Hider/Seeker (13 page)

Nelson arrived at the lock up at just after five in the morning. Harry went into more details about Marotta holding Bethany and being given only two weeks to track down Angela Linehan. As he spoke about his guilt at leaving Bethany behind, he could feel his anger building.

Nelson remained quiet, watching Harry kick empty oil cans against the wall, and shouting a string of obscenities.

‘That's not going to help her, Harry,' said Nelson. ‘We're all going to have to keep our heads now. You know that.'

Harry rubbed the back of his neck hard and then stopped. His anger was subsiding, and he could feel his mood changing.

Nelson broke the silence. ‘What about her mother?'

‘I need to call Elizabeth,' said Harry reaching for his mobile and trying Bethany's flat first.

The phone was answered without it ringing.

‘It's me,' he said.

‘Harry?' said Elizabeth, her voice trembling.

‘I've just seen Bethany.'

‘Please tell me she's all right?'

‘She's fine. Holding up well under the circumstances. You haven't said anything to the police?'

‘They told me I'd never see her again if I went to them. They said they'd know immediately if I did.'

‘Tell me exactly what happened.'

Elizabeth and Bethany were about to go to bed when two men broke in, brandishing guns. It was very frightening, Elizabeth said. They drugged Bethany and took her away.

‘How are you coping?' he asked.

‘Why on earth would anyone want my daughter?' she said, too distracted to answer his question.

‘It's all connected to Ed. It's a long story I can't explain now.'

‘Can you get her back, Harry?' she asked. ‘I have plenty of funds.'

‘They're not after money, they want information.'

‘About what?'

‘Someone they're looking for.'

‘So will they let Bethany go soon?'

‘You've got to be patient. I swear I'll get Beth back, I promise.'

Nelson slept a couple of hours in the lock up while Harry checked flights out of London. He rummaged through the knapsack to make sure he had everything. His plan was to catch a flight to Guatemala City that night from Heathrow and pay a call on Ernesto. But before that he needed to return to the desolate cottage in Wiltshire where he'd left Peter alone two weeks earlier. Angela Linehan might have left some clues there when picking up the boy. Any crumb of information might help him track them down. If her friend was back at the cottage, then he and Nelson would force it out of her. If Marotta's men were there, though he doubted she'd risk using a place they'd know about, he was at least armed this time to deal with them.

He put on his corduroy jacket lined with dollars and woke Nelson, plonking a one terabyte back-up hard drive onto his friend's chest to bring along with him.

On the way to the cottage in Farley, they went over everything they knew about Angela Linehan. Nelson couldn't understand why she had gone to all the trouble and expense to have the passports made, if she now had to buy another set of new identities for her and her son.

‘She thought I'd be dead, taking her secret to my grave,' explained Harry. ‘It almost worked. Once she discovers that I'm still around, she'll have no choice but to get herself a new name and documents to stop me from finding her.'

‘You're in all this mess because of Parker.'

‘I don't want to talk about him.'

‘You have to face up to the fact, Harry, that he was a double-crosser.'

‘I can't right now. He's dead, so what good would it do?'

The cottage looked empty. No smoke from the stack, no clothes drying on the line, no sign of any life. All the curtains were drawn and there was a local free newspaper sticking out of the letter box. Harry searched for the key under the stone and to his surprise it was still there. They let themselves in and Harry led the way with his gun in hand. After he was sure no one was lurking in the corners, he sent Nelson outside to turn the car around, in case of a quick getaway. He put his gun away and went into the kitchen; the rubbish from the bin stank, the spaghetti on the plates had congealed and there was a growth of fuzz in the coffee cups. Nothing had been touched. The kitchen was just how he left it the night he rushed out to answer Angela Linehan's distress call.

He emptied the rubbish bin on the floor and got onto his hands and knees to check through its contents. There were leftover pork chop bones, egg shells, potato skins, fruit peel, tea bags, kitchen paper and mail shots. There was a screwed up receipt from a BP station on the A36, dated the night he was clubbed over the head.

‘What've you found?' asked Nelson, towering above him, his boots muddy from outside.

Harry handed him the receipt to examine and said, ‘She filled up and had a coffee around one-thirty in the morning after leaving London.'

Nelson glanced at the receipt and screwed it up before tossing it back on the floor.

Harry told him to look around for a laptop and download everything on to the portable hard drive he'd brought with him. ‘I want everything about this Aunt Jean. She's got a mum – picture of the two of them in a silver frame on the sideboard. See whether your chums can work out where it was taken.'

Nelson wandered into the lounge while Harry continued to finger through the refuse on the floor.

‘Found it,' shouted Nelson from the other room, referring to the silver framed picture of Jean and her mother. ‘Can see why Richard Branson would want to hire her. Dirty old sod. Can't say I'd fancy her mother much…There's no laptop or PC. Do you want me to go upstairs?'

‘And intrude on her privacy?' replied Harry.

‘No need to get sarcastic, I was only asking,' Nelson said, turning to the staircase.

Harry scooped up an envelope from the British Royal Legion and glanced down at the circular inside. ‘She goes by the surname of Wiggins,' he shouted to Nelson upstairs.

‘Now we've got a name,' came a muffled voice from the floor above, ‘I've got something to work with. No laptop up here either, but exquisite underwear.'

‘There's no time to try them on.'

‘Ha-bloody-ha.'

‘Get down here and see what else you can find; house bills, anything.'

Harry had had enough of the rubbish and got up from the floor. He went outside to look through the dustbin, but found it was empty.

When he returned, Nelson was in the lounge ripping out the picture of Jean Wiggins taken with her mother. Harry went through a drawer in the sideboard and rifled through a stack of household bills. He plucked out an unpaid Barclaycard bill. She'd bought a pair of trainers at Lillywhites, some books from Waterstones in Piccadilly and a dinner at The White Hart pub in Salisbury.

‘See what you can do with these,' said Harry, handing Nelson the Barclaycard statement and an electricity utility bill.

Nelson put them in his inside pocket along with the photo. ‘Don't you have a flight to catch? We've got enough to go on.'

Harry glanced at his watch and agreed it was time to go. He pulled out the gun from his pocket and handed it to Nelson. ‘Look after it for me while I'm away. I want it back.'

He went straight up to the bathroom. The plaster on his scalp had to go and he peeled it off carefully. His fingers felt the wound was dry and he swept his hair across it.

When he came back downstairs, he looked at the mirror above the fireplace to double check his old wound was not noticeable. All he was worried about was getting out of the country without being spotted by officials at Heathrow.

‘You're using one of mine, I hope?' asked Nelson.

Harry took out a British passport from his inside pocket with the name of Jon Cummings, a taxi driver from Bow. He handed it over to him to check.

‘I remember doing this one,' said Nelson flicking through the pages. ‘You know, you've only got eighteen months left?'

‘As long as it gets me there.'

The drive to Heathrow gave Harry plenty of time to go over with Nelson what he wanted from him. Nelson was to be his eyes and ears in London while he was away. He was to track down the passenger name records held by airlines at airports, starting in the south-east and south-west, checking the budget airlines where he had good contacts. Harry had instructed Angela Linehan to jet out to the continent first, so there was a good probability that she would chose a short flight to France, Belgium or Holland.

‘Look for cash buyers on the day after I got clobbered. Woman and child – can't be that difficult, can it?'

Nelson glanced at him as if he was mad.

‘All right, I know it's a long shot,' continued Harry, ‘but assuming you get something, you can figure out which airport she may have headed for to start the next leg of her journey to Central or South America.'

With luck, Nelson would be able to narrow down where she was heading. He'd one advantage over the others searching for her, he knew the names she and her son would be travelling under: Kelly Hubbard and Simon Jennings. Harry also told Nelson to put a trace on Jean Wiggins. He wasn't certain if it would turn up anything useful, but it was worth a try.

Angela Linehan had to meet up with Ernesto, though where? Would she go to see him in Guatemala or would he fly out to see her? Harry wasn't banking on Ernesto being cooperative when they met up. It was his job to protect his client.

Harry was dropped off at Terminal 4. He said cheerio to Nelson and swung his knapsack over his back as he walked away. Once through the revolving glass doors, he was on his own again. Just looking at the masses before him made him feel lightheaded, and he immediately went to the Continental Airline's desk.

His plan was to take the six o'clock to La Aurora International Airport in Guatemala City. It stopped off twice with an eight hour wait in Newark, and an hour in Houston before arriving the next day around lunchtime. He would lose a whole twenty-four hours getting there. Enough time for Angela Linehan to possibly discover online about his disappearance from the hospital. Enough time for her to think up a lie and warn Ernesto about Harry turning up on his doorstep.

‘Am I still in time to buy a ticket for the next flight to Guatemala?'

‘Let me look,' said the Continental clerk.

When the plane's wheels lifted off the runway, he felt a strange isolation creeping upon him. He wasn't just leaving his country, but Bethany too. Somewhere below the black clouds she was being kept in a room alone, frightened for her life. The thought of anyone harming her was causing a storm in his head. He knocked back a double whisky to help ease the burden of guilt and swore he'd get her free no matter the sacrifice.

Liberty International Airport at Newark had had a dusting of snow when his 777 touched down. He followed the signs to transit with the knapsack over his shoulder, and passed through airport security with no more than a courteous nod. The clock in the lounge said 22.01, but Harry was on London time and his eyes were closing. He found a corner near the window to snake his body around the seats where he tried to snatch some sleep.

Every half hour he woke up to check on the snow outside the terminal building. The floodlights shone down on the tarmac where a handful of workers were moving around the underbelly of one of the Boeings. As he looked skywards for a clue about the weather, he caught his ghostly reflection in the window. He saw his father in him. If he were still alive, he'd be shaking his head right now. His son on the run, again.

Harry too, was inwardly shaking his head, having achieved the one thing he'd tried so hard to avoid – becoming like one of his paranoid clients, constantly having to look over his shoulder wherever he'd go. There was only one way this would end now. But that was still somewhere far off in the future. There was Bethany to think of first. Perhaps he could still measure up to his late father by doing the right thing. He folded into a comfortable position and went back to sleep.

A tannoy announcement ended his slumber early in the morning, calling out his gate departure for Houston.

He sat over the wing on the way down to Texas next to a man in jewellery findings – high quality sterling silver only. The trade was shot; too many Asians ruining the livelihoods of honest American jewellers. And what did Harry do for a living? It was the first time since leaving London that his identity was tested. Harry had boarded as Jon Cummings so he decided to stick with it. He replied he was a cabbie from Bow on his way to see the world. A once in a lifetime trip to get away from the rat race.

Harry didn't get off the plane at Houston as it was only an hour stopover. By nine the aircraft was taking off again and soon they were serving breakfast over the shimmering blue seas of the Mexican Gulf.

His plane touched down at La Aurora just before midday and after going through passport control he went to a cubicle in the men's room. He took off his corduroy jacket and hung it up on the back of the door. From a hidden opening in the lining, he pulled out five thousand dollars. He put his jacket back on and stuffed the money into his pockets.

With a ten dollar bill he bought a packet of Marlboro and got a handful of local change for the bus ride into town. It wasn't even one o'clock, he had plenty of time.

At 3 Avenida in downtown Guatemala City was a large wooden door with flaking paint and graffiti scrawled across its crumbling cement walls. There was no sign indicating a saloon inside but everyone knew Bar Margarita, including backpackers that read
Lonely Planet
. Harry walked in, brushing aside the long heavy drapes that kept the sun out of the eyes of the drinkers. It was dark and felt cool like a church. He pushed his way through to the bar and ordered a bottle of Moza Bock with a plate of chuchitos. He sat squashed between two locals snacking on tacos and drinking dark beer. His eyes roamed around the bar looking for a face. When the bartender returned with a glass and bottle, Harry asked for Jairo.

The barman could not hear him over the hubbub in the bar and cupped his ear. Harry leant forward and said in a louder voice, ‘Jairo.'

There was a faint nod of recognition from the man as he placed the empty glass next to the bottle of beer. He told Harry he would look for Jairo.

The flat screen high up on the wall had no sound but the pictures showed police taking away prisoners from a courtroom. With his rusty Spanish, Harry worked out from the headline strap on the screen that they were drug traffickers with ties to the Cobar cartel. A video news package that followed showed them being captured by Guatemalan and US law enforcement agents in a place called Teculutan; a map showed the town to be northeast of Guatemala City. Then an external shot of the courthouse ended the piece. The weather forecast came next, and this time he'd no problems understanding. No rain and a week of sun.

Harry immediately tucked into the tamale brought by the waitress as he was hungry from the journey. The salty cheese on the tomato sauce made him thirsty and he was about to order another beer when the bartender reappeared at the other end of the saloon, beckoning him with his hand. Harry left some dollar notes on the bar and went through an arch where the bartender was waiting. The dark narrow corridor led to a steamy kitchen and the bartender inclined his head towards a young man chopping a chicken carcass with a cleaver.

Jairo had a pony tail and was wearing a dirty apron with a pair of bright green crocs on his feet. He looked up as Harry stepped towards him with a big smile.

‘Englishman,' he shouted with excitement, holding a bloodied cleaver in his hand with slivers of chicken guts on the blade.

‘You're looking well,' said Harry.

‘Because I have a new girl in my life,' laughed his friend, resting the cleaver on the chopping block.

‘If I didn't know you better, I'd think you're in love,' said Harry, wanting to shake Jairo's bloody hand, but realising it would be a messy idea.

‘This one is special.'

Harry looked around the busy kitchen. Staff running in chaotic circles; pots and pans slamming; balls of steam curling up the walls and across the ceiling.

‘Nothing changes around here.'

‘Not true. I'm no longer washing up.'

‘Good for you.'

‘I told them, I want better job,' said Jairo, picking up the cleaver and pointing it at Harry. ‘I go if they no give me work in kitchen. I'm big cook now.' His dark eyes glowed as he spoke.

‘The chuchitos were delicious.'

‘That's tourist food. You come to my home tonight and I'll make you –'

‘Another time, Jairo, I'm on urgent business.'

‘But you can make some time to meet Doris?'

‘It's going to have to be on another visit.'

Jairo looked disappointed. ‘I got everything you asked for.' He wiped his hands on a rag. ‘But it wasn't easy. Next time you give me more time to look.' He led the way to a small courtyard at the back of the building where there was a 500cc Honda parked in the corner. He pointed at it and said, ‘Is that okay?'

‘I suppose it's hot?'

Jairo laughed as if genuinely amused, patting Harry on the back for saying the funniest thing in the world.

‘I don't want to be picked up by the cops as soon as I ride out of here.'

‘I stole it from a Mexican. Who's going to care?'

Harry lowered his voice. ‘Did you get the other thing I asked for?'

Jairo went across to a door and disappeared inside a storeroom. He came out holding something wrapped up in a towel and handed it over to him. Harry looked around to check they were not being watched.

‘Relax, man, we're all friends here,' said Jairo.

Harry nodded he understood and unwrapped the towel. Gleaming in the strong sunlight was a nickel plated .38 Ruger revolver.

‘It's a bit fancy,' said Harry.

Jairo shrugged his shoulders as if his friend was being fussy.

‘It's not what I asked for,' continued Harry, ‘this only shoots five rounds.'

‘It was the best I could do with the time you gave me.' He handed Harry a box of shells and said, ‘I can get you something better in a week.'

‘I don't have that long.' Harry put the gun and shells in his pocket and handed Jairo two thousand dollars for his trouble.

His friend accompanied him to the motorcycle and wished him luck. A minute later Harry was riding the Honda onto the roads of Guate, the biggest risk he had taken so far on his journey.