tells us that. The essential thing was to identify Mitch. We certainly wouldn’t have had another chance. Right now I suggest that we get the hell out of here before our zappee finds his feet again.”

Letting out the clutch with deliberate force, Liz spun the Audi forward. “If that was a member of the public you electrocuted . . .”

“If it was, he’ll be fine,” said Mackay. “These things do no lasting damage whatsoever. They’ve tested them on the Los Angeles Police Department—not the most highly evolved form of life, I grant you, but . . .”

“And what do you propose we do with that watch and wallet you’ve pocketed?”

“Run a check on the owner and see if they belong to one of Eastman’s people,” said Mackay. “Then, if you like, we can post them back to him with an anonymous note saying we found them in the car park. How’s that?”

She kept her eyes on the road.

“Look, Liz, I know that you’re pissed off that I’ve come busting into your case, especially after you’ve done all the groundwork. I really understand that. But in the end we both want the same thing, which is to nail this bastard before he takes any more lives, agreed?”

She took a deep breath. “Let’s get this straight,” she said eventually. “If we’re going to work together we fix the ground rules now, and the first of these is that we employ proper tradecraft. No freelancing, no cowboy weaponry. You risked the life of my agent back there, and with it the whole operation.”

Mackay began to answer but she overrode him. “If this case ends up with an arrest, and we’ve broken the law, the defence lawyer’ll have a field day. This is the UK we’re in, not Islamabad, OK?”

He shrugged. “Zander’s a dead man, and you know it.” He turned to face her. “You think Bob Morrison’s on the take from Eastman, don’t you?”

“You worked that one out, then.”

“I was wondering why you insisted on getting Zander to identify Mitch, when it would have been much easier just to go to Essex Special Branch. But you were worried that Morrison would slip Eastman the word, and Mitch would run.”

“I thought there was an outside chance,” admitted Liz. “A less than one per cent chance. I’ve got no proof of any kind against Morrison, nothing at all. It’s purely instinct.”

“In future, can we share your instincts?”

“Let’s see how we go, shall we?” Taking a hand off the wheel, she reached into her pocket for the paper bag Frankie Ferris had given her, and handed it to Mackay. “Zander was very jumpy,” she said. “He made me pretend that I was there for a drugs buy, so he must have suspected Eastman would have someone keeping an eye on him. Check these out.”

“They’re Smarties,” said Mackay. “Excellent!”

B
y the time Kieran Mitchell reached the Brentwood Sporting Club, he knew that he was enjoying his last evening of freedom for a long time. His wife Debbie, frantic with worry and Stolichnaya vodka, had rung to say that the police had called at the house mob-handed, and voice-mail messages had piled in from contacts in at least half a dozen pubs and clubs. They were looking for him, methodically eliminating all his usual haunts. It was only a matter of time.

Looking around him at the familiar surroundings—the punters crowding the oxblood leather banquettes, the croupiers in their tight red dresses, the cigarette smoke hanging in the lights over the blackjack tables—he tried to impress its details on to his memory. He would need something to draw on in the months ahead. Wryly, he raised his glass of Johnnie Walker Black Label to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. An ugly bastard, sure—he’d always been that—but a man who could hold things together when the situation called for it.