Dead Man's Gift 01 - Yesterday (2 page)

‘How can they have planted cameras in here? We’ve got a bloody state-of-the-art alarm system.’ He looked round with a growing sense of fear and frustration. Then stopped.

The landline was ringing.

They both stared at the handset on the table. It rang twice before Diane picked it up. She listened in silence before sliding the phone over to Tim. ‘It’s for you.’

Gingerly, Tim picked up the phone, terrified about what he might hear.

‘We bypassed the alarm system,’ said the caller, a man with a disguised, robotic voice like something out of the movies. ‘That’s how we were able to plant cameras all over your house. It’s not very difficult when you know how.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Tim.

‘Firstly, I want to set some ground rules. If you call the police, or do anything to try to locate your son, we will kill him. Slowly. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘But if you do as we say exactly, we will release your son, unharmed, tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Listen, I can get you money, if that’s what you want.’

‘It’s not what we want.’ The voice was controlled and confident, and utterly cold, which made him far more difficult to deal with.

Tim took a deep breath. ‘Then what is it you do want?’

There was a long pause.

‘Your life, Mr Horton. We want you to trade your life for that of your son’s.’

For a full five seconds Tim didn’t speak while the caller let the silence hang heavy in the air.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said at last. You want me to kill myself?’ The words sounded so bizarre as to be almost ridiculous when he spoke them aloud. He noticed Diane staring at him, open-mouthed.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ said the caller. ‘We’ll be back in touch later with more details. In the meantime, why don’t you go outside to the alleyway next to your garage, where you keep the recycling bins.? Take a look at what’s there. Then you’ll see how serious we are. And what’ll happen to your son if you don’t do exactly what we say.’

Tim started to speak but the line was already dead. He slowly put down the phone, trying and failing to come to terms with what he’d just been told.

Diane got to her feet, hands clutching the sides of the chair, her face frozen into an expression of total fear. ‘What do they want, Tim?’ she asked quietly.

Tim told her what the caller had said, unsure how his whole life could have been turned upside down and torn apart in the space of a matter of minutes.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘What can we do?’ he said, turning and leaving the room, and walking back out into the cold, grey March afternoon.

He found her sprawled under some tarpaulin behind the recycling bins, as the caller had told him he would. Tim Horton had never seen a dead body before, let alone someone he knew, and he had to steady himself against one of the bins and take deep breaths to stop himself from throwing up. Gina’s eyes were closed and her expression was blank rather than peaceful. Her neck and clothes were covered in dried blood, and it looked like her throat had been cut. A horrible thought struck Tim as he wondered whether Max had witnessed the murder, and the terror he must have felt if he had done. Tim couldn’t let them kill his son. He’d die in his place if he had to, he was sure of that. Any father would.

But who would want him dead? Who?

He put a hand to his mouth as he continued to stare down at Gina’s body, aware of his sheer impotence. The man, or men, who had his son would kill him without a second thought if he didn’t do exactly what they said, and he could tell they meant it. The caller had been cold and matter-of-fact. This wasn’t about revenge, or jealousy. This was about something else.

But what? He was just a mid-ranking politician in a mid-ranking country. Surely not important enough to suffer like this.

And then it struck him. Just like that. Why they’d targeted him and what they wanted him to do.

And he was filled with a cold, stinging dread.

Frank Bale sat back in the driver’s seat of his Jag and stretched, trying to ignore the angry itch from the growing patch of eczema tucked into the fold of flesh beneath his belly. He’d made the call to Tim Horton’s landline while parked on a residential street in north London, a good twenty-five miles from where the kid was being held. Frank switched off the mobile he’d used – a disposable bought in cash by someone else a few weeks back in Oxford Street – and switched on a second, keying in a number he’d learned by heart.

‘Everything all right with the kid?’ he asked, when Phil Vermont picked up at the other end.

‘He’s secure and doing what he’s told,’ said Vermont, sounding surly. ‘You spoken to Horton yet?’

‘Just now.’

‘How’s he taking it? Is he going to pay up?’

That was all Vermont was interested in. The money he was going to make from this job. He had no idea of what Tim Horton was going to have to do to get his son back, and Frank wasn’t going to bother enlightening him. Vermont and the psychotic bitch assisting him were just the hired help. ‘Course he’s going to pay up,’ said Frank. ‘He knows what’ll happen to his boy if he doesn’t. Now you need to sort out the next stage of the operation. Our little London friend.’

‘Does she really have to die?’ There was a hint of regret in Vermont’s voice.

‘Don’t use that word over the phone,’ snapped Frank. ‘And yes she does.’

Vermont sighed. ‘Okay. I’m on it.’

‘Let me know the moment it’s done,’ said Frank and rang off. He poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee from the Thermos on the seat next to him, unable to resist reaching under his belly and having a quick, satisfying scratch, wiping the sweat on his trouser leg. He’d enjoyed riling that arrogant bastard, Horton. He’d seen the guy on the TV more than once, interrogating people on his parliamentary select committee. Like all politicians, Horton thought he was above everyone else. Now he was finding out the hard way that he wasn’t. Frank didn’t care about Horton dying, or any of the other people who were going to die with him. One way or another, they all deserved it. But he did feel sorry for the kid. It wasn’t his fault he had an arsehole for an old man. He knew the kid was going to have to die, though. The people he worked for didn’t like loose ends. More than that, they wanted to make a point. And the point was a simple one. They were totally and utterly ruthless.

For a few moments, he wondered how he’d ended up in this position. It wasn’t quite what he’d had planned when he’d been a kid himself. But that was the way it worked out sometimes. Greed, and a few wrong decisions, and you ended up doing things that would have made your old self’s hair stand on end. And the thing was, they came all too easily when there was big money involved, like there was now.

In twenty-four hours, he was going to be a rich man. It was this thought that drove him on as he put down the coffee cup, started the engine and pulled on to the road.

* * *

Life had been crap for Celia Gray. Non-existent father; mother who peddled her for sex to support her crack habit until social services had intervened and put her in a succession of children’s homes; streetwalker at fourteen; first stint in prison four years later … You couldn’t make up a grimmer story if you tried. Not that anyone ever had tried with Celia, and she’d learned not to try with them either. She knew she was a hard-hearted bitch, constantly paying the world back for everything it had done to her, and men in particular. Celia hated men. Even the young ones, like the little brat they were babysitting. Just looking at the rich, spoiled little bastard made her skin crawl, but for the moment she was under orders to make sure he was okay.

They’d tied him to the bed in the downstairs bedroom, and she went in there now and yanked the duct tape from his mouth. ‘Don’t say a fucking word,’ she hissed as he started to speak.

He immediately shut up, his bottom lip quavering, as if he was about to cry. Celia grabbed him by the back of the head as she pushed a bottle of water to his lips, making him drink. He gulped greedily until she pulled the bottle away and let his head fall back.

‘Can I have something to eat, please?’ he asked in a small, whiny voice.

‘What would you like, rich boy? Some caviar or something?’

‘No, anything… Please.’

‘Fuck you,’ she said, feeling a twinge of pleasure at the power she had over him, and roughly replaced the duct tape over his mouth, resisting the urge to smack him hard round the face.

She left the room, locking the door behind her. Shoving a cigarette in her mouth, she stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. She was still good-looking, her pale blue eyes just as enticing as they’d ever been; but at thirty the years hadn’t been kind to her, and her face was taking on a gaunt, haunted look, the lines on her forehead etching ever deeper. It didn’t matter. She was being paid thirty grand for this job, enough to give her a new start somewhere warm and all the plastic surgery she could ever need. Maybe even a decent boob job.

She stepped onto the front porch to smoke her cigarette. Phil had banned her from smoking in the house. He said it was something to do with DNA, but she knew that was bullshit. He just didn’t like the smell. She looked out across the front garden to the line of trees beyond the gate. They were right out in the country here, miles from anywhere, which made her uncomfortable. She liked the city with its lights and noise. Not this place, where you couldn’t hear anything at night.

She didn’t see the old woman passing the front gate until it was too late. She knew the rules. Avoid being seen by any of the other locals, not that there were any round here. The nearest house was a hundred yards away. She stepped into the shadows but it was too late. The old bitch was waving and walking up the driveway, dressed in a tweed suit like Miss fucking Marple, only ten yards away now.

Celia knew she had no choice but to say hello, so, dropping the cigarette on the ground out of sight, she put on her best face and walked up to the woman.

‘You must be the new tenant,’ said the old bitch, shaking her hand. ‘I’m your landlady, Mrs Bates. I live just down the lane.’

‘Hiya, I’m Roxy,’ said Celia, using her old streetwalker name because she couldn’t think of a better one off the top of her head.

‘Are you going to be living here, Roxy?’

Celia wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t planned for this. ‘Yeah, sort of. For a bit at least.’ She was conscious of the old bitch carefully appraising her as she spoke, as if she didn’t think that someone like Celia was good enough to be living in her draughty little cottage in the middle of nowhere. Celia felt like giving her a slap but instead kept up her smile, looking the old bitch right in the eye.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you. I always like to meet my tenants. I hope you’re happy here.’

Celia grunted something as the old bitch turned away, and watched as she walked back out of the gate and out of sight. Phil had made a mistake when he’d rented this place off Miss Marple. The last thing they needed was her sniffing around, not that Celia was panicking. Phil had said that if they had to do the kid, they’d do it somewhere else anyway, so the old bitch would never be able to connect them to the murder.

Even so, she was going to have to be careful. She thought about saying something to Phil but knew he’d only have a go at her for being spotted in the first place.

Far easier just to keep her mouth shut – a lesson she’d learned a long time ago.

The shrill ringing of the landline roused Tim and Diane Horton from the dark thoughts enveloping them both.

Tim was the first to reach across the dining-room table for the phone.

‘Put the phone on loud speaker,’ ordered the man who’d kidnapped their son. ‘I want your wife to hear this.’

Tim did as he was told. He could hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Diane sat opposite him, staring straight ahead, her face wet and flushed from crying. For the last hour they’d stayed in this room- scene of so many happy moments in the earlier days of their marriage – dinner parties, Christmas celebrations- now like a prison cell. Some of the time they’d talked, in sporadic, hopeless bursts about the situation they’d found themselves in; other times, they’d sat in heavy, fearful silence, waiting to hear what would happen next.

And now it seemed they were about to find out.

‘So you saw what we can do?’ said the voice.

‘You didn’t have to kill her,’ said Tim. ‘Gina had nothing to do with any of this.’

‘It helps to focus the mind, Mr Horton. The fact that we won’t hesitate to murder an innocent young woman tells you that we won’t hesitate to murder your son either.’

Diane let out a small, painful moan and Tim gave her the most reassuring look he could muster.

‘How do I know he’s not dead already?’

Diane moaned again, fighting back tears.

‘We sent you a photo. We’ll send you another one later.’

‘You could have already taken them. I need some guarantees.’

‘Shut up, Horton.’

The command was like a slap, reminding him suddenly of being back at school in the headmaster’s office, utterly powerless.

He took a deep breath, looking over at Diane, who was bent over in the chair with a hand in her mouth.

‘You need to calm down,’ said the voice, sounding more conciliatory. ‘Now listen carefully. Your son hasn’t seen our faces. He has no way of connecting us to his abduction – just as you haven’t. Therefore there’s no reason for us not to keep him alive, nor to release him once you’ve done what you have to do.’

‘Tell me what I have to do.’

‘I’ve already told you, Mr Horton. You have to die. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Why can’t I just give you money? We’ve got plenty. I’ll give you everything we’ve got. Just let us have our son back. Please.’

‘We don’t want your money. We want your life. I know it’s hard to accept, but it means that your son lives. Your life for his. Call it a dead man’s gift.’

Tim felt dizzy, his heart thumping like a hammer now as panic fought to take hold. He turned away from Diane so he didn’t have to look at her. ‘How?’ he asked. ‘How am I meant to… … to die? And when?’