Scion (6 page)

He mouthed back “Rosie” instantly cat
ching her full attention.

Harris putting his hand over the mouthpiece quickly explained what had happened
. Kelly sighed deeply and took the phone from him, despite his protestations.

“Rosie, hi
, I’m Detective Sergeant Kelly. Apologies for my colleague. When you dropped the phone earlier it remained off the hook and we heard the man shouting after you. Are you OK? Can we get the police to assist you?”

Ashley
had listened quietly as Kelly explained what had happened. She also felt re-assured that Kelly seemed in control and quite frankly couldn’t care less that they knew the name Rosie. If they were looking for Rosie they weren’t looking for Ashley Jones.

“OK, I’ll accept that
. Now, the man you arrested, is he OK?”

“The man you
’re referring to, can you give me his name please?”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that
.”

“Well I’m sorry but I can’t discuss the case unless you can give me something to prove you know him.”

“But I don’t know his name.”

Kelly
was instantly deflated. It seemed Rosie was a dead lead, some nutter who liked the look of the suspect and had become infatuated.

“I don’t understand, you said you knew who he was?”
she said angrily.

“I do, I do, look it’s complicated
. I’m catching a flight as soon as I can get one. I should be there tomorrow morning. Will he still be there?”

“Yes.”

“If by any chance you do let him go, please let him know I’m coming from America and it’s imperative I speak to him.”

“I really don’t think there’s any chance he won’t be here
,” emphasised Kelly.

“OK, then I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow.”

“See you then,” replied Kelly, surprised by how the call had gone.

Ashley hung up and dialled the next number
.

“Thank you for calling British Airways…” Ashley listened to the recorded message and selected
Option Two, Sales.

Chapter 8

After making his way back to the car, Clark called Walker.

“It’s me
. Issue resolved.”

“Good, get back here, another issue has arisen
,” advised Walker matter of factly.

“
Where are you, here or Southampton?”

“Here.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“And pack a bag, you
’re going on a trip.”

Clark
didn’t need to go home for a bag, he always had a travel bag packed and ready in the car. His training wouldn’t allow for anything less.

Ten minutes later
, he pulled into the garage area of one of New York’s finest apartment blocks. He parked in one of the spaces reserved for guests and made his way to the elevator. As he stepped in, the concierge’s voice resonated from the speakers.

“Good afternoon, can I help you?”

“Yes I’m here for Mr William Walker III, can you send me up please?”

“Your name?”

“Joseph Clark.”

The concierge
called Mr Walker and confirmed Mr Clark was in fact expected. Receiving confirmation, the elevator started moving and covered the distance to the penthouse apartment, 77 stories in less than 60 seconds. As he exited the elevator, he never failed to be amazed by the view. The apartment had no solid walls, just floor-to-ceiling glass offering a 360 degree bird’s eye view of New York on the edge of Central Park. However, for the best part of $40 million it was to be expected even if it was only Walker’s pied-a-terre. His real home was out in the Hamptons, all 18 bedrooms and 20 acres.

Walker poured
Clark a drink.

“I’m over here in the den,” he shouted.

Clark nodded and tearing himself away from the view, he joined Walker, taking the seat opposite.

“I’ve been on the phone to one of my contacts in England
. It seems we have a problem.”

Walker paused to take a drink and
Clark waited anxiously, desperate to know what the problem was. On the mention of England, he worried. He hated that fucking country, cameras everywhere you looked. If there was one country in the world not to whack someone, it was the U.K.

Walker
continued.

“Somebod
y’s recognised our boy.”

“Fuck, who and where?”

“Well, they recognised him but don’t know who he is.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“No idea but basically a woman has called them twice now saying she knows exactly who he is but it seems doesn’t know his name.”

“Shit!” the prospect of doing the one thing he didn’t want to do seemed more likely.

“Yep, you need to go and take care of her straight away. My helicopter’s on the roof, you should just make it if you leave now.”

“What flight am I on?”
Clark checked his watch.

“Sorry
?” Walker looked at him confused. He had just explained that the helicopter was waiting for him. The quizzical look made him realise the confusion.

“
No, no she’s here, well not here, exactly, she’s in Washington.”

“A
h, OK.” Clark breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“It seems she’s a prostitute, her name
’s Rosie, here’s her address but she’s booked on the 21.55 BA flight to Heathrow so you need to get going.”

With no intention of letting her catch the flight,
Clark drained his glass, bid his goodbyes and climbed the stairs to the helipad just one floor above. The Sikorsky S-76D’s rotors turned lazily. As Clark climbed in and settled into the large leather seat, the rotors picked up speed and by the time his seat belt was fastened, the wheels were lifting off the pad below. The helicopter turned as it rose to face South West, its nose dipping as the pilot increased the power and the race to Washington began. The two hundred mile trip would take just over an hour. Clark poured himself a drink and relaxed. Rosie’s flight wasn’t for another five hours. Plenty of time. He smiled.

Chapter 9

It took less than five
minutes to transport the rugby thugs to Parkside Police Station. The desk sergeant took one look at them and sent them down to the holding area to be booked and processed. They already seemed to be sobering up and he called out to one of the young constables.

“Smith, come her
e a sec.”

“Yes
Sarge,” he replied, checking over his shoulder that the group were behaving themselves.

“If they behave and you can get someone to vouch for them, don’t keep them
in.”

“Are you sure?”

The sergeant watched as the group reached the end of the corridor and filed down the stairs in an orderly and controlled manner.

“Yeah, you know what these rugby guys are like, a few beers and
their testosterone’s all over the place. The minute they sober up they’re fine.”

“OK
,” replied Smith and hurried after the group.

The six mercenaries
remained silent and followed the directions of the police officers to the letter. Each had his head bowed in shame, showing, as the Colonel had suggested, remorse for their reprehensible behaviour. As they reached the custody suite, they were shown to a line of chairs and told to sit down. The officers escorting them walked over to the custody sergeant.

The Belgian ex-paratrooper was the most senior of the mercenaries and had been given opera
tional leadership of that phase of the mission. When the officers turned their backs, he signalled to his men, counting down silently with his fingers for all to see: three, two, one. They moved instantly. Any sign of remorse or drunkenness vanished. They all moved with an agility and swiftness which belied their bulk, like a pack of tigers striking at their prey.

***

Scott had woken up off and on throughout the day. Each time, however, seemed to be another check to see whether the headache and disorientation had gone. Just as he thought they may have become permanent fixtures, he awoke to find they had gone, not entirely but enough to actually wonder where he was.

He looked around at the four
graffiti-covered concrete walls broken only by a single steel door with some type of metal porthole. The bed he lay on was nothing more than a raised section of concrete floor with a thin mattress. He sat up and found that the world hadn’t quite stopped spinning. Leaning back against the wall, he steadied himself. His brain began to work more rationally disseminating and evaluating multiple points of evidence rather than just one at a time. He was in a prison cell.

Scott
thought back to the night before. He had dropped off his bags and gone for something to eat. He hadn’t eaten all day and was starving. He’d gone to the nearest pub and ordered some food and a pint and then, he racked his brain, nothing. He remembered walking over to a seat with his pint and nothing, absolutely nothing. It was as though his mind had stopped working from that point on.

He stood and walked to the door,
stretching his back and shoulders as he walked. He needed to do his exercises but they could wait, he needed to know why he was there.

He banged on the solid metal door
.

“Hello
?” he shouted.

With no reply, he banged again.

“Hello?” he shouted much louder.

“
What?” came an irritable response. Constable Bryant was on his way to the changing rooms after finishing his shift when he heard the shouting.

“Where
am I?” he asked, only this time not shouting.

“
Parkside Police Station.”

Scott
took the news in.

“Where’s
Parkside?” he asked.

“Cambridge
. Are you the guy they brought in this morning?” asked the constable.

“Maybe, I’ve no idea where I am or why I’m here.”

The constable checked the cell list and discovered Scott was ‘the Ripper’.

“
Don’t give me that innocent crap, you’re the fucking serial rapist,” he shouted angrily.

Scott
sat down as the revelation of why he was in prison sank in. He tried desperately to remember what had happened the previous night but nothing came to him. He then realised something important.

“Wait a minute, you said serial rapist, didn’t you?”

“Yes, five defenceless young women, you sick fuck.”

“From when to when?” asked
Scott.

“Is this some sick shit, where you
’re getting off on me telling you what you’ve done?” asked Constable Bryant disgusted at Scott’s tasteless questions.

“I’m not a rapist, I’m innocent
. Just give me the dates!” demanded Scott.

“The last ten months
,” answered Bryant wanting to end the conversation.

Scott
relaxed. He had only arrived in the UK 24 hours earlier and hadn’t been there in the last year. More importantly, he could prove it.

With the issue resolved
, Scott squatted on the floor. He had not done his exercises. His training had been drummed into him like a religion since childhood. Only with exercise and training could perfection be achieved and once achieved could only be maintained with exercise and training.

Scott
worked his way through the daily ritual. Thirty minutes later, his body and mind were in perfect harmony once again. All of the effects of the previous night seemed to have dissipated. His uncle would have been happy. He always said the exercises cured everything. Scott had always thought it was just another excuse to make him do them.

A knoc
k on the door was followed by an instruction to step back.

Scott
obeyed and the door opened to reveal a young man about his age and size dressed in jeans and a T-shirt holding a tray of food.

“Your dinner!” he announced.

“You’re the officer I spoke to earlier,” said Scott as the constable laid the tray on the concrete table, nodding in response. “I didn’t do it you know, I only came into the country yesterday.”

“Look, I don’t really give a shit
. I’m trying to get out of here, I’m just doing the duty sergeant a favour because he’s busy. Give your bullshit to someone else.”

A loud thud from outside the door
caught their attention.

“What was that?” asked Scott.

“No id…” Constable Bryant stopped mid sentence as another thud was followed by a muffled cry and then all that could be heard was the ear piercing sound of a fire alarm.