Untouchable (31 page)

I lift the gun and point it at his temple.

‘My name is Grace, as I’m sure you know. And don’t imagine that I have anything to lose by killing you. So relax, baby,’ I croon. ‘You never know, you may even enjoy it.’

His whole body goes rigid as I approach him.

‘Lift your legs.’

He doesn’t move.

‘Lift your legs, Harry, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.’

He raises his knees, a whimper escaping his mouth.

‘Please …’ His words elongate to a howl as I shove the vibrator into his arsehole, as far as it will go. And press the button for high speed vibrate.

‘Aaarggghhhh, God, fuck noooo,’ he cries, tears springing to his eyes.
‘Turn it off, turn it off!’

I reach for the buttons at the end of the machine. Flick the one for rotate. Harry’s words disintegrate into screams. He’s writhing now, twisting around, trying to get away from the pain.

I lift my phone out my bag and take a couple of pictures. Then retreat to the kitchen and pour myself a shot of the vodka. Down in one, just like Janine.

The alcohol burns its way down my throat. I listen to the roars of protest from the bedroom and force myself to picture Michael. Imagine it’s him in there, I tell myself. Imagine you had this chance to torture him.

But it’s no good – my initial surge of pleasure quickly palls to disgust. Inflicting pain, even on a scumbag like Harry, is not something I relish as much as I imagined.

I go back in. Harry is lying motionless, half twisted on his side, tears running down his cheeks. I reach over and turn off the vibrator, remove it and drop it back into the bag. It’s smeared with blood and something darker I’d rather not consider.

I walk into the lounge and cut the music. Return to the bedroom. There’s no sign of Harry’s erection now. His cock lies limp, huddling in his pubic hair like a small creature taking refuge.

I give him a minute to recover. ‘What do you want?’ he asks eventually, his voice quavering.

I stare at him coolly. ‘Half a million.’

He laughs. At least I think it’s a laugh. It sounds a bit like he’s choking. ‘You must be fucking joking.’

I flick the safety catch off the gun. It makes a barely audible click that Harry senses even if he can’t quite hear it.

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

He glares at me for a few seconds. Pulls again on the handcuffs. Gives up. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Just let me out of these.’

‘Not so fast.’ I bend and remove a folder from the bag. ‘This isn’t some quick shag.’

Keeping the gun trained on Harry, I pull out the printouts from Amanda’s SD-card and fan the pictures on the bed. Hold each one up in turn so he has a good view. ‘There’s videos too,’ I say. ‘Taken at the party. But then you know that, don’t you?’

He doesn’t reply. I put both hands back on the gun and aim it squarely at his crotch. His legs begin to tremble. There’s something leaking from his anus on to the counterpane.

‘You know because Elisa sent them to you.’

He swallows. ‘No, I …’ His words die in his throat.

‘And instead of coughing up the paltry fifteen grand she asked for, you went to your mates. And our lovely friend winds up dead.’

‘She was a nasty little whore,’ he says, finding his voice.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I’d say we make our money a great deal more honestly than you.’

‘What, by spreading your legs? Blackmailing people?’

‘Sex for money is a legal transaction – at least in this country. Which is more than can be said for some of your deals.’

I look him up and down, from his eyes to his cock and back again. ‘Let’s face it, Harry, in a straw poll of public opinion, I reckon your profession would be somewhat less popular than mine.’

He glowers at me, but doesn’t speak.

‘For the record, I don’t condone blackmail. There’s no doubt what Elisa did was wrong, but it’s not like you’ve stayed within the confines of the law, is it? That little thing you have going with Alex Lennart and Edward Hardy, for instance. If that comes to light you’ll definitely find yourself out of a job. And behind bars.’

Harry’s mouth moves into his habitual sneer, its effect somewhat diminished by the tears still drying on his cheeks.

‘So what do you want?’

I smile at him. ‘Actually I’d prefer to see your sorry arse rot in a cell, Harry. You and your nasty little chums. But I’ll settle for the money.’

He clears his throat. ‘I haven’t got that kind of cash just lying around.’

‘I realize that. Borrow it if you have to. After all, it’s only … what … half a year’s bonus for you? And that’s not even counting what you make on the side.’

I shift the gun into my other hand, its weight beginning to make my arm ache.

‘So I’m giving you one day. I’ve left you detailed instructions of what to do. If by this time tomorrow you haven’t done
exactly
what I said, I’m sending these pictures to every interested party I can think of.’ I count them off on my fingers. ‘Your wife. Your boss. The head of that exclusive public school you send your kids to. The editors of all the national newspapers. I reckon that’ll do for starters.’

His face contorts with rage. ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare.’

‘Really?’ I glare back at him. ‘You sure about that? After what just happened?’

‘Fucking bitch,’ he mutters, but it’s more of a grumble now than a threat.

‘Yes,’ I say mildly. ‘I’m sure I am. But don’t underestimate me, Harry. I’ve taken precautions. If anything happens to me – anything at all, even something that might look like an accident – I’ve made sure that these will be sent out to everyone on that list.
And
the police. So don’t imagine for one second that the solution you and your friends chose for Elisa is an option for me. Or Janine.’

I walk round to the head of the bed and hold the gun up to his temple. ‘Believe me, Harry, I’d welcome the chance to blow you right out of the water. Even from the mortuary block.’

He stares at me. All the fight gone now from his eyes.

‘Understood,’ he says. ‘I’ll sort it.’

I pull on the jeans and jumper I brought with me. Pack up my things. Harry lies on the bed, watching.

‘You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ he asks in a panicky voice as I put on my coat. I smile. Sling the bag over my shoulder and pick up the gun. Keeping it trained on him, I go round and release each handcuff.

He sits up, rubbing the weals around his wrists.

‘Twenty-four hours,’ I repeat. ‘Understood?’

He nods.

I walk towards the door and turn. He’s crouched on the side of the bed, bent over, head in his hands.

‘Oh, and Harry …’

He raises his face. His eyes are red and he looks ill, defeated. I lower the gun, certain now he’s got the message.

‘… just one last thing. A heads-up for your mate Hardy. Tell him I don’t appreciate visits from his unofficial henchmen – even if they do pay my fees.’

I close the door of the apartment behind me and pause for a minute, leaning on the wall, my legs suddenly unsteady.

So far, so good, I think, but knowing there’s worse to come. And this time there’s nothing I can do except wait.

46

Tuesday, 14 April

The bell to my flat rings at ten to three, right as I’m sending the last of the emails. I run down and sign for the package, then climb back upstairs, clutching it to my chest. I double lock the door behind me before ripping it open.

A single ticket. Exactly as instructed.

I examine it briefly, then shove it in the pocket of my jeans. Stuff all the things I need into my rucksack and pull on my coat.

Outside the weather has turned windy and overcast, the sky a shade of whitish-grey that casts an unflattering light over everything. People’s faces look drawn and pale. Resigned.

It’s warmer down in the underground. I crush myself into a crowded tube destined for Waterloo, join the throng exiting to the mainline station. My pulse begins to quicken as I rise up on the escalator into the main concourse, uncertain what I’m going to find when I emerge.

Will they have someone waiting?

Hurrying over to the announcement board, I pretend to search for a train as I survey the entrance to the luggage service. There doesn’t seem to be anybody hanging around. But then there wouldn’t – not if they’re doing their job properly.

Not too late to call it quits, says a voice in my head. You’ve had your fun. You’ve done your bit for Amanda.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the counter. I hand over the ticket to a middle-aged man who barely acknowledges me. Just glances at it, then disappears through a door behind him.

A minute later he returns with the parcel. Covered in grey plastic, it’s much bulkier than I imagined, and for a moment I think I won’t get it into my rucksack. I transfer some things into my handbag, try to squeeze it in.

It fits. Just. The zips refuse to quite meet at the top, but it’ll hold. I take another deep breath, ignoring the anxious thump of my heart. Resist the urge to check around me.

Look calm, I tell myself, aware of all the security cameras in the station. Look casual. Unconcerned.

There’s a Smiths near the main exit. I buy a couple of magazines and ask for a large carrier bag. The cashier hands me one without comment and I make my way to the toilets. Picking a loo with a baby-changing tray, I check there are no cameras overhead.

I work fast, mindful of the attendant lurking on the other side of the door. Remove the parcel and place it on the tray. Grab the scissors, the bubble wrap, brown paper and tape from my handbag, alert for the sound of approaching footsteps. I can’t hear anything unusual. A mother scolding a child. Two women discussing whether or not to get a taxi up to Oxford Street.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, then cut open the parcel. Stare, mesmerized, at the fat bundles of £50 notes. Even in a cash economy like mine, this much money is a sobering sight. I pick one up and rifle the corners, the way you would a pack of cards.

It certainly feels … and smells real. Papery and fresh. Potent.

I do a quick count. Twenty bundles, each containing £25,000.

All there.

I gaze at them for a few last seconds before dividing them up. Four for Anna. Four for Kristen. Two for Janine. The remaining quarter of a million I split exactly in half, removing five notes from each. I wrap the separate piles carefully, first in bubble-wrap, then brown paper and parcel tape, writing out each address in capitals.

A knock on the door. My heart leaps. ‘You OK in there, Miss?’

‘Fine,’ I stammer, turning and flushing the loo. After a moment whoever it was walks away. I stuff the tape and scissors and remains of the paper into the carrier bag, along with the magazine, dropping it into the rubbish bin on the way out.

Twenty to five. I fidget as I wait in line for a taxi. I’m barely going to make it.

Ahead of me a trio of businessmen are discussing an upcoming meeting. One glances at me briefly then his eyes slide away. Nothing about me warrants a second look. I’ve made sure of that. I’m clean-faced, not even a dash of mascara. My hair is pulled back into a clip and I’m wearing my drabbest clothes.

The last thing I need today is attention.

The businessmen disappear into the bowels of a black cab. Half a minute later another draws up beside me. The driver leans across to speak to me. ‘Where to, love?’

I give him the address in Tower Hill and climb in. We inch into the rush-hour traffic. We’ve scarcely managed two hundred yards before we’re forced to a standstill.

‘Know any quicker routes?’ I ask the cabbie, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

He thinks for a few seconds. ‘We could try Southwark Bridge.’

He pulls out into the centre of the lane and waits for somebody to let him in, then drags the cab round into a U-turn and heads up Stamford Street. I sit with my hands clenched into fists.

We
have
to make it. I’m not going to get another chance.

Fifteen minutes later we pull up outside the depot. I shove a twenty-pound note from my purse at the driver and wave away his offer of change. Run up to the office and let myself in.

It’s 4.55 by the clock above the desk. I’m just in time.

A clerk appears from behind a back door. ‘Too late,’ he says. ‘Can’t do deliveries after five.’

‘It’s five to,’ I object, nodding at the clock.

He doesn’t even bother to glance at it. ‘That one’s slow.’

‘Please.’ I say, wishing now I’d bothered with some slap.

‘Sorry.’

He starts to retreat into the back room. ‘Hang on.’ I pull one of the fifty-pound notes out of my pocket and slide it across the counter. He looks at it, then up at my face, trying to suss out whether I’m joking.

I nod. Push it further in his direction.

‘OK,’ he says, making the money disappear. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

It takes him ten minutes to calculate the cost of sending all five parcels by courier. I pay in cash, inventing a bogus name and address for their forms. Write ‘Personal Effects’ in the bit where it asks what’s being delivered.

I send Kristen’s parcel to her parents’ house in Scotland. Anna and Janine’s to their respective flats. The one for the rape crisis centre I address to the head office in Charing Cross. The other goes to a charity: ‘The Alison Tennant Trust’.

No explanations, and no indications as to my real identity. I have no idea how these parcels will be received, of course, but figure an anonymous donation may be more likely to stick.

Back outside, in the open air, the pressure in my chest begins to subside. I find I can breathe more easily. I stroll along Lower Thames Street, feeling lighter. A weight literally lifted.

I head towards London Bridge, thinking I’ll walk home. By the steps, a little way under the arches, I spot the man. He’s huddled beneath the ironwork, a bed of cardboard and several ratty-looking blankets draped over his overcoat. I go up and give him the rucksack, and the rest of five hundred quid I kept by for expenses.

The homeless man blinks at me in astonishment. ‘You sure?’ His voice rough, unused.