Nothing Sacred (28 page)

‘Say they're registered offshore?'

‘Apparently.'

‘I know some people. I'll get back to you. Juicy, that what you said?'

‘Fat and.'

‘My language. Leave it with me.'

I hang up and my mobile tells me that I have missed four calls and that they are all from Maria. I cannot hide from her any more. But I do not know how I can face her. I call her number and close my eyes as it rings and I am relieved when it goes through to her voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message, before I hear her greeting. I would not have known what to say anyway.

By the time I get home it is late, nearly the end of the second day. Only four left to go. Maria is not there, although she has cooked. It is possible to reconstruct her evening from what is in the kitchen: the unwashed pans, the two place settings at the table and the opened but untouched bottle of wine. I do not need to look into my waste bin to know what is in there. She has not left a note and there is no message on my phone. I am trying to protect her from Blake, but I cannot help but wonder what I am destroying in the process.

Four days to go. Charles had better come through with that name.

27

IT IS ASTONISHING
to me how little there is in Connor Blake's file, how thin the evidence against him is, considering he committed a brutal murder in public before over thirty people. No forensic evidence, nothing physical to incriminate him, no CCTV footage. Just the word of one person. I spend the morning once again scrutinising all of his paperwork, looking for something, anything that can point me to the identity of Witness A. I reread the coroner's report, go back through all of the witness statements. Then I read Witness A's statement again, his disbelief at what he had witnessed, his unwillingness to accept that evil like Connor Blake's could exist in our purportedly modern and civilised society. I read Connor Blake's interview, his relentless denials. I can almost hear his pleased tone, his smug assertions that he had nothing to do with what had happened, that they had the wrong person. Within these pages is nothing to give me any idea of who Witness A is: no clues, no indications, no indiscretions that might betray his identity.

The last pages are a list of the names of the witnesses in total: everybody who had been there that night. I have looked at it before but not examined it. Witness A is not on it and every other witness has denied everything. Still, I place them on my desk and look at them. A list of names, no more. No addresses, no photographs, just names in black and white.

I get up and refill my coffee cup in the entranceway, sit back down, take a drink. There are thirty-two names on the sheet and they are listed in alphabetical order. I read through them and I do not recognise any of them. I stare at the paper and unfocus my eyes. One of the witnesses is called Leighton, which is not an unusual name but not a common one either. Leighton Finch. I do not recognise the surname but the first name stirs something. I cannot place it. I lean back in my chair and think. But the more I think, the more elusive it becomes, like reaching for something in a tight space and accidentally pushing it out of range, and eventually it is gone and I wonder if I was mistaken. Perhaps it is the name of somebody on TV or in a film.

It is no good. There is nothing here. My future now rests on the actions of Charles, a spineless, weak man who I hope is desperate enough to do what I have asked him. But, if I am honest, I doubt his nerve.

Maria has not called and I have not been in contact and when my mobile goes I think that maybe it is her. But I do not recognise the number and when I pick up it is Jack.

‘Global Armour, Danny. Those boys like to keep themselves to themselves.'

‘Guess that's the way with mercenaries.'

‘Way with everyone, my son. Who wants to pay tax?'

‘Did you find anything?'

‘Registered overseas, like you said. Tricky to find anything but I have a mate. You know how it is.'

‘I know you're connected, Jack.'

He laughs. ‘I wish. But yeah, I've got a mate. He did some digging, turned up a few names. The directors. Not a lot else.'

‘Okay. Whatever you've got.'

‘You'd think, wouldn't you. British nationals running round the world, got every kind of weaponry you can imagine, you'd think there'd be somebody keeping an eye on them. Instead, they're registered offshore, hardly exist. Making a ton of money.'

‘Blood money.'

‘All smells the same, Danny boy.'

‘So what've you got?' I ask again.

‘Okay, so. Names and addresses. Four directors. Got an Connor?'

‘Writing them down.' Gabe might know them. ‘Who else?'

‘P. Mitchell, two Ls. Hang on.' I hear him speak to somebody, say thank you, he'd take care of it, leave it on his desk. He came back. ‘Sorry, Danny. Right, next. Got an F. R. Pieters, spelled P, I, E, T. South African, I'd say.'

‘Got it.'

‘Last one, G. Strauss. Like the composer.'

Gabe had called him Gavin. Major Gavin Strauss. ‘He's a director?'

‘Says here. Mean something to you?'

‘Jack?'

‘Yep?'

‘Thanks for this. Got to go.'

Gabe is not answering his phone and when I get to his house his car is not there, and there is no reply when I knock on his door. I know that Gabe is capable and highly trained, but Major Strauss has the backing of most of 7 Platoon, and besides, Gabe does not know what I know. Strauss has the advantage of surprise over Gabe and I cannot help but worry for him.

I call Jack back at his office and his line rings and rings, and I am about to give up when he answers.

‘Yes?'

‘Jack, it's Daniel again. You said you had addresses with the names.'

‘You want Strauss's.' A statement, not a question. Jack has been a newsman too long not to pick up on a story.

‘You got it?'

He reads it to me and I thank him again and get back into my car. Strauss lives in a village twenty miles away and I can be there in a few minutes, although I do not know why I feel the need to hurry. Gabe not answering his phone is the norm rather than the exception; he is a man who is always hard to pin down. It would be better to wait, to face Strauss together. But I have a feeling of disquiet, of things not right. It may be linked to what is happening with Blake and Maria but I cannot sit and wait for Gabe to resurface. I need to do something.

*

Major Strauss lives in a red-brick and clapboard cottage with a thatched roof, which sits behind a low hedge on a narrow lane in the village of Gamble's Green. When I get there it is still light, although it is fading. Strauss's car is on his gravel drive. I pass his house and park on the road further up next to a gate giving into a field. I can see his house in my rear-view mirror and for some time I just sit and wonder what I should do. Knowing Gabe, he would want to sort this out himself, would not want somebody to act for him. But he is still not answering his mobile and I cannot be sure that Strauss hasn't already done something to him, dramatic as that sounds to me.

No cars pass and the village feels deserted as night falls. I spent the previous evening watching the Blakes' home, playing out revenge fantasies in my head that I lacked the strength to carry out. I will not do the same tonight. I am about to get out of my car, walk to Strauss's house and see how things play out, when his car's headlights come on and he pulls out of his drive, onto the road and past me.

I start my car and pull out to follow him. He drives fast. He knows these roads, has driven them many times, and I have trouble keeping up as he takes narrow bends at fifty, sixty miles an hour. We are heading back the way I had come and I wonder whether he is headed for Gabe's, but he takes a small lane that climbs up under a canopy of leafless trees. At the end is a restaurant, a sign lit up saying The Black Horse. It has big glass windows and has been modernised and inside it is bright and I can see tables inside, can see people eating.

Strauss turns a corner and enters the car park. I park on the road outside, sit and wait. Soon Strauss comes back into view on foot and walks to the entrance of the restaurant, goes inside. He speaks to a waitress who nods and leads him to a table. He passes out of view. Sitting in my car I feel anger, a rage building, for how he has misled my friend, for what he may have done to him, for his lies. I get out of my car and I feel as loose and purposeful as I would before a tennis final, almost elated by my anger; after so much helplessness I have a target and it feels good.

I push open the glass door and the waitress smiles at me. Her smile drops when she sees the set of my face. I walk past her and over to Strauss's table. He has his back to me and I walk around the table, which is set for two, and sit down opposite him. He is surprised to see me and for a second his face gives him away – he looks as guilty as a cheating husband.

But he quickly recovers, smiles, says, ‘Daniel. What are you doing here?'

I reach across the table and get my fingers inside his collar and tie, my knuckles brushing his Adam's apple. I grip and stand up, haul him over the table. Cutlery and crockery spill onto the floor, a wine glass smashes. He is bracing himself with both hands on the table, trying to stop me from pulling him all the way over. His face is up against mine, his chin over the back of my wrist. I could bite his nose off. His eyes are not as frightened as I would like.

‘Where's Gabe?'

‘You imbecile.'

‘Where is he?'

Strauss looks amused. ‘I think he needed to visit the men's room.'

‘Danny?' The voice comes from behind me and I know it well. I turn and Gabe is standing looking at me, a confused smile on his face. ‘Problem?'

Everybody in the restaurant is watching us, although when I meet their eye they look away. I let go of Strauss and he sits back down, smoothes the front of his shirt, adjusts his tie.

‘What's going on?' says Gabe.

‘Your friend wants to join us for dinner,' says Strauss, but Gabe cuts him off.

‘Asking Danny,' he says. ‘Danny?'

‘Ask the major about the directors of Global Armour,' I say.

‘Ah,' says Strauss.

A man who I presume is the manager of the restaurant comes over. He is short and French.

‘Gentlemen? Please, not in here.'

‘We're leaving,' I say.

‘Right,' says Strauss. ‘Things you need to hear. Follow me.' He has lost none of his composure, has assumed control despite what I have done to him, as if he is the one calling the shots. He gets up and walks to the exit.

Gabe frowns at me. I nod slowly and he nods once back, and although no words have been exchanged I know that Gabe is behind me, that he is in my corner.

We follow Major Strauss outside. He walks around the side of the restaurant, through a gate into the car park, which has three rows of cars parked on the gravel. I can see Gabe's near the entrance.

‘Where are you going?' I say.

‘Follow me,' Strauss says.

‘Why?'

‘It's in my car.'

‘What is?'

‘You'll see.'

I slow up. I do not like this. Gabe stops at my shoulder.

‘We'll wait here,' I say.

There is a dark van next to us. Suddenly its side door slides open. I can see figures inside. As I turn to look, two men approach us from the other side of the van, one from the front, one from the back.

‘Shit,' says Gabe.

‘In,' says one of the men. It is the man from the tennis court. Banyan, Gabe called him. Called him a killer.

I back up slightly, tense my arms. Gabe shakes his head at me.

‘In,' says a voice from inside the van.

For a second Gabe does nothing. I hear the sound of the rack of a gun being slid back. I don't know whose gun it is.

‘Your friend,' says Banyan to Gabe. ‘He's nothing. We'll shoot him now.'

Gabe nods and steps up into the van. I cannot believe he is giving up. Then I look at the two men, their guns. Gabe is right. What choice is there? I step up as well.

Banyan and the other man climb in after us. Major Strauss watches us from below as the door slides closed. Somebody steps onto the back of my calf and suddenly I am on my knees. The floor of the van is hard. It is very dark.

‘Go,' says Banyan. I recognise his voice. The van starts and pulls forward, and I almost lose my balance on my knees. I put out a hand to steady myself and it touches somebody. Whoever it is takes my hand and bends my fingers and thumb. The pain is incredible.

‘Sit,' a voice says, and I sit. My back butts up against the side of the van. I can make out Gabe next to me. Then somebody turns on a light and I can see that Gabe and I are sitting against one side of the van and three men are in with us. They are wearing jeans and boots and jackets. Banyan is standing, smiling, one hand on the ceiling of the van to steady himself. The other two, sitting, have the capable air of hard men. They watch us without interest. Gabe does not seem curious either. He is breathing evenly, relaxed. The van turns corners, slows and speeds up and we rock with it. It is quiet.