Dark Side (29 page)

My ‘feelings', or ‘cat's whiskers' as my father used to call them, have earned a certain amount of respect since I began working for SOCA.

‘I
have
learned to leave him alone and trust his judgement,' Greenway responded.

A gentle reproof from the boss, perhaps?

‘I think the ball's definitely in his court, don't you?' Greenway continued.

‘Well, as usual then, I'd better sod off,' I said with a big bright smile.

‘Ingrid …' he began.

I went, or rather stormed out, while he was sitting there failing to think of something useful to say.

I found myself unable to bear going home. It seemed pathetic – a betrayal even though that was what Patrick had asked me to do. There was little point in looking for the warehouse as the chances of anyone being there were as good as zero and, for another, I had an idea that Masters, one of the old school, had encouraged me, with all due cautions, in that direction as he thought I ought to be got out of the way of ‘the professionals' working in other directions on the case, or even, may his dentures turn green, that I shouldn't worry my pretty little head about it.

‘Bugger everything,' I said as I got back in the car.

I returned to the hotel, deferring any decision, every part of me desperate to stay in London, to be near Patrick. Once there, I rang Elspeth, who informed me that everything was well and that the children had had no further traumas.

Restless, I went out again and strolled aimlessly until I came across a small park and sat in the sun for a while. This pleasant open space was busy with young mothers pushing prams and buggies – some perhaps nannies and au pairs – the toddlers doing the usual things: playing with balls and chasing pigeons. One, just like Justin at that age, was having a tantrum.

‘You ought to be doing that,' I muttered to myself. ‘Taking Mark out for a little walk with Vicky. Being normal, not some misfit who can't write books all of a sudden either. What was a good idea while you were young is not now you aren't. And it's no use moaning to Greenway when Patrick's given a desk job and then panic when he's assigned to something more potentially dangerous.'

I would go home.

And be a fantastic mother who writes, nay, dashes off, bestsellers.

Bugger everything.

I struck away a tear from my cheek and got to my feet. As I did so my phone rang.

‘Just making contact,' said Patrick.

To my utter shame I burst into tears of relief, sobbing helplessly.

‘Greenway's told me to come off the job,' said his voice quietly in my ear. ‘I got the impression he took some serious reservations of yours to heart.'

‘Have I messed up anything?' I gulped, my first reaction.

‘No, and I'm not going to.'

‘Oh.'

‘I need to know where you are.'

‘In a little square not far from HQ.'

‘Go back to the hotel. Please. I really don't want you wandering around like this. Please, Ingrid!'

I did not argue and, heavy-hearted, set off. Once there and aware that someone would probably be cleaning my room now, I sat in a coffee bar in the cavernous marble-floored reception area bar, consuming an Americano and a muffin I did not really want.

An hour went by and staying in a public place seemed to be a good idea.

Finally, after another thirty minutes had leadenly ticked by and I had actually risen to my feet with a view to going to my room, I glanced in that direction just as a man, one of a steady stream of people coming and going, pushed through the revolving doors. Three other people were immediately on his heels but they went their different ways. After looking around and about to move off, his gaze came to rest on me. He came over and my first thought was relief that I was in an exceedingly public place. This time the Smith and Wesson was in my pocket, not my handbag. My right hand curled around it snugly.

‘Miss Langley?' said the man.

‘Who wants her?' I asked.

This threw him a bit as he'd obviously been expecting a straight ‘yes' or ‘no' answer. Then, despite being well over six feet in height, probably in his late forties and looking as tough as slowly roasted leather, he stammered, ‘I was – er – told to say that it's a message from your – er – ever-loving Patrick. Patrick Gillard.'

‘Yes, that's me,' I said. ‘How did you know what I look like?'

‘He said you were dark-haired, slim and glamorous. So perhaps I've struck lucky and don't have to ask someone to phone your room to see if you're there.'

Still being very, very cautious, no code or pass words given, I said, ‘What is this message?'

‘He wants you to come with me to a safe place.'

‘I feel perfectly safe here, thank you.'

My reply created no hint of aggression, just, eyes heavenwards for a moment, a rather fetching impression of tried patience. Then he said, ‘If you didn't believe me he said to say that Graham said it's OK.'

‘It's OK, then,' I responded, the mention of my father's name no kind of password either but nevertheless telling. Perhaps I would have to trust this man.

My cat's whiskers were frantically indicating otherwise. Patrick wouldn't use my father's name in such cavalier fashion. I said, ‘Did he speak to you personally or phone you with his request?'

‘He spoke to me personally.'

‘When?'

‘About half an hour ago. I got a taxi.'

‘And who are you, exactly?'

‘An old chum.'

‘Name?'

The butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth demeanour vanished. ‘Just do as he asks, all right?'

No, sunshine, it wasn't all right. I took a firmer hold of the handgun.

One of the other people who had arrived through the revolving doors at the same time, on whom I only now focussed my attention, had been standing by a display case containing leaflets advertising London attractions directly ahead of me across the foyer.

I eyed my visitor and said quite loudly, ‘No, sorry, I'm not going with you.'

The other man turned and then strolled over.

‘No luck then?' he said when still several yards away.

‘Who the hell are you?' asked the first man.

‘He knew you'd screw it up. So he sent me. And it's Paddy.'

‘I haven't screwed anything up!'

‘Screwed,' whispered Paddy right in the other's face, Irish to the core by the sound of him. ‘I heard what she said. She's not fallen for it and going with you, is she? Not today, tomorrow or even bloody next year!'

‘I've never seen you before in my life!'

‘Keep your voice down. No, you won't have done. You don't know even a fraction of our friend Raptor's empire. I'm one of those who stays in the background, part of what some not at all late-lamented Bath newspaper hack referred to recently as his private army. And
he
finished up in a skip with his throat cut.'

‘I heard about that,' the man said a little hoarsely.

Paddy turned his gaze, sub-zero, state-of-the-art pitiless, to me. ‘There's two of us now.' Then, to the man, ‘Your name?'

‘Lane.'

Paddy, stubbly beard, the rest fairly presentable, returned his attention to me. ‘And, after last time, Raptor doesn't care too much if you arrive alive or a little, shall we say, damaged. You won't get away this time. Shall we go?'

‘I shall just have to start screaming,' I said through my teeth.

The knife must have been in his hand all the time and now was right in front of my face, the blade springing with that ghastly slicing click. No one else saw, no one noticed, no one came to my rescue. Good old London.

‘Take care,' Lane muttered, only to be completely ignored.

‘Or I could just leave you dead right here,' Paddy said to me with a big smile that told Lane of his personal preference to do just that as it was an awful lot less bother.

He never knew how much self-control it took not to rat everything up by giving him a big kiss. Instead, despondently, I said, ‘Then I have no choice.'

The knife disappeared and Lane was asked, ‘Do my orders countermand yours? Do we take her to the club in South Woodford?'

‘That's what I was told.'

‘Good.' And, on an apparent afterthought, ‘Is he there?'

‘Yes. Surely you must know that if he gave you your orders.'

‘He rang me. No other details. You know what he's like.'

‘So where were you if you're supposed to be one of his private team?'

‘At the warehouse overseeing preparations for the next exercise. You ask too many questions. We'll take a taxi and she' – he jerked a grubby finger in my direction – ‘can pay.'

With Paddy's arm around my shoulders in proprietorial fashion, we left the hotel.

I recollected that he did not know exactly where the club was situated, hence the need to stick with Lane. Lane, his attention on looking for a taxi, did not see the smile I gave Patrick and the way his right hand squeezed my shoulder. All we had to do then, I reasoned, was get to this place and, somehow, phone in with its whereabouts. Something told me that it wasn't going to be anywhere near as easy as that and I could not imagine for one moment a situation where Patrick would be content merely to be the messenger boy and stand back while the Met raided the premises. He is not a standing on the sidelines sort of person.

A taxi was waved down and we got in. Patrick had already intimated to Lane that he should do the talking, saying it would leave him free to keep an eye on me in case I made a bid for freedom. This low-key and smooth way of giving orders so that people hardly realize they are being told what to do has always impressed me and I suppose stems from his army days. I did not hear the address Lane gave the driver but it hardly mattered now.

It was quite a long journey, right across a suitably grey and drizzly London, with several hold-ups due to heavy traffic. Both men stared stonily out of their respective windows for the entire journey with me sandwiched in the middle. The one on my left I knew was working on strategy, sifting through his choice of tactics in response to any given situation; in other words, flying by the seat of his pants.

‘T
his'll do,' Patrick said to the taxi driver as we turned into the entrance to a long, curving drive. One corner of the house was just visible in what must be at least an acre of grounds, the road strictly residential and leafy with high hedges.

‘It's a fair walk,' Lane protested.

‘Security reasons,' he was told, with a meaningful jerk of his head in the direction of the driver. ‘Everything's far too lax.'

I paid the fare with my debit card, for some reason stupidly wondering if I could claim it on expenses. One might not live to do so, might one?

‘Go on, go with him,' Patrick chivvied as I paused when he did. ‘I'm bursting for a pee.' And with that he hurried into the shrubbery.

‘Security reasons – crap,' Lane sneered as we set off again. ‘Too big for his boots, if you ask me.' After a few yards he rounded on me. ‘Can't you walk any faster than that?'

‘My ankle hurts,' I snivelled. ‘I twisted it yesterday.'

He took a handgun from his packet. ‘Does this make it feel any better?'

‘No,' I wailed. ‘Why have you horrible men brought me here?'

‘So we can have bargaining power with that husband of yours, that's why. To get him here as Raptor's got a score to settle. And don't play the innocent – I happen to know that you work for the law as well.'

The irony of the remark was quite lost on him.

Determined to prolong this soundtrack from a gangster B-movie for as long as possible and praying that no one in the house would hear, I shrieked, ‘But he won't come here! He's going to divorce me soon anyway and go off with some trollop he met in Italy!'

‘Then we'll just have to kill you anyway, won't we?'

‘Please, please let me go,' I begged. ‘He won't come, I tell you.'

I fashioned a good storm of tears and, faced with the choice of having to shoot me dead there and then, thereby suffering the consequences from the boss or merely shove me in front of him down the drive, Lane thankfully chose the latter. I limped along.

Patrick did come, as I had hoped, my sound effects covering his footfalls as he arrived at speed, struck Lane down from the rear and dragged him to one side.

‘You don't happen to have any of those handy cable ties with you, do you?' he asked.

They make very good replacement handcuffs and he put a couple, linked together, around the man's ankles as well. Lane was then consigned into a group of very prickly bushes.
Berberis buxifolia
, I noticed in a detached kind of way.

‘You phoned?' I said as we stood out of sight of the house.

‘Yes, but I only had to give a code word and the address.'

‘How did you know someone was going to trick me into coming here?'

‘I didn't. How could I? But I thought there was every chance that someone was following you – they seem to have been keeping an eye on HQ – and that's why I was worried. The fact that I arrived at the same time as he did was a lucky and complete coincidence. Look, the Met'll be here in no time at all. I'll escort you back to the road and get you a taxi. Please go back.'

‘You want to be in at the kill.'

Patrick bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘Yes. I'll settle for arresting him, though.'

‘Me, too,' I said stubbornly.

From down by the house came the sound of cars being started up and we just had time to conceal ourselves behind some evergreens before vehicles came racing down the drive. Peering through the foliage I saw that the first was a stretched limo, the other two conventional saloon cars. All were black, with dark windows.

Patrick swore and then walked away for a short distance, swearing a lot more.