Relentless (16 page)

Parnham-Jones PC, see if there were any encrypted or otherwise
interesting files, and to call back as soon as possible.
'Where to now, boss?'
Home seemed tempting. It would have been useful to take
some time out to mull over everything that had happened today
and to look for connections and further avenues of inquiry. The
case was definitely one for mulling over, preferably with a cold
beer and a Thai takeaway in the dry comfort of home, but he
wasn't quite finished today yet.
He told Mo they had one more call to make.

24

The cottage in the New Forest was one of those purchases you
make on a whim, without thinking through the consequences.
I'm normally quite good with money, but like Kathy I got caught
up in the dream, and it really did seem like a good idea at the
time.
We'd been having dinner with a couple we knew from the
estate, and there'd been a second couple there, people we hadn't
previously met. Warren and Midget Stupid names when you
think about it, but nice people. After a lot of wine, and plenty
of talk about that most boring and suburban of topics, work,
Midge, who had copious amounts of curly auburn hair, lots of
hippy-style jewellery and an unavoidably huge bust, and who
didn't lgok at all like the City accountant she was meant to be,

announced that she and Warren were buying a share in a holiday
home. Not just any holiday home either, but a delightful 150year-old
crofter's cottage set in acres of protected forest that
was barely a two-hour drive from London, and fewer than ten
miles from the unspoiled Dorset coast. 'It's a piece of paradise,'
Warren had exclaimed, as if quoting from an estate agent's blurb
(which he probably was), 'a bolthole from all the hassles of the
modern world. Our kids are going to love it.'
Something in Warren and Midge's enthusiasm had been
infectious. At the time our own children were three and one, so
foreign travel had lost a lot of its allure, and the idea of holidaying
only two hours from home had a real ring of convenience.
Plus, of course, we'd drunk a lot of wine. And lo and behold, they still needed another family to buy the last quarter share.
Only 55,000, pounds and this at the height of the property boom. For
that, we'd get sole rights to the cottage for a quarter of the year,
a week every month, and Christmas or New Year every other
year. Warren even had the property details with him, and the
cottage did indeed look idyllic. The plot was close to half an acre
and included woodland, the nearest property over two hundred
yards away. The price seemed a bargain - not that we had that
kind of money. But within a month we'd got it, having released
some of the equity in our own property, and had become the
proud owners of 25 per cent of Sandfield Cottage, along with
Warren and Midge, Warren's brother and his family, and one of
Midge's fellow accountants at their City investment bank and
her partner.
That was two and a half years ago, and I suppose, in hindsight,
it had been a waste of money. It was nice when we got the
chance to go there, but we used it far less than we'd anticipated.
In the last year, I reckon we'd spent no more than a week there.

As with so many things, there never seemed to be enough time,
which was probably why I hadn't thought of it before as a
possible location for Kathy. But now it seemed like one, mainly
because I couldn't think of anywhere else she might have fled
to - on the assumption, of course, that she had fled somewhere
and wasn't being held against her will. She'd always appreciated
the fact that the cottage did indeed represent a retreat from the
rat race, and the one time I'd suggested selling our share to raise
some capital, she'd been against the idea. 'I need the solitude it
offers now and again,' she'd told me, and I suspected that
now, assuming she knew she was in trouble, she would need the
solitude it offered more than ever. It was also our allotted
weekend, making her presence there even more likely. I considered
phoning her on the cottage landline, but I had a lot of
questions I wanted to ask, and I was beginning to think that if I
told her I was coming she might not hang around to answer
them. Plus, the possibility that she was in the cottage gave me
hope, and I didn't want that snuffed out.
At first as we drove, I asked Daniels a lot of questions about
the undercover operation, trying to get as much information as I
could about the man called Lench, but he was vague with his
answers and didn't seem in the mood for talking. The traffic was
light as we left London, heading from the M4 to the M25, and
then south-west on the M3. Daniels drove fast, the speedometer
regularly touching a hundred, even though it was wet outside
and the rain continued to plunge «out of the black night sky. I
asked him on the M4 for another of his cigarettes and he told me
to help myself. As the journey progressed I continued to help
myself, and he had to stop at some services on the M3 to buy
another pack, plus some water and chocolate. I offered him a
coup pounds of quid in payment, thinking that he wouldn't accept it,

but he told me a fiver would be nearer the mark and took it
without even a thanks, which I thought was a bit much. 'You
don't get far in life unless you contribute,' he said, seeing my
reaction.
Daniels, I had to admit, was a strange character. On the one
hand he was calm and collected, his words, when he did speak,
delivered in the slow, even manner of a man who always felt in
control of a situation. He liked to let slip languid pieces of
philosophy too, like the 'not getting far in life unless you contribute'
bit, and I think he fancied himself as some sort of
eastern mystic warrior, dispensing justice, righteous violence and
snippets of useful advice. But there was also an air of stiff
tension about him, as if there were secrets in his soul he was
fighting a silent yet terrible battle to keep from view. When I
looked at him driving, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched, his
pale eyes concentrating hard on the road ahead, I could tell
there was plenty going on in his mind.
I didn't trust him. He was too complicated, and in my experience,
complicated people always have some sort of hidden
agenda.
After we'd left the service station and were back on the road,
I asked him why he'd allowed me to get beaten up by his
colleague, Mantani, and why he'd carried out the charade of
threatening me with the gun. 'You must have had some idea how
scared you were making me,' I told him, between mouthfuls of
Mars bar.
'I was thinking,' answered Daniels.
'That's nice to know,' I said. 'About anything in particular?'
'You know something, Meron, your problem is you mistake
sarcasm for humour. Don't bother with it; I'm not in the mood. I
didn't react instantaneously to your misfortune because I was

thinking about what the hell I should do, and how I was going to
do it. I'd spent six months weaving my way into this organization,
and I still had nowhere near enough evidence to convict
any of them of anything. I knew that if I pulled you out, six
months' work would go up in smoke. But because you were in
trouble, I made the move. Now, be thankful for it, all right?
Because if Lench had got hold of you, you'd be in pieces by
now.' He delivered this broadside without taking his eyes off the
road once.
'OK, OK, I understand.'
'No,' he said, shaking his head, 'I don't think you do. I don't
think you've got any idea what it's like to act a part every day of
your life, knowing that if you make one mistake and the people
you're working out find out who you really are, then that's
it, you're dead. The problem with you civilians,' he continued,
this time deigning to look at me, 'is that you live a nice easy
suburban life and you don't see any of the shit that goes on out
there in the big wide world day after day - the violence, the
killing, the kids on crack who'll do anything for their next fix because
we protect you from all that. We do the hard work, we
sweep away the problems that are right in front of your noses, if
only you could be bothered to look for them, and we make sure
they go under the carpet so you don't have to worry about any
of them. And consequently, you end up having no fucking idea
how lucky you are.'
I was surprised at how animated Daniels had suddenly become.
It was like a pressure being released, and he seemed
visibly to relax once he'd spoken.
'Congratulations, Meron,' he added. 'Today, you've seen that
other world, and now you'll be a wiser man for it.'
I did/i't say anything. He was probably right, but it wasn't a

statement I saw much point in commenting on. I took a cigarette
from the new pack. Ten years free of it, and I was already
redeveloping my old bad habit. When all this was over - and for
some reason, maybe the presence in the car of a hard bastard
who wasn't actually trying to kill me, I was now more optimistic
that it would be - I'd kiss Kathy, hug my kids, crack open a 10 pounds
bottle of wine and make a vow never to touch a smoke again.
In the meantime, though, I wasn't going to let a little thing
like my long-term physical health worry me. I had to get through
the short term first.

25

Forty minutes later, we turned off the A31 west of Southampton
and drove into the New Forest national park. Sandfield Cottage
was set back from the road behind a thick screen of pine trees in
a quiet stretch of woodland not far from the village of Bolder
wood. It was reached via a potholed drive about thirty yards
long that was almost impossible to spot unless you were looking
for it. On my instruction, Daniels slowed up and made the
turning, and as we approached along the drive I saw a light from
the house appear through the trees.
There was someone there.
As the driveway opened out into the parking area and lawn in
front of the cottage, Kathy's new Hyundai Coupe - her pride
and joy - came into view, parked over near the fence that

separated the front and rear of the property. It was the only car
there, and I let out an audible sigh of relief.
'That your wife's car, is it?' asked Daniels, parking up behind
it.
I nodded.
'Then I guess she's safe.' He turned off the engine.
I looked over to the cottage. The only light was coming from
the upstairs bedroom. The downstairs area was in darkness, and
the curtains were open. There was no sign that Kathy had heard
us, and I experienced a small twinge of nerves.
'Can you let me go in first? I don't want to scare her.'
He nodded. 'Sure.'
I got out, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I found the right
one and hurried over to the front door, my shoes crunching on
the gravel. It was still raining hard and I had no desire to be out
in the open any longer than I needed to be.
As I passed the big bay window at the front, I looked directly
into the sitting room. It was empty, but the cushions on the sofa
were out of place and there was a coffee cup and an empty glass
on the coffee table. Someone had definitely been here very
recently.
At the front door, I bent down and opened the letterbox,
peering inside. It was deadly silent in there, the only sound
the relentless pounding of the rain. I wanted to call out, but
something stopped me. Instead, I eased the key into the lock and
gently turned it. There was a click?, and the door opened with a
soft whine. When it was part-way open, I slipped through the
gap and stepped into the porch area. Pairs of hiking boots were
lined up neatly on the floor to my left. Kathy's shoes weren't
among them. I looked up at the coat rack but couldn't see her
coat there either.

But her car was here so she would be too. Somewhere.
I went further inside, the sitting room opening up to my right.
Beyond it, straight ahead, was the door that led through to the
new kitchen/dining area that had been added to the back of the
cottage as a single-storey extension by the previous owners. To
the left of the door was the staircase that led up to the two
bedrooms on the first floor. I walked slowly towards it, listening
for any sound of human presence.
'Kathy?'
My whisper sounded artificially loud in the dead gloom of
this old house with its low timbered ceilings and floorboards
that creaked and sighed in time with the wind and my heavy
footfalls.
The scream exploded to my left, a shocking, high-pitched
screech, and a figure shot up from behind the staircase's solid
wood banister, one hand clutching a knife that gleamed viciously
in the darkness.
As I threw up my hands in a desperate protective gesture, the
figure vaulted the last two steps and leaped on me, the weight
knocking me backwards into one of the chairs. My weight in
turn knocked the chair out of the way and I landed hard on my
back, one hand grabbing the knife wrist, the other encircling
my attacker's throat. I squeezed hard, and would have squeezed
a lot harder but for the fact that I realized I was staring into my
wife's contorted, rage-filled face.
'Kathy, it's me! For Christ's sake, what are you doing?'
She was struggling like a fish on a hook, breathing in short,
angry gasps, and slapping at me with a free hand, the knife
still held in a stabbing position above my head, her grip on it so
tight that her knuckles were white. And then, suddenly, her
expression softened, her arm went limp and she dropped the

knife, which clattered onto the pine flooring, narrowly missing
my shoulder. For the first time, there was recognition in her
face. I let go of her, but instead of falling into some kind of
reunion hug she clambered off me and sat nearby on the floor,
head in her hands. She was dressed in the same clothes she'd left
the house in that morning: jeans, a suede jacket and ankle boots
with jagged heels.
'Oh God,' she said at last. 'I can't take this any more.'
'It's all right,' I told her, getting up and putting a reassuring
arm across her shoulders. I held her against me, adding soothingly
that everything was going to be fine, and at that moment I
meant it. We were reunited, we hadn't done anything wrong. We
could dig ourselves out of this hole.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Daniels had stepped
over the threshold and was waiting awkwardly next to the coats.
Kathy took a couple of deep breaths and composed herself,
looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite fathom. She
was upset, but her eyes were dry, and there was a hardness in
them I only ever recalled seeing when she was angry with me. Of
relief, or any other similar emotion, there was no sign.
'I'm OK,' she said distantly. 'Are you?'
'I'm fine,' I lied. 'I've been trying to reach you for hours on
the mobile.'
'It doesn't work down here, does it? There's no reception, and
I've been here since this afternoon. Are the kids all right?'
'They're fine. They're at your mam's.'