Behind Closed Doors (21 page)

I needed to get back to Tina's friend Sammy. If she still insisted on bringing in the police we couldn't stop her. We'd tidy up what we had and hand it over.

Our grand plan to coerce the Slaters into spilling the beans was shot. Plan B was to go after McAllister directly. We had enough material to interest the police. Maybe they'd disrupt his games for a while by looking into his connections with the three families. It would have been better if we'd had enough to blow the thing open but you sometimes have to go with what you've got.

Shaughnessy came out as Lucy considered the question of whether we had enough to close McAllister down. Decided not. ‘The thing stinks,' she concluded, ‘but I don't think you've enough fertiliser yet to sow your oats.'

Shaughnessy and I looked at each other. When Lucy tosses metaphors you need to duck.

‘Lucy, you're a poet,' said Shaughnessy.

I shook my head in wonderment. ‘Lucy, we should pay you more.'

‘You should pay me,' she said.

Shaughnessy went out and Lucy busied herself closing up. I figured I'd call it quits myself after I'd made a couple of calls. Arabel was free tonight. We'd already arranged to get together, although when she saw my new wheels the chances were high that she'd suddenly remember a prior engagement.

I decided to start on writing up something creative for Gina Redding's report. The thing that interested Gina was over. Her commission was finished. But first I'd call Sammy and see if she was about to blow the whistle. Or whether we still had a little time to go after McAllister. I was also wondering whether I might find Tina Brown at home tonight if I drove by Holland Park.

It turned out to be open season for telepaths. My phone rang while I was scrolling for Sammy Vincent's number.

‘Eddie?'

‘Sammy, I was about to call,' I said. ‘See how you want to go with things.' I was about to give her a summary but she cut me off.

‘Tina sent a text,' she said. Her voice was scared. ‘Something has happened.'

‘What sort of thing?'

‘She says someone's got her. I have to go to the police now, Eddie.'

‘Hold it a moment,' I said. ‘Does Tina say where she is?'

‘No – only that she's on a farm.'

Her voice was breaking. I told her to slow down. Asked when she'd received the text.

‘Ten minutes ago,' she said. ‘Jesus, what's happening? Who's got her, Eddie?'

Questions, questions. I had a few of my own but the main issue was what else was in the text. There are a lot of farms in the UK.

‘Is there any more detail?' I said.

‘Just a name,' Sammy said. ‘Addingford.'

Addingford.

McAllister's farm.

I drove across the city through rush-hour traffic. The Citroen's three-cylinder act had the car bucking and jumping as I worked my feet to keep the engine alive at each stop. Either the distributor was shot or the HT leads were cracked through. Something that tended to get worse rapidly. The unreadable emergency number on my rental contract was playing on my mind but I consoled myself with the thought that it was unlikely anyone would turn out to tow me even if the number had been embossed in gold leaf.

Sammy had agreed to hold off whilst I took a look at McAllister's farm. The place had been deserted when Shaughnessy checked it yesterday which suggested that the text was a ruse. Ruse or not, it was a lead I couldn't ignore. Answers of some kind were waiting there.

I crossed the river at Westminster and took another hour to reach the M25 at Swanley. I eased onto the motorway and rolled south in the inside lane at the fifty-five limit the engine could handle. The intermittent misfire settled into a regular beat that promised trouble soon. Traffic was heavy but it was all faster than me.

Shaughnessy had located McAllister's farm a mile off the A21 south of Lamberhurst. If I got a clear run I could be there by seven. I pulled into the middle lane to pass a battered Transit and crawled past it with an artic coming up fast in my rear-view with no indication that it was about to slow. The truck's radiator grille expanded until it filled my mirrors and the roar of its engine shook the Citroen enough to set the oil light flickering but not enough to move the petrol gauge out of red. I got past the Transit and pulled back to the slow lane. The artic batted me with a side-gust and horn blast and roared past. When the truck got clear, I read the logo. Tailgate letters six feet high: HP LOGISTICS.

I felt a shiver down my spine. Even with my new wheels the bastards had spotted me.

I hit the A21 and drove down to Lamberhurst. It took me ten minutes to find the farm. The place was as Shaughnessy described, a shale track dropping down to a cluster of buildings five hundred yards from the road. Spring cereal was profuse in the surrounding fields. They were either someone else's fields or McAllister rented them out. I didn't see him driving a John Deere.

I found a copse five hundred yards past the track and backed the Citroen into a stub road against a barred gate. The engine stalled as I was manoeuvring it in and I left the car where it died.

The copse was separated from the farm by a field of spring barley. I climbed a gate and walked along the edge beside the woods which took me down to a meadow below the farm. I struggled over some barbed wire and walked back up the meadow that curved towards the house. The buildings were losing definition in the dusk, as were the cowpats scattered all around me. You had to tread carefully in this game.

A gate opened into a farmyard. The sight of concrete rather than mud was a relief. I cut down between a rotting corrugated metal storage barn and a modern concrete and brick structure. Reached the house. There were no lights inside. No cars parked. If someone was home they were hiding.

I walked around the barns. The rust holes in the older building showed glimpses of farm machinery. McAllister probably rented out the building along with his fields. I walked to the new structure to check that there were no vehicles parked there before I went to look inside the house. Maybe Tina Brown's text was genuine. Maybe she was here and needed help. Maybe her abductors had been considerate enough to leave her mobile phone in her hands. But maybe not. My guess was that someone was waiting for me in the house.

The barn was open at the end. I walked in. Spotted two vehicles inside. One was a tractor. The other was a Merc S Class, so out of place that I knew something was up. Then someone stepped from the shadows behind the tractor. He didn't look much like a farmer. Not unless farmers were in the habit of pointing shotguns at visitors. When the figure came into the light I recognised Ray Child.

I barely had time to sneer at my own incompetence when a second figure emerged. Paul McAllister was also pointing a gun. I'd expected them to be inside the house. Hiding in the cowshed was more in character. I would have left but McAllister told me not to move and waved his gun at my face. It was a Mossberg 500. He literally waved it, like a smart-alec with a blade. I'd never seen that done with a big gun. I wondered how heavy McAllister's trigger finger was.

The two of them came over. I didn't know who was more scary. Ray Child, who held his gun as casually as a kid with a stick, or McAllister who wanted me to know that this was all good fun.

‘Mr Flynn,' he said, ‘my advice failed.' He lifted his eyebrows to jog my memory. I waited while I tried to think of a smart reply. With a Mossie pointing at you the smartest thing to say is nothing. I went for that option.

‘The advice,' McAllister clarified, ‘about keeping your nose out.'

I gave him the evil eye. It was the only weapon I had.

‘I guess you didn't hear either,' I said. ‘I told you it's coming undone. Even before I talked to the Hanlons. Before we went back to the Slaters. We've got your scheme, McAllister, and we've got the evidence filed and indexed.'

McAllister made a mouth. ‘I'm weeing in my pants, Flynn,' he said. ‘Truly I am.'

He didn't actually seem scared but then the Mossberg wasn't pointing at him.

‘Is Tina Brown here,' I asked, ‘or have you learned to text by yourself?'

McAllister's brows stayed high, surprised I was even asking. The eyebrows suggested that I had more to worry about right now. But you can't keep a detective's curiosity down.

‘Is Tina part of your operation or just a victim?' I asked him.

McAllister gestured with the Mossberg. Child came round to my side and suddenly his gun swung and the stock hit me like a sledgehammer just below my ear. I didn't go down but I danced a little. The side of my face opened like a ripe tomato and warm blood trickled onto my collar. I swore with gusto and turned to face Child. Just a little further round and he'd be in McAllister's line of fire. But Child wasn't quite so stupid. He stayed clear, watching me with his casual air. On some kind of whim he pulled the gun up and pointed it at my head like he was considering things. He didn't have orders to open fire but I knew I was on a tightrope.

‘People know I'm here,' I told McAllister. ‘It's going to be hard to clean up if your gorilla does something stupid.'

McAllister's eyes stayed on mine. ‘I'll give you ten out of ten for bullshit, Flynn,' he said, ‘but only one for brains. You had the chance to walk away from this. But now here we are.'

‘Call me persistent,' I said.

‘Yes,' McAllister said, ‘I'll do that. Where's your car?'

‘Behind the office,' I said. ‘Standing in a pool of rubber.'

McAllister gave this some thought then tried again.

‘You came by car. Where is it?'

I described the stub-track. If it was the Citroen he wanted it was his. He should have just told me.

‘Key.'

I reached into my jacket and flipped him the ZX's key. He caught it. The Mossberg never lost track of my abdomen.

McAllister flicked his head in the Merc's direction.

‘Pop her.'

Child pulled out a remote. The Merc flashed like a Christmas tree and the boot hissed open. McAllister tilted his head. ‘Get in,' he said.

I looked at the shadows inside the open boot and suddenly some very bad outcomes were flashing through my mind. I breathed against a sudden tension clamping my chest.

‘I don't ride in car boots,' I said.

McAllister dropped the barrel of the gun. It was pointed at my feet. ‘Flynn,' he said, ‘walk over or we'll carry you.'

Child stayed clear of McAllister's line of fire and watched me with interest to see if I would be stupid enough to call his bluff. I wasn't so stupid. The odds were clear.

I went over and climbed into the Merc's boot. It wasn't actually bad inside but then again I'd arrived in the Citroen.

The two of them stood over me. I expected the boot lid to slam down but they waited. Child held out his hand.

‘Mobile,' he said.

Some you lose. I handed it over.

‘People know where I am,' I repeated. ‘If you're thinking of doing something stupid it's not going to work.'

‘Unfortunately,' said McAllister, ‘I don't believe you. You're here on your tod, Flynn. I can smell it. And we've a place where no one is going to be looking for you. You're a liability we can't afford, my son.'

The boot lid slammed down.

Blackness.

The Merc's engine whispered to life.

I hadn't really expected to find Tina Brown.

I felt the Merc climb up onto the road and turn down towards where I'd ditched the Citroen. Thirty seconds later we stopped and someone got out. Child, I figured, taking the booby prize of driving the wreck. The Merc turned and left him to it.

I'd seen it in the movies but this was my first time in the boot of a car. The combination of suffocation and blackness played hell with the senses. Whenever the car turned it felt like I was spinning through space and my stomach floated with every dip in the road. In a situation like that it's useful to have something to distract the mind. Fear works well. All kinds of things were dancing through my mind in the dark, and uppermost amongst them was that I had just disappeared from the world as far as McAllister was concerned. He just needed to complete the arrangements to make it permanent. When we got to wherever we were going I'd be lucky for a single shot at getting out of this thing. I said a few choice words into the dark.

The Merc cruised for twenty minutes then turned onto a side road whose surface had me bouncing off the boot lid as if McAllister was trying to write the car off. Maybe it just seemed worse in the dark. Probably we were crawling. Blood was dripping from the side of my face onto McAllister's carpet. The guy needed to sharpen up on the incriminating-evidence side of crime.

Finally we stopped. It was quiet for a few minutes before I heard the Citroen's exhaust in the distance. The din got louder until it was like machine-gun fire outside the boot. Then the Citroen's engine died and the Merc's boot clicked open. I squinted up at McAllister's gun. He was still waggling it in that funny way of his. I climbed out.

We were in a narrow lane. Fading daylight showed me a thatched cottage backing onto trees. The lane continued but didn't look like it went anywhere. We weren't going to be bothered by traffic tonight.

Child pushed open a wooden gate and walked through the cottage garden. He disappeared around the back of the building.

I watched McAllister but he'd read my mind. He stayed out of reach.

‘Go ahead, Flynn,' he said. ‘I'll put you down right here. I pay Ray to clean up so it's not any bother.' He jerked the gun provocatively like that would make me rush it. I wasn't about to do anything so stupid. But I was going to have to do something soon. I didn't need McAllister's mind-reading skills to know that his plans for me were about to reach their conclusion.

Child came back round. I thought he was carrying a second gun. Then saw it was a spade. He held it casually alongside his shotgun down by his right leg. He had a couple of flashlights too, handed one to McAllister. McAllister waggled the Mossberg again and indicated a path that ran down the side of the cottage into the trees. He flicked on his light. We set off. Me first. McAllister three paces behind. Child further back. When we got into the trees I was looking for an opening in the undergrowth where I could do a head-dive and scarper before McAllister pulled the trigger but a jab in my spine gave me the benefit of a second opinion.

The path climbed inside the trees. A hundred yards up it branched and McAllister told me to stop. I turned round. McAllister kept the torch in my face and told me to turn right back.

‘Hands on the tree,' he said.

I walked over and placed my hands on the rough bark of the tree trunk in front of me. McAllister kept his distance. Not even the hint of carelessness. We were only ten or fifteen miles from his farm but I hadn't a clue which direction we'd taken. Suddenly these woods were a lonely place.

Even lonelier when Child stepped off the path and picked out a shallow mound of earth with his flashlight. He propped his shotgun against a tree while I speculated on what might be under the mound.

Child put his foot to his spade and started digging at fresh undergrowth. Maybe I'd seen too many movies but I was putting two and two together, and the tension was sitting firmly across my chest to tell me that I'd screwed up badly. I'd been looking for an opportunity to dive out of these guys' gunsights since Child had first slammed me back at the farm and I knew now that they weren't going to give me any such chance. McAllister was holding his attention on me like a snake eyeing a mouse. So now I knew it: I had one last ruse, and if that didn't work I was truly in shitsville. I heard McAllister light a cigarette behind me and tried to keep my voice even.

‘You're making a mistake,' I said. ‘I've left information on where I was going tonight. It'll point right to your farm, McAllister.'

The words sounded desperate even to me.

McAllister didn't reply. Child kept digging. It was like I'd ceased to interest them.

‘You aren't going to cover it,' I insisted. ‘Two people missing. Both connected to you. There's a file in my office a mile thick that points to you. When my partner picks up that information he's going to be taking a trip to your farm. You're screwing up, McAllister.'

‘Keep talking, Flynn,' McAllister said. ‘Ray's going to be a while.'

‘Suit yourself,' I said. ‘But when your file is handed over you'll be crawling with cops. They'll tear your little game to bits.'

McAllister hissed smoke behind me. ‘So maybe we'll pay a visit to your office and borrow the file,' he said.

‘You'll be too late. My partner will be there tonight.'

‘That would scare me,' McAllister said, ‘if I thought your partner was working the night shift. But I think your sidekick's at home with his feet up or his leg over. I think you're full of shit, Flynn.'

‘You have my phone,' I said. ‘Check the messages.'

‘Why would I do that?'

‘You'll see.'

Five yards away Ray Child quit his spade work to take a breather. The undergrowth was tough. He'd barely cleared a six-by-three area and taken the soil a couple of inches down. I wasn't complaining. He could take all night.

‘Pull the trigger, Paul,' he said. ‘We're not going to get any peace until Mr Snoopy is out of it. Why isn't he doing the spade-work?'

Wouldn't work. I dig slow.

But I knew that McAllister couldn't care less whether they dropped me in an hour or right now. Suggestions like Child's I could do without.

McAllister was silent behind me. The dancing of his flashlight told me that he'd pulled out my mobile and was pressing buttons. Curiosity and all that. He didn't believe there was anything to give him a problem but he couldn't resist a peek. There was only one message in my inbox and I knew by the continued silence that McAllister had found it.

‘What's this?' he said.

‘A message from my partner. He'll be heading back to the office anytime now. He'll pick up my note then stash your file somewhere safe.'

‘Is there a problem?' Child asked.

‘Maybe,' said McAllister. ‘Looks like Snoopy's as good as his word. Okay Flynn, what's this text about?'

‘Just like it says. That's my partner confirming that he got my message to call by at the office if I don't contact him by ten. He'll read my note pointing to your farm. There's a couple of them will be round there tonight. Maybe you can just shoot them all.'

‘They can look all they like,' McAllister said. ‘There's nothing to find there.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘You had the girl at the cottage right here. But the farm was where I was headed tonight. If I go missing everything will point to you, McAllister. You're not going to put out that fire.'

‘So you want to see us burn, Flynn?' Child pulled the spade out of the ground and came towards me. Just a few feet more and he'd be within McAllister's line of fire. When he swung the shovel I'd be ready.

‘Wait,' said McAllister.

Child stopped.

‘We'll go back to the house,' McAllister decided. ‘I need to put a lid on this.'

‘Let's bury him first,' Child said. ‘Save listening to any more hot air.'

‘No. I want you to get to their office before his partner. Take everything that matters, including Snoopy's note. We'll come back out here when I've had a good look at what they have.'

I breathed out quietly against the bark of the tree. I'd needed McAllister to buy that one. It was only a delay but it would give me time – and this time there'd be just the two of us. McAllister was a cold case but I could maybe work it.

Child looked like a kid who'd had his sweets stolen. He planted the spade and picked up his shotgun. McAllister aimed the torch back down the track.

‘Walk,' he said.

I didn't need a second invitation.

We walked back down to the lane and went in through the cottage garden.

Child opened the house door and switched on the lights.

The parlour was old-fashioned but without charm. Cheap furniture and frayed carpets, nothing to say it was ever lived in. Just an untraceable rental. Somewhere for McAllister to keep his abductees.

An IKEA coffee table held an ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a doorway to the back kitchen gave a view of unwashed cups and takeaway cartons. Someone had been staying here and someone else had been watching them. My guess was that Rebecca Townsend had spent the last ten days in the house. Maybe Tina Brown too.

‘Give me your jacket,' McAllister said.

I turned and gave him a puzzled look. McAllister's eyes stayed uninterested but his gun twitched and Child started to move towards me. I didn't fancy another tap in the face so I took off the jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. McAllister waggled the Mossberg some more.

‘Pockets.'

‘The office keys are in my jacket,' I said. ‘Or are you looking for fivers?'

The gun dipped to point at my feet. I turned out my pockets. There was nothing there. Ray Child rooted through my jacket. Came out with a Swiss knife, a dry-cleaning ticket I'd lost and a bunch of keys.

‘These open up the office?' McAllister asked.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Don't leave the lights on.'

His eyebrows raised.

‘You're a very funny man, Mr Flynn,' he said. ‘You should be on the telly. Probably pays more than snooping, and I hear it's better for your health.'

‘I had a bad career advisor,' I said.

McAllister gestured to an armchair in the corner of the room.

‘Make yourself comfy, Flynn,' he said. He handed the Merc's keys to Child.

‘Put your foot down,' he said. ‘In and out before Mr Snoopy's friend pokes his nose in at the office. If the guy does arrive while you're there, close him down.'

Child turned his ugly smile on me. ‘Maybe we can put your whole firm out of business tonight, Flynn,' he said. ‘If he turns up at the wrong time your private dick partner will wish he'd never read your text. Stayed safe in front of his telly.'

Shaughnessy never watched TV but Child didn't know it.

Neither had he read any text, but I didn't mention that either.