Deadline Page 3

  And Jimmy.

  Three

  Jimmy Galante had always been a smooth bastard. Now forty, two years older than Andrea, he still looked damn good as he walked out of the arrivals gate at Heathrow's Terminal One, dressed in a tailored suit and open-neck shirt, and Andrea noticed more than one pair of female eyes glancing at him as he walked across the concourse with a casual confidence that bordered on arrogance. Tall, broad-shouldered and tanned, his thick wavy black hair was longer than she remembered, but still as lustrous as it had been all those years ago. Even under the current circumstances, even after all these years, Andrea still felt a twinge of excitement. She wondered what it was about her, why she always seemed to go for the smooth bastards. It was something her business partner, Isobel, had once asked her, with more than a hint of disapproval in her voice, and it was a question she hadn't attempted to answer. Some women just go for the wrong sort of men, Andrea told herself, and maybe she was one of them.

  As Jimmy approached her, he smiled, and there was something so knowing and cocky about his expression that it made her realize immediately why their relationship had ended. Up close the lines on his face were more pronounced, and the scar that ran down in a jagged line from just below his earlobe to his chin seemed deeper than before. But the eyes, so dark they were almost black, still commanded attention.

  'Hello, babe,' he said, looking her up and down. 'You look good.'

  She knew he was just saying that. She felt awful, and she was pretty sure she looked awful as well. She'd hardly slept the previous night, tossing and turning in the silence, knowing that Emma was out there somewhere, desperate for her mother's help. Emma was a tough young thing – she took after her mother in that respect – but there was no way she could have been prepared for what she had to be going through now. Andrea had always protected her from the darker things the world had to offer. She wanted for nothing materially (although she wasn't spoiled); she was being well educated at a decent private school (girls only); and her mother had always been there for her, never failing to make time in her busy schedule for her daughter and providing her with the nurturing hand any child needs. They'd always been a team, the two of them, with Andrea the senior partner.

  Today had been easier than the previous night because she'd been able to keep busy. Having called Isobel to tell her that she wasn't feeling too good and was going to take the day off, she'd then phoned the dentist's and found out that Emma had kept her 4.45 appointment. She didn't know how this helped her, but for some reason the knowledge that Emma had been alive and well the previous afternoon, only a few hours before the kidnapper had called her, made it feel more likely that she was alive now.

  Andrea had then spent the remainder of the morning and much of the first half of the afternoon raising the half a million she needed. This had involved emptying the two private deposit boxes she rented in separate banks in Knightsbridge, which gave her the grand total of £439,000. It was money that had been built up over a number of years as a result of various cash deals, and she'd viewed it as her retirement fund, her nest egg should things ever go badly wrong. And now they had. She'd then called the three banks where she had personal accounts, and organized the transfer of cleared funds between accounts to secure the remaining £61,000, which had proved a lot less easy than she'd anticipated, since no one these days seemed to want to hand over large sums of cash. When this had been done, she was left with a total of £11,561 in liquid assets – a pretty poor return for fourteen years of hard graft.

  There'd still been aspects of the business to attend to as well. She'd received a number of calls from the company accountants regarding the Bedfordshire Spa, and even a couple of semiapologetic ones from Isobel on the same subject. She'd dealt with them as best she could but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than Emma. Andrea had built up her company, Feminine Touch Health and Beauty Spas, from absolutely nothing into a thriving business which generated turnover in excess of five million cash.

  Yet ultimately, when it came down to it, this huge achievement and all the hard work that had brought it about would count for absolutely nothing if her daughter didn't come home.

  Which was why Jimmy was here. To make sure she did.

  'Any news?' he asked as they stood there looking at each other.

  'No, nothing yet.'

  'You got the money?'

  She thought she saw a glint in his dark eyes when he said this, and felt a twinge of unease. The expression on his face remained irritatingly casual, and his lips formed the vague, knowing half-smile of someone who always has the answers. It concerned her that he didn't seem to be too worried about his daughter.

  'I'll have it by tomorrow night,' she told him. 'Come on, let's go. I want to beat the rush-hour traffic.'

  They walked in silence through the arrivals hall and into short-term parking.

  'My, my, you are doing well,' said Jimmy when he saw the Mercedes.

  'I've worked hard for it,' she answered curtly.

  'You didn't tell me what you did for a living.'

  'I know,' she said, getting inside.

  They didn't speak again until they were through the slip road and on to the M4, heading back into London. Even though it was still before five, the traffic both ways was heavy, and the atmosphere in the car was tense.

  'Why didn't you tell me about my daughter, Andrea?'

  Andrea sighed. 'Because I thought we'd be better off without you.'

  'You're certainly better off. That's for sure.'

  'You know something, Jimmy? You haven't even asked her name. Your own daughter.'

  Now it was Jimmy's turn to sigh. 'You already told me, Andrea. Her name's Emma. And cut me a bit of slack here, please. Number one, I didn't even know I had a daughter until last night. I still ain't seen a photo of her so I don't even know what she looks like. And number two, and much more important, I'm here, aren't I? I didn't have to come.'

  'OK, OK, point taken.'

  Andrea wiped sweat from her brow. The car's interior was cold with the air con blasting out on full, but she felt hot and vaguely nauseous.

  'Are you all right, love?' he asked, leaning over towards her.

  She could smell his cologne. It was strong but pleasant.

  'Yeah, I'm fine. I think I need to eat something. I haven't had anything since a sandwich yesterday night.'

  'We'll get something for you. What about your old man? Mr Phelan. Any sign of him yet?'

  She shook her head. 'Nothing.'

  She remembered how strange it had seemed waking up this morning without him there. He never stayed away from home. She did occasionally, for business, but not Pat. He always made it back to their bed, even if sometimes it was in the early hours. She still prayed that he had nothing to do with this, but with each hour that passed without any word from him it became more and more difficult to believe otherwise. But she didn't want to say that to Jimmy. It was bad enough that he was probably thinking it, without her admitting that once again she'd ended up with the wrong kind of man.

  'I found out a little bit about him,' said Jimmy. 'He's a bit of a crook, ain't he?'

  Although his tone was remarkably free of any gloating, she couldn't let it go.

  'That's rich, Jimmy.'

  'I was never a small-time little peasant like him, peddling dope and knock-off electrical goods.'

  'He's not like that any more.'

  'He doesn't need to be any more, does he? He's got you.'

  Andrea fell silent. Conceded the point.

  'Listen,' he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, 'I'm not trying to score points. I'm just trying to work out whether he's involved or not.'

  'And do you think he is?'

  Jimmy shrugged. 'Hard to tell. He's still missing, ain't he? That doesn't look too good. But it's a big step from flogging hookey gear to kidnapping.'

  'Oh God, Jimmy. I don't know what to think, I really don't.'

  'It'll be all right, babe. Don't worry. I'm here now.'


  But it wouldn't be all right, Andrea knew that. Whatever happened, the life she'd worked so hard to build up, and the life of her precious daughter, had changed irreversibly. Even in the best-case scenario, with Emma returned to her physically unharmed, she would be a different person, permanently scarred by the trauma of this situation. And Pat . . . well, Pat wasn't coming back. There was no doubt about that. And the thing was, she thought they'd been pretty happy. She would miss him, too – unless, of course, he was involved. But her instincts told her he wasn't; that he wasn't capable of putting Emma through such an ordeal. Because the thing was, as Jimmy had pointed out, he really didn't need to. He had access to money, he drove a nice car, he didn't need to work for a living, he enjoyed two or three foreign holidays a year, and he had freedom, too. Andrea cut Pat a lot of slack, so why put it all at risk for a share in half a million pounds, and the possibility that he'd end up in jail for the next ten years? She didn't buy it.

  But she still couldn't explain his absence.

  Jimmy's hand massaged her shoulder, slowly and deliberately. The sensation filled her with conflicting feelings. She still loved Pat, or at least she thought she did, but Jimmy had always done something to her, and even now she felt the first stirrings of arousal, accompanied by sharp pangs of guilt that she could even think about sex when her daughter was in the position she was in. Yet she couldn't help feeling much more secure with Jimmy here with her. He was strong, stronger than Pat could ever be, and she needed that now. But he was also trouble, and there was no part for him in her life now. Once this was over, she'd say goodbye to him for ever.

  Although something told her it wasn't necessarily going to be as easy as that.

  Four

  'Half a million quid. It looks beautiful.'

  Jimmy Galante had always loved money. He just hadn't liked the part where you had to work for it, which was why he'd chosen armed robbery and major drug dealing as his means of making a living.

  The ransom was in a large Adidas holdall that Andrea had dug out from the loft, which was now sitting open on the coffee table in her living room. Jimmy was sitting on one of the leather armchairs with a large wad of fifties secured by a rubber band in his hand. His dark eyes moved from the wad to the contents of the holdall, then back again. The expression on his face was pure, unadulterated excitement.

  'It's not all there yet,' she told him. 'I'm still sixty short. I need to pick up the rest at the bank tomorrow.'

  'Where did all this lot come from, then?'

  'Never you mind.'

  He grinned. 'Been hiding it from the taxman, have you?'

  'It's none of your business, Jimmy. The lucky thing is I've got it. It means our daughter can come home.'

  The grin disappeared, and he nodded soberly, returning the wad of fifties to the holdall.

  Initially, Andrea had been reluctant to bring Jimmy back here. She knew the kidnappers had been watching her and was afraid they might have bugged the house, so on Jimmy's advice they'd driven to a shop in Kensington which sold surveillance products and Andrea had bought a bug finder for a hundred pounds.

  When they'd got back it was already dark, and after checking there was no one watching from the street, she and Jimmy had hurried inside, and he'd gone to work with the bug finder. It had taken him only seconds to locate a tiny electronic trip switch attached to the bottom of the skirting on the front door which would have alerted the kidnappers remotely as soon as the front door was opened, and was clearly how they'd known to phone her as soon as she'd got home the previous night.

  Inside the house, though, the bug finder hadn't picked up anything, but this didn't stop Andrea feeling that the place had been violated by the kidnappers. It was now twenty-four hours since she'd found out about Emma's disappearance.

  She watched Jimmy carefully as she sat smoking what was probably her fortieth cigarette of the day and drinking her third glass of red wine, and wondered if she could trust him. She'd hoped that telling him that Emma was his daughter would stir his parental instinct, but now she wasn't so sure it even existed. In the four hours since she'd picked him up from the airport, he'd hardly asked about Emma at all, seeming far more concerned about filling his stomach. He'd insisted on ordering an Indian takeaway, at the same time bemoaning the quality of them in his little corner of the Costa del Sol. Andrea had hardly been able to touch hers, but Jimmy had fallen upon his food ravenously. He'd eaten enough for two men, and washed it all down with four cans of Stella.

  When Andrea had shown him a picture of Emma she'd brought with her to the airport, she'd said quietly, and with a sense of awe in her voice, 'This is your daughter, Jimmy. This is Emma.' His reaction had been a vague half-smile and a murmured, 'She's pretty.' Nothing else. Just those two words. She's pretty. For Andrea, this hadn't been enough. She'd wanted more. In truth, Emma didn't look much like Jimmy, but then again she didn't look much like either of them. Andrea was a natural brunette, with features that were sharp and well defined – a very attractive woman, but one with a hard edge to her. Emma, meanwhile, was a natural blonde, with small, delicate features, a round snub nose, and lively blue eyes. She was pretty in a sweet, cherubic way, and looked young for her age. The photo Andrea had shown Jimmy was a head-and-shoulders shot taken on Hampstead Heath the previous summer. Emma was grinning at the camera, showing a neat row of white teeth courtesy of the brace she'd been wearing for the previous six months, and which had been taken out the week before that shot. It was a celebration smile, and to Andrea the most beautiful smile in the world. It killed her to look at it. But not Jimmy. All he could manage was, 'She's pretty.'

  She wondered if he genuinely believed he was the father or whether he'd concluded she was bullshitting in order to get his help. It was difficult to tell. That was the thing with Jimmy. He rarely let on what he was thinking, preferring to play mind games and keep people guessing.

  As she sat there watching him, she realized she'd never really known him. On the one hand he was a ruthless bastard capable of terrible violence. On the other, he was also capable of great shows of affection. She remembered how once, not long after she'd first started seeing him, she arrived at his flat for a prearranged visit only to find that he wasn't there. Even though it was the early days of mobile phones, both of them had one, and she called him. He didn't answer so she took a walk round his neighbourhood before trying his number again. This time he answered, and he sounded breathless. Apologizing for the delay but not going into any detail as to what had caused it, he told her that he'd be back at the flat in fifteen minutes, although it was actually nearer half an hour before he finally pulled up in his Jaguar XJ6.

  As he stepped out, Andrea could tell that something wasn't right. He was looking worn out, and his hair, usually so immaculately styled, was unkempt. His shirt was partly untucked, and as he jogged across the road towards her she saw a handkerchief tied tightly round his left hand.

  'What happened to you?' she asked with a smile, looking towards the hand.

  'Nothing for you to worry about,' he answered with a smile of his own, kissing her on the lips before ushering her inside the building. 'Sorry I'm late.'

  Andrea knew better than to ask too many questions. She was aware that Jimmy operated outside the law. That much was obvious. He didn't appear to have a proper job but always had plenty of money. He'd told her he owned a construction business but was suitably vague, and tended to keep very odd hours for someone running his own company, often staying in bed with her until mid-afternoon on a weekday. Andrea was no fool. She knew. And the truth was that at the time it didn't bother her unduly. In fact, she found the whole thing very exciting. Jimmy was handsome and mysterious, a fantastic lover, and possessed the kind of wild streak a young woman like her couldn't help but find attractive.

  Once they were inside the flat, Jimmy showed that wild streak by pulling her close and kissing her hard, then lifting her in his arms and taking her through to the bedroom, where he flung her on the bed and tore off her c
lothes. They made intense, passionate love, several times in quick succession, and when they were lying, sated, in each other's arms, his free hand – the one with the handkerchief wrapped round it – gently stroking her belly, he said he had something for her.

  'What?' she asked, intrigued, trying to ignore the tiny flecks of blood on his fingers, just visible beneath the fabric.

  He clambered off the bed and walked over to where his jeans lay on the floor. She watched as he leaned down to pick them up, admiring his naked body, thinking about the orgasm she'd just had, thinking about how happy Jimmy made her, wondering how she was ever going to tell her husband.

  When he returned to the bed he had a small black box in the palm of his good hand.

  'For you, my lady,' he said with a mock bow.

  She smiled. 'What is it?'

  'Open it and find out.'

  So she did. And let out a little gasp. It was a gold necklace, eighteen carat at least, with a goldlined emerald heart roughly the size of a five-pence piece on the end.

  'Oh, Jimmy,' she whispered. 'It's beautiful.'

  'I bought it this morning,' he told her.

  She reached up and kissed him tenderly on the lips, feeling for that moment like the happiest woman in the world.

  'I love it. Thank you.'

  They spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening in bed. The lovemaking was some of the best Andrea had ever experienced. She could remember what they'd done together even now. The following morning, wearing that beautiful necklace and thinking that she'd really landed on her feet, she cooked Jimmy breakfast in bed, then went out to get the papers.

  Glancing through the Sun on the way back to the flat, a photo caught her eye. It was of an ordinary-looking middle-aged man with a beard and a side-parting, and the headline beside him read 'Hundred K Robbery: Security Guard Fights for Life'. Even before she read the article, Andrea knew instinctively that Jimmy was involved. What followed simply confirmed her suspicions. It seemed that a gang of four robbers armed with a variety of firearms had held up a security van as it made a cash pick-up from a branch of Barclays Bank in Wembley. The security guard carrying the case containing the money, whom the paper identified as forty-seven-year-old father of two Alan Jones – the man in the photograph – had tried to resist when one of the gang had grabbed the case. In the ensuing mêlée he was punched savagely in the face several times and knocked unconscious, having struck his head on the concrete as he fell. An eyewitness was quoted as saying that the robber had then kicked him several times, even though it was obvious he was no longer any threat. He was now in intensive care where his condition was described as 'poorly but stable'.