Dead Man's Gift 02 - Last Night Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Last Night

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A THRILLER IN THREE PARTS

  The SECOND direct to digital short-story in a race-against-time three-part adventure from the bestselling author of Relentless, Siege and Ultimatum, Simon Kernick.

  MP Tim Horton is waiting to hear from his son’s kidnappers. Knowing he’s being watched, and too scared to go to the police, he contacts the only man who may be able to help him, his brother-in-law: an ex-soldier called Scope who has a reputation for sorting things out and getting things done …

  About the Author

  Simon Kernick is one of Britain’s most exciting thriller writers. He arrived on the crime writing scene with his highly acclaimed debut novel The Business of Dying, the story of a corrupt cop moonlighting as a hitman. Simon’s big breakthrough came with his novel Relentless which was the biggest selling thriller of 2007. His most recent crime thrillers include The Last Ten Seconds, The Payback, Siege and Ultimatum.

  Simon talks both on and off the record to members of the Met’s Special Branch and the Anti-Terrorist Branch and the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, so he gets to hear first hand what actually happens in the dark and murky underbelly of UK crime.

  To find out more about his thrillers, visit www.simonkernick.com; www.facebook.com/SimonKernick; www.twitter.com/simonkernick

  Dead Man’s Gift

  2: Last Night

  Simon Kernick

  Part 2: Last Night

  9

  10.26 p.m.

  Taking one last look at the man he’d just killed, Scope shoved Orla’s handbag into the waistband of his jeans, and turned and ran out of the bedroom. As he passed the flat’s front door, he heard the sound of heavy footfalls coming up the stairs. It was the police and they’d be in here in seconds. He grabbed a kitchen stool and used it to prop the door shut, then ran past the kitchen and into the small, cramped lounge at the back. The light was off and he almost tripped over a chair as he yanked open the rear window, knowing that if there were already police out the back then he was finished.

  But twelve feet below him the back garden was empty. It backed onto an alleyway that bisected the row of houses he was currently in from the houses that faced onto the next street. It also looked empty, but that was going to change very soon if the sound of the approaching sirens was anything to go by.

  There was a loud bang on the flat door. ‘Armed police. Open up now, or we are coming in!’ shouted a testosterone-fuelled voice from outside.

  Ignoring him, Scope climbed out the window, swung round and dropped down to the unkempt lawn at the back of the house, putting out an arm to steady himself as he landed softly. Right now he was riding his luck. He just needed it to hold a few minutes longer.

  Running across the garden, he unbolted the back gate and sprinted down the alley, not daring to look back. There was a high, spiked gate built into an arch at the end, which he knew would be locked and impossible to get past. Even as he ran towards it, a marked police patrol car pulled up on the far side of the alley. They were trying to cut off every escape route.

  Scope didn’t panic. Panic was the enemy. If you kept calm you could get through anything. Even this.

  Fifteen yards separated him from the patrol car, but as its doors swung open and the cops emerged he scrambled over a wall into someone’s back garden, confident that he hadn’t been seen. The sirens were coming from all directions now, and lights were coming on in various houses as he vaulted another fence, then another, before landing in the garden of the end terrace house. They had a shed near the house and he scrambled onto it, heaving himself up onto the high wall that bordered the street. He could see the patrol car that had pulled up next to the spiked gate at the end of the alley, but not the cops, who he assumed were trying to open it. Otherwise the street was empty.

  Keeping his breathing as regular as possible, he climbed over the wall and dropped down to the street, before crossing the road and breaking into a run, staying low as he used the parked cars for cover, pulling off his gloves at the same time. He was conscious of his heart hammering in his chest as the adrenalin coursed through him, knowing that if he was caught now, he wouldn’t be seeing the outside of a prison cell for years and years. But the fear exhilarated him. It gave him purpose.

  He ducked right down as another patrol car came hurtling past him, lights flashing, as it headed for the murder scene, then stood back up and crossed the road again as he came to the street where he’d parked his car.

  Which was when he saw a woman with long blonde hair getting into a Saab convertible about twenty yards further up on the other side.

  It was Orla, and it didn’t look like she’d spotted him.

  Scope broke into a sprint as she switched on the engine and reversed a couple of feet to give herself space before pulling out into the road.

  Only five yards separated them now, but as Orla straightened up she must have spotted Scope because she accelerated away, changing into second gear. But Scope was already alongside the Saab and he grabbed the handle, pulled open the door and dived head first inside, smacking his skull against the dashboard as Orla let out a high-pitched scream.

  Falling back in the seat, Scope managed to shut the door as she screeched to a halt at the junction.

  ‘Drive for Christ’s sake, I’m on your side!’ he yelled, turning towards her. ‘And I’ve got your handbag.’

  She gave him an uncertain look and he could see the fear in her eyes. It was Orla all right, but she looked younger than she did in the photo he’d seen.

  ‘Go on,’ he demanded. ‘If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now.’

  She seemed to accept this, and swung the wheel left, pulling out on to the road and accelerating.

  Up ahead, Scope saw a car with flashing blue lights racing towards them. Quickly, he slid off the seat and crouched down in the gap, wishing Orla drove a more spacious car. She started slowing up, then brought it to a halt.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the police, they’re blocking the road.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘They’re coming over.’

  Scope felt his chest tighten. There was no way he was prepared to kill a cop. He’d never be able to live with himself – even if failing to do so meant he ended up behind bars for the next twenty years. ‘Don’t give me up,’ he whispered. ‘I’m the only one who can help you right now, and I know all about Tim Horton.’ He saw her flinch when he said this and, realizing he was going to have to rely on her, he pulled off his jacket and covered himself with it.

  He heard Orla let down the driver’s window. ‘Is everything okay, officer?’ she asked, sounding like she was leaning out the window. Her accent was middle-class Home Counties, not what Scope was expecting at all. ‘I’m not doing anything illegal, am I?’

  Scope heard the cop reply but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He held his breath, fighting the urge to jump out of the car and run.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone like that,’ she answered. ‘I’m just on my way home.’

  The cop said something else, and then he heard the window going back up and the car pulled away.

  ‘Stay down for now,’ she told him as the car picked up speed.

  A minute passed. Then two. Finally he p
ulled the jacket away from his head and sat back up in the seat.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.

  Even in the dim light of the car, Scope could see she was very pretty, with sleek, angular features and high cheekbones. Her eyes were big and oval-shaped, their colour a pale, gleaming blue. It was no wonder Tim had been attracted to her.

  ‘I’m trying to find Tim Horton’s son. The people you’ve been working for have kidnapped him. He’s seven years old.’

  ‘You’re bullshitting me. Why would they do that?’

  ‘They’re using him to blackmail Tim. He’s a senior politician, for Christ’s sake, and men like him make very useful targets. I’m just trying to get his son back. He gave me your name and address, and I was coming there to talk to you. It’s a good thing I turned up when I did.’

  Orla took a deep breath. ‘I can’t believe he tried to kill me.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  She glared at him. ‘I don’t know who you are, so why should I tell you anything?’

  ‘Because I saved your life, and right now you’re in a lot of trouble. Whether you like it or not, you’re involved in the abduction of a child. I’ll tell you something else too. When they snatched Tim’s son, Max, they murdered his nanny.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with any of that,’ she protested angrily. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt a kid.’

  ‘Well, you already have done, because the kidnappers could never have done it without you. But now you’ve got the chance to help me find him. Who was the man who was trying to kill you?’

  Orla was shaking, but Scope resisted feeling too sorry for her. Instead, he waited for her to speak.

  ‘His name’s Phil Vermont,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’

  ‘And was he the one who put you on to Tim Horton?’

  She nodded. ‘But I didn’t know what Phil was going to do. I just thought we were running a scam on Tim.’ She paused. ‘We’ve done it before a couple of times. I meet a rich married man in a bar, start an affair, then we, er … we tap him for money. I thought it was going to be the same this time. But then Phil came round tonight and … Well, you saw what he was trying to do.’

  ‘It was risky trying to kill you in your flat.’

  ‘It’s not actually my flat. It’s just a short-term let that Phil sorted out so that I had somewhere to take Tim back to. He didn’t like doing it in hotels, you see.’

  ‘How long were you seeing Tim for?’

  ‘A couple of months. Much longer than usual. I should have known something was up. Phil wanted me to get loads of info on Tim. He even wanted the alarm code on his house, and for me to get copies of his front door keys.’ She shook her head. ‘Christ, I’ve fucked up so badly. I thought Phil loved me. I thought we were only doing this sort of thing to help clear his debts, then we could be together properly.’ She looked at Scope and he saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘What happened to him back there? Is he okay?’

  Scope knew he had no choice but to tell her the truth. She was going to find out soon enough. ‘He tried to kill me. I killed him.’

  Orla pulled over, her hands shaking on the steering wheel. ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I had no choice. He had a gun and a knife.’

  She sat rigid in the seat, looking utterly shocked. ‘Christ,’ she whispered. ‘What am I going to do now?’

  ‘You’re going to help me,’ Scope told her. ‘Has Phil ever mentioned a man called Frank?’

  She shook her head. ‘He never told me much, and I never knew anything about his business deals.’

  ‘I’ve got a lead, but I’m going to need access to a computer. Where do you usually live?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you,’ she said.

  Scope sighed. ‘You think the people behind this are going to let you live? As soon as they find out Phil didn’t kill you, they’ll come back to finish off the job. Right now, you’re better off with me.’

  She stared at him for a long couple of seconds before pulling away from the kerb without another word.

  Scope settled back in the seat, knowing that by killing Phil Vermont he’d put Max and Tim in even more danger, and that the time he needed to help them both was fast running out.

  10

  As far as Frank Bale was concerned, the world of organized crime was one where the subcontract was king. That way there was always a buffer between the various layers involved in the crime itself, and far less chance that the top people would get fingered. In this case, it seemed some Chinese had a problem they needed solving but lacked the London-based expertise to deal with it. So they had contacted Frank’s employers, who worked out the solution, then brought in Frank to carry it out. He in turn subcontracted out the abduction of Max Horton and the blackmail of his father to Phil Vermont, knowing full well that Vermont was greedy and ruthless enough to get the job done.

  And right up until barely an hour ago, the whole thing had been working fine. Now, though, they had a problem and, since Frank was a hell of a lot nearer the bottom than the top of the criminal structure he was involved in, he was going to have to watch his back in the coming days.

  There were already a dozen police vehicles and an ambulance parked outside the townhouse where the woman Phil Vermont had used to ensnare Tim Horton had had her flat, and the road had been closed in both directions. Frank parked in front of the line of scene-of-crime tape and heaved himself out of the car. He was a big man – too big these days – with thick jowls, a hard layer of fat hanging down round his waist that even the expensive Hong Kong-tailored suits he wore could do little to hide, and an ongoing eczema problem. Even the wife looked at him with barely disguised disgust when he was naked, and it seemed it was only whores who could stand to sleep with him these days.

  He showed his ID to a uniformed copper and changed into protective overalls before entering the house through the open front door, wheezing as he headed up the staircase to the first-floor flat. God knows what had gone on in there, but the first reports had talked of gunfire. Frank knew Phil kept a gun – a cheap .22 he’d picked up from an ex-soldier – but had no idea why he’d brought it with him. The girl was always going to have to die, but the plan had been to make her death look natural.

  After what they had planned for tomorrow, there was going to be the biggest police investigation the country had ever seen, and the girl would be one of their first ports of call. So Frank had supplied Phil with a syringe and four grams of unusually pure heroin and told him to turn up, spike her drink with enough Rohypnol to keep her quiet, then heat up the heroin and inject her with a lethal dose, leaving a couple more wraps in the flat to make her look like a regular user. By the time the police turned up and found the corpse, the Rohypnol would be out of her system and it would look like a standard OD. But now that clown Vermont had announced the whole thing to the world.

  Still, Frank consoled himself, at least she was dead now.

  The door to the flat was open and he went straight in, as befitted an officer of his seniority. The place was already a hive of activity with scenes-of-crime officers making a fingertip search of the flat. Frank stepped round them and walked into the bedroom where a group of four men were gathered in one corner.

  Hearing his approach, one of them turned round. It was DS Alan Arnold, an old colleague from Harlesden nick. ‘Hello Frank, what are you doing here?’ asked Arnold as they shook hands. ‘They haven’t handed this one over to you lot already, have they?’

  ‘Not yet, but I was in the area so I thought I’d stop by and take a look,’ he said, keeping as close to the truth as possible. ‘I heard there was shooting involved. That usually means we end up getting it at some point.’

  Arnold nodded. ‘There were reports of three shots being fired about twenty seconds apart, but it looks like the victim actually died from a single stab wound.’

  Christ, thought Frank, how many times had Vermont tried to kill the bitch before he’d actually managed it? ‘Can I h
ave a look at her?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not a “her”,’ said Arnold, stepping out the way. ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘That’s what the copper outside told me,’ said Frank smoothly, as he processed this new information and silently cursed his mistake. ‘He obviously got it wrong.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think anyone’s going to mistake this one for a woman, do you?’

  Frank stared down at a very dead-looking Phil Vermont, his ridiculous fake tan now turned a fish-scale grey. The knife wound in his jacket was only just visible and the bloodstain on his white shirt wasn’t that large, making it clear he’d died very quickly. ‘Any idea who he is?’ he asked, working hard to keep a lid on the tension running through him as the full extent of Vermont’s fuck-up became apparent.

  Arnold shook his head. ‘Not yet. There’s no ID on him, and according to the neighbours a girl lived here on her own, and there’s no sign of her either. So it’s possible she killed him.’

  Except Frank knew she hadn’t because he’d spoken to a man he thought had been Vermont, who’d told him that the girl was dead. Thinking about it now, the man hadn’t sounded much like Vermont at all, and Frank would have bet his last pound that this man – whoever he was – had been the one who’d killed him.

  Which could only mean one thing. Tim Horton had called in help to find his son.

  11

  Orla lived in a small terraced cottage on a street in Edgware that looked like it might have had character once, but was now just tatty. Scope had finally persuaded her to allow him to come back with her, having shown her the pistol in his jacket pocket while explaining calmly that if he’d wanted her dead, then that was exactly what she’d be.

  He followed her through the front door, waiting while she switched on the lights, revealing a surprisingly tidy living room with half-decent furniture and modern art prints lining the walls. She asked him if he wanted a drink.