For Valour (34 page)

I managed to lever myself onto firm ground and allowed him to escort me through a small warren of passages and into a back office with flowery wallpaper and a swirly carpet. There was hardly enough room for me, him, a desktop computer that looked like it was powered by steam, and a lad with gold-rimmed Japanese-businessman’s glasses, freshly waxed hair and a pocketful of biros.

He thrust out his hand, then drew it back and left it hanging, worried that he’d already overstepped the mark.

‘You must be Ted.’

He nodded at me with barely controlled excitement.

‘Has the father explained why we’re here?’

The nodding went into overdrive, then suddenly stopped. ‘A bit, yes … He says you need to find someone for a friend.’

‘Yup. A girl we know was in your bar about a week after New Year’s Eve. She rather fancied a guy she spent some time with, but she didn’t get his name.’ I gave him my best embarrassed look. ‘From her description, we reckon it might be a mate of ours called Jack Grant.’

Ted nodded. ‘Jack’s a regular. He’s got an account.’

‘He’s abroad right now, but is there any way you could check if he was here that night? Her birthday’s coming up, and if we’re right, a bunch of us thought we might try and get them together again.’

‘Which night?’

‘Eighth of January. A Saturday.’

‘I was off. But I could ask around …’

‘That would be great, Ted. Thank you.’

As he made to slide out from behind his monitor I held up my hand. ‘But, hey, we don’t want to put you to any trouble. Why don’t you just check out your receipts? That would tell us for sure, wouldn’t it, unless he paid cash for some reason?’

Ted ran a fistful of fingers anxiously through his hair. ‘I … I don’t think I’m supposed to do that … That information is quite private …’

Father Mart gave him the sort of look that he must have handed out immediately after a five-star confession. ‘Only the level of expenditure would be private, my son, and we aren’t asking for that …’

That was good enough for Ted. He reached into the drawer below his keyboard and brought out a wad of receipts bound together with a bulldog clip. He started to leaf through them. When he’d got to the last slip he shook his head apologetically. ‘They should be in alphabetical order but … well … you know.’

He brought out another. Same result. ‘I’m really sorry …’

His disappointment was genuine.

I didn’t hide mine.

Then I had an idea.

‘What time did you close?’

‘Well, it’s the hotel bar, so it’s a bit flexible …’

‘Maybe he stayed late. If he paid after midnight, would that register as a ninth of January transaction?’

He fished out another wad. Halfway through, his expression brightened. ‘Good news. Jack H. Grant. He signed his bill at twelve forty-seven.’

We grinned and punched the air, like we’d just found the winning lottery ticket. I’d never seen Father Mart do that before. But, then, I’d never been to the races with him and Father Gerard.

‘Thank you, Ted. I have a feeling that you’ll have one very happy lady on your hands.’ I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But I guess you’re no stranger to that, eh?’

3

When I responded to Al’s text, he said that his man at Barford could get me in to the Military Court Centre detention facility tomorrow evening, when the place wasn’t crawling with people. He told me where to park up. Sergeant Mackenzie was from 4 Rifles. He’d pull up alongside my wagon in a standard-issue Land Rover Wolf 90 at 18.30 precisely, flash his main beams twice, and ferry me through the barrier.

I’d need my Nick Jones ID: my cover story was that I was part of Geoff Blackwood’s defence team. I could tell he was trying hard to stop himself laughing. ‘So the Inner Temple dress-down Sunday look is the one to go for. Your bomber, Levi’s and Timberlands will have to take a rest, mate. It’s high time you bunged them in the incinerator anyway. They were minging when we drove down to Glasgow, and that was ages ago.

‘Oh, and get yourself one of those yellow legal notepads – and some kind of Gucci slipcase too. You’ll need the guys on site to take you seriously.’

I drove into Bristol and joined the crowd of Saturday-afternoon shoppers at Cabot Circus.

Two hours later even my mum wouldn’t have recognized me. If I still had one. I’d had my hair trimmed and my stubble shaved. Gant and Hugo Boss had kitted me out with a smart overcoat, a blue blazer, button-down shirt and sand-coloured chinos that had cost me two trips to the ATM. I’d stuck with the Timberlands, though – just replaced the boots with very preppy deck shoes.

If he’d pinged me standing in front of the changing-cubicle mirror in this outfit, Al would have pissed himself, no question – which would have been right out of order for a Jock who spent his whole life in a tartan skirt. But I reckoned the Premier Inn at Andover was going to be very pleased to see me.

I shoved all the new gear into a couple of big paper bags and went in search of a stationery shop. Mission completed, I got back to the Skoda and texted Jesper on my final unused Nokia. He texted back almost immediately to say he was still checking out the French border crossings, without any joy.

It wasn’t a big surprise. Wherever she’d been taken, Ella would have made the journey wrapped in gaffer tape, and well out of sight.

4
Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire

Sunday, 12 February

The lion’s share of the territory to the immediate north of Barford Camp was MoD property: mud, undergrowth, trees and tank tracks, and a succession of firing ranges. The warning signs that surrounded it weren’t emblazoned with skulls and crossbones, but their red lettering left you in no doubt that you entered this space at your peril. If a Challenger didn’t get you, a lump of unexploded ordnance probably would.

I switched off my headlamps a couple of hundred before I turned off the road and parked up beside Range Number 2. Street lamps were dotted along the edge of the camp, but the nearest one was at least half a K away. It was almost completely dark there. I pressed the button that cut the Skoda’s interior lights. I didn’t want them to spring on when I opened the door.

I slid the Browning out from under my right thigh, thumbed on the safety and wrapped it in a supermarket carrier-bag, along with the spare mag. I hadn’t followed Al’s advice about my bomber, Levi’s and Timberlands. I’d bunged them in my daysack with my other kit and left them at the Premier Inn.

I didn’t mind hiding stuff in the wagon on neutral ground, but Barford was top of the list of known locations: I didn’t fancy leaving anything that could be too obviously traced to me while it was here. And if I ended up lifting Sam, I’d need to keep my options open. No way would they let me past security with any kind of weapon, let alone a handgun, and I didn’t want to have to come back to the wagon if everything went to rat shit.

I let my night vision adjust for another ten minutes and scanned the area for movement. Finally I got out, closed the door and locked it with the key rather than the fob so it didn’t bleep and flash its indicators. I felt the threat of rain in the air.

A six-or seven-metre-high berm had been thrown up behind the targets, and the range stretched away from it across a series of sloped firing positions, ending with a covered area fifty metres back. I needed to conceal the pistol somewhere I could identify immediately, even at night and in a hurry, and could reach without having to break cover. The opposite end of the berm from the car park seemed to tick all the boxes.

I moved to the rear of the covered firing position. Keeping between the wall and the trees that separated it from the road, I skirted the far side of the range and tucked my plastic bundle behind a bush three strides in from the forward edge.

I then worked my way round the berm and through the trees that fringed the parking space. Five minutes later a pair of Land Rover beams swept up the road and bounced over the sleeping policeman I’d coasted across when I’d gained entry. I watched it come to a standstill next to Father Gerard’s wagon and flash its main beams twice.

Sergeant Mackenzie left the engine running. His interior lights blazed as he exited the Wolf. He obviously didn’t share my instinct for caution. Or maybe he was keen to identify himself immediately as the owner of a 4 Rifles uniform, and to reassure me that he’d come alone.

I kept him waiting for a couple of minutes before stepping out across the potholed tarmac. He gripped my hand briefly, admired my new fancy-dress costume, and escorted me to his passenger seat.

The Military Court Centre was a K and a half back down the main that ran through the camp. We didn’t say much to each other on the way. He wished me luck with Sam. ‘He’s obviously one of the good guys. But he keeps his lip zipped, so fuck knows how you’re going to deal with that …’ He asked if I’d like a lift back to my motor when I was done and I said I’d be fine walking.

Arc lights flared across the entrance that led to the detention facility. Mackenzie hung a right and pulled up beside the guard room. A squaddie emerged from where he’d been enjoying a brew and trying to stop his bollocks freezing off. The temperature had dropped steadily since last light.

Mackenzie wound down the window, swapped the usual banter with him and handed over my cover ID. ‘Mr Jones is on a prisoner’s legal team. Trial’s next week. We won’t be all night.’

I leaned forward to show my face and nodded.

The sentry glanced at my photograph and poked the ID quickly back through the window as big drops of rain began to splash against the Wolf’s windscreen. He raised the barrier and waved us through.

We drove past a row of fighting vehicles – Warriors, Mastiffs and Jackals mostly – and another of five-and ten-ton trucks, but there was hardly a human being in sight.

The Military Court Centre was a brand-new, state-of-the-art set-up that wouldn’t have been out of place in an overpriced riverside development. It had been designed to send a very clear signal: this was where justice was done, and seen to be done. Except when there were good reasons to keep the whole process under wraps.

The building that backed onto it was a red-brick fifties block with a recent security upgrade. I handed over my ID again at the front desk to the nearest of the two unsmiling guards. Their expressions didn’t even change when Mackenzie tried cracking a funny about my outfit.

The one with my ID looked up and gave me eye to eye. ‘Callard case?’

‘Yes.’ I tapped my slipcase. ‘The usual last-minute stuff.’

I glanced at the SIG pistols on their belt kit. I’d have to borrow those weapons – or stay out of their way – at some point if I didn’t come out of here on my own. I didn’t know how I was going to do that yet, but nobody’d said it would be easy.

5

Mackenzie escorted me through a metal detector and two sets of electronic gates. The second of them opened into a long corridor with doorways either side of it, which was where he said goodbye.

This place hadn’t been built for comfort, but the paintwork was clean and the lighting not as unfriendly as some of the prisons I’d spent time in. A third guard was stationed halfway along the right-hand wall, outside a steel door with a wired-glass aperture. He pushed it open as I approached and ushered me inside. It shut with a clunk and I heard the sound of bolts being thrown.

The interview room was like a cell, only larger, and without a crapper. Instead of a bed, it had a brushed-aluminium table bolted to the floor, and a straight-backed plastic chair on each side of it. I took off my very smart overcoat and hung it over the back of the nearest one, then sat down and fished out my yellow lined pad and designer biro.

I’d made a few heavy legal-type notes at the Premier Inn last night, and I added to them now as I waited for Sam to appear through the far door. There were no one-way mirrors or any of that kind of shit, but I still reckoned that scribbling stuff would help our minders take me seriously.

It wasn’t long before I heard two more bolts sliding back. My heart never missed a beat, but it came close when Sam Callard came through to join me. It was like Harry had decided not to torch himself at Koureh’s house after all, and chosen this moment to reconnect. He grabbed the spare chair a bit more firmly than he needed to and sat down.

He didn’t waste time with small-talk. ‘Hello, Nick. I want you to know three things. The first is that I’m very grateful you’ve taken the trouble to see me. The second is that I can’t help you any more than I could help Mr Blackwood.’

He reminded me of Harry in more ways than one. His skin was stretched across his forehead and his cheekbones like cling-film. He wore pretty much the same expression that his dad had when all he’d wanted to do was beat Koureh’s head to a pulp.

‘What’s the third?’

‘I had another visitor last night.’ His jaw clenched. ‘They’ve got Ella.’

‘Who has?’

The skin around his temples tightened some more. ‘No idea. Grey man. No name given, but enough clout to get in here. He didn’t stay long. His job was to tell me that Trev was dead, but they won’t hurt her – as long as I don’t change my plea. She’s their insurance policy.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘I stick with the negligent-discharge admission and rely on Blackwood to defend me against manslaughter.’

I shook my head. ‘No. I mean, what happens to Ella? Whoever has her won’t just open the door and wave goodbye as soon as you’re banged up.’

I could tell by his expression that this wasn’t news to him. But the lad was well and truly caught between a rock and a hard place.

6

I leaned forward and gave him a couple of seconds to start looking me in the eye. ‘Sam, your dad always used to say I danced like Virgil Tracy walks, but that’s not why I’ve suddenly become Mr International Rescue.

‘Trev was one of my best mates, you know that. Harry too, since way back. And your girlfriend got taken because I fucked up. I thought I was helping to find a way of sorting out this shit and getting you off the hook. I was wrong. I helped whoever lifted Ella to find her hiding place instead.