The Vanishing (36 page)

The gun was a shotgun, pointed at Barsukov. But Barsukov didn’t look frightened. Tom was right behind him. Tom
was
frightened. He stepped sideways, quickly, out of the line of fire.

‘Who is that?’ the man shouted. ‘Is that Lomax, the idiot who was with her?’

‘He’s police, Freddie,’ Barsukov said quickly, calmly.

To the side of Tom he heard Sara yelling, speaking for the first time since the man had dragged her forward. ‘Don’t kill anyone, Daddy. They’re going to free me. Don’t shoot.’

Barsukov started to laugh. Tom edged farther away from him. The man was Freddie Eaton, he realised.

‘You fucking double-crossing fuckers!’ Eaton shouted in crisp Etonian. ‘Trying to rip me off! Fucking Russian scum!’ He looked like he was drunk, but the gun was real, and was held perfectly steady. Two barrels, one on top of the other. Barsukov held his hands up, still laughing. Sara shouted something else, something about it all being under control.

‘I’m not police,’ Tom shouted up to him. ‘I came here to free your daughter …’

Barsukov laughed again. ‘He doesn’t want her free,’ he said, loud enough for Sara to hear. ‘He paid us to kill her. That’s how all this started – he paid Maxim to kill his daughter. Arranged it through Arisha.’

There was a terrible silence. Eaton had his eyes on Barsukov, the gun held steady. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he said.

‘He has a son,’ Barsukov said. ‘He has a son with Arisha. So you’re in the way, Sara Eaton. On Friday every penny of your mother’s fortune goes to you – didn’t you know that? Freddie would have nothing left, so he paid Max to kill you. If you’re dead it all comes to him.’

Tom looked up at the open container. Sara was still standing in front of Sidurov, held there with a gun against her head. Her face was working, the muscles moving fast, clamping her jaw. She looked stunned. She’d heard it all.

‘We thought we would just take a little cash off him instead,’ Barsukov said, speaking to Sara, but looking up at Eaton. ‘That was Arisha’s idea.’

That seemed to have an impact. Eaton started to turn crimson.

‘You didn’t know that, Freddie?’ Barsukov went on. ‘Arisha came to me with your twisted idea – to kidnap and kill your own daughter. She suggested we twist it a little ourselves. Kidnap her, tell you we had her but wouldn’t kill her unless you paid us a little sweetener …’

‘You fucking Russian bastard,’ Eaton interrupted. ‘I told you I would pay you your stupid money. I told you I would pay you …’

‘But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted to rectify an injustice. We thought we would have you pay what was yours,
everything
that was yours, then simply release Miss Eaton. She would inherit and you would be fucked. That was what I wanted, Freddie. Nice scheme, eh? You have to admit it’s nice.’ He looked over at Sara. ‘We didn’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘In fact, if it hadn’t been for our little kidnap he’d have killed you already …’

‘Shut up, Barsukov!’ Eaton shouted. ‘Shut up!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Eaton. Put the gun down. We’ve all had our fun, but it’s over now. This story between us will have to continue elsewhere. You’re not going to start killing everybody here. That’s not you. Besides, you only have two shots.’

‘Two is enough. One for you …’

‘And one for her?’ Barsukov interjected, then laughed again.

Sidurov shouted something in Russian, but Barsukov didn’t reply.

‘
You
do what we agreed you would do,’ Eaton yelled at Sidurov, glancing in his direction. ‘You carry it out as we agreed and we will all walk away.’

‘But what about him?’ Barsukov asked, pointing at Tom. ‘You’d have to kill him as well now.’

‘Daddy?’ Sara said, her voice tiny. ‘Daddy. What is going on? What are you telling him to do?’

‘Shut up, Sara,’ Eaton said, not even glancing at her.

‘He wants you dead,’ Barsukov said. ‘He’s telling Max to kill you, to do what he’s already paid him to do. Don’t you understand that? Aren’t you listening? That’s what this is all about. He paid us to kill you.’

‘Daddy? Tell me it’s not true …’

‘I’m not your father,’ Eaton snapped at her, brutally. But his eyes and the gun never left Barsukov. ‘Shut her up, Sidurov,’ he yelled. ‘Do what you were paid to do!’

Tom looked up at Sara. She was starting to cry. He himself felt nothing but confusion and fear. It looked like Sidurov was experiencing the same. He had a gun to Sara’s head, but it was dropping now. He was unsure where he stood. What was the point of holding her hostage when Eaton wanted him to shoot her anyway?

‘You’re not my blood,’ Eaton grunted, his mouth twisting. ‘You’re nothing to fucking do with me. I have a son to think of, a real son. He needs to live, he needs what is rightfully his. It’s not me you should be blaming. That mad bitch who was my wife has done all this. She left us nothing. While you’re alive we get nothing. She wanted it all to go to you. All she could see was you. It’s the most monstrous, unnatural spite I’ve ever come across. It’s insane. Because nothing belongs to you. Nothing. There’s not a drop of my blood in you. I swear that I shall die before you inherit a penny. I can’t allow it. I have my son to provide for. No father would allow it.’ He moved the gun suddenly away from Barsukov, turning it towards Sara. Tom saw her flinch, saw the surprise in Sidurov’s eyes. He was right behind her. If Eaton fired now it would kill them both. Sidurov shouted again in Russian, maybe asking Barsukov what to do. He sounded desperate.

‘Pull that ladder up and put it here, Barsukov,’ Eaton said. ‘Or I’ll let them both have a barrel now.’

Barsukov sighed. Tom couldn’t believe how calm he was. His own heart was beating so heavily he could barely hear anything else. Barsukov walked to the ladder and pulled it up, then rested it against the container near Eaton’s feet. ‘Yes. Come down here, Freddie,’ he said, tiredly. ‘Let’s talk about debts, shall we? Debts and betrayals.’

Tom was frozen to the spot, didn’t have a clue what to do or say. Eaton held the gun in one hand and started to come down the ladder, his body twisted so that he could still shoot. He barked instructions to Barsukov, telling him to move farther off. He was almost at the bottom of the ladder when there was movement off to the right, where Sara was. She must have hit Sidurov, because when Tom looked he was doubled up, still clutching at her, still holding on. Tom started to step towards her, horrified, saw her wrenching an arm from Sidurov’s grasp then stepping in front of him to the edge of the container. He realised suddenly what was going to happen.
She was going to jump.
He turned his head and saw Eaton shouting, bringing the gun up with one hand. Sara went into a crouch.

She leapt a split second before he fired. Tom was ducking, his hands in the air over his head, his eyes on her. He could see her pushing off, straightening, reaching out ahead of her to grab the ledge if she fell short. The blast was deafening. He thought it would blow her head off. But she was already past it. Instead Sidurov took the shot full on, reeling backwards into the side of the container. As Sara landed Sidurov dropped his weapon and keeled over, clutching at his head. A moment later he was toppling into the gap.

She was quickly on her feet, rushing away from them all, across the platform towards where the ladder had been. Eaton was spinning where he stood at the base of the ladder, tracking her, trying to get a clear second shot. Barsukov ducked and dived flat out, under the line of the gun. The distance between Tom and Eaton was only a few feet. He saw Eaton raising the gun to aim better, both hands on it now. Tom hurled himself forward – two, three steps – barging into Eaton with all the force he could gather, knocking him against the side of the container. The gun went off again, firing high and wide. Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw Sara leap straight off the edge of the container, down on to the one below. He struggled to get a hand up to Eaton’s face, across his mouth, forcing his head back, his other hand going for the gun. Eaton was shouting and grunting, opening his mouth to bite Tom’s hand. He looked old, but he was stronger than Tom had guessed, and fighting with a desperate energy. He twisted free, easily, then swung the gun round, stock first, smacking the thing into the side of Tom’s head.

Tom felt his legs crumple. He fell against the container and slipped slowly to the ground, his coordination gone, the world spinning all over again. He had a premonition of Eaton stepping back, reloading, shooting him where he lay, but Eaton didn’t even look at him. The gun dropped with a clatter and he was running after Sara. Tom rolled over and started to retch. He needed to get up, chase after them, but it was too much. He managed to stand with his arms against the side of the container, his legs quivering. He couldn’t see where Eaton had gone. He sank to his knees and sucked at the air. He had to get up. But his vision went and he couldn’t see a thing. He thought he was spinning through the air, thought he too might have fallen into the gap with Sidurov.

But when it stopped he was still on the metal surface where Eaton had hit him, flat out. He couldn’t see anyone now. Above him, the container door where Sidurov had stood was swinging on its hinges, the metal beside it splattered with blood. There was no other noise, just the squeaking of the door’s hinges. No sign of Sidurov, Barsukov or Freddie Eaton. He waited a moment, until he could breathe better, then forced himself to his feet.

He had to pull the ladder over to the edge. He was halfway down it when his balance gave out and he slipped off. He fell painfully, twisting his right knee. But he managed to stand, and started to limp back in the direction he had come, going as fast as he could, his feet resounding off the container roofs. All the time he was listening, trying to hear anything that might give him a clue which direction they had gone.

He got off the long ladder and back into the main corridor at ground level – the one with the forklift – just in time to see Barsukov getting into his car in the distance. He didn’t wait for it to move. They couldn’t have gone that way. He started to run in the other direction, a lopsided movement that wasn’t very fast. Before he got to the end of the row he had tripped twice and landed flat on his face.

Clear of the last container he ran into a high mesh fence. Beyond it he could see a low wall, then the Thames. The tide was out, the river itself only visible at the edge of a long, sloping mudflat. But they couldn’t have got over the fence. It was too high. He stuck his hands through the mesh and hung on it, catching his breath, trying to get his head to clear.

There was a sharp noise from off to the right. He looked over. There were a few makeshift buildings there, breeze-block walls, plank roofs. One of them stuck out towards the river on a concrete pier of some sort. He started to shuffle towards it, then heard a scream. He began to run, gasping and panting, his heart jerking inside his chest. He shouted Sara’s name at the top of his voice. He thought he would keel over and pass out at any moment, but instead he kept going, started to get faster as he got used to the pain in his knee, the way his head was trying to trick his balance. He still collided with the side of the building, though, misjudging the distance. He flopped on to the ground again, terribly dizzy and out of breath.

There was a wooden door, swinging on its hinges with a broken lock. He could see it from where he was lying. He heard her scream again, heard her shouting something. It all sounded muffled, far away. He thought she must be inside the building and started to crawl towards the door. After a few seconds he could get to his knees again, then stand by leaning against the wall. He stumbled through the door and almost fell straight over an edge.

It was some kind of deserted, dilapidated dock. The high roof was falling in, planks hanging precariously, shafts of light slanting into the cold gloom. He picked out two dank concrete walls going straight down into the low-tide mud, about twelve feet below, with ladders leading down. He could see where the mud stretched towards the front of the place and joined the riverbank. There was a tall iron fence across the entrance, strung with flotsam left there by the high tide, plastic bags, bits of planking, a broken bicycle, all caught up in the mesh and just hanging there. The fence would block access to the river, but still let the water in at high tide. At high tide the whole area between the two walls would be under water. In the past, they had moored boats here, unloaded them. There was a jagged hole in the fence blocking the river end. As long as the tide was out someone could get through it, squeeze through, get on to the riverbank, escape. Was that what Sara had done?

He was starting to move towards the end of the dock to check when he heard her right below him. Maybe she had been trying to get out to the river, but she hadn’t made it. He had to step forward and look over the edge to see her. They were in the mud, both of them, right below him, Sara and her father, struggling wildly with each other. It was like something happening in slow motion, with muted sound – a slow, desperate floundering in the stinking, sucking mud. Sara was up to her waist, her face covered in it, gasping for air. Eaton was right beside her, striking at her, hissing through his teeth. It took Tom a moment to interpret it correctly. Eaton was trying to push her under, trying to drown her in the stuff.

They were both sinking, slowly. Even as he watched, Sara twisted backwards and sank a little deeper. She was flailing around urgently, begging with Eaton, crying, pleading, still calling him ‘Daddy’. The mud was up to her waist. Eaton wasn’t saying anything. He was up to his knees in it, right in front of her, his back to Tom, his head about five feet lower than Tom’s feet. He was catching her arms, hitting her, pushing her back. He managed to get his hands over her face and she fell sideways with a dull slapping noise. Tom could hear Eaton panting with the effort.

There was a half-brick on the edge, just in front of Tom. He picked it up and stepped unsteadily towards the edge. He could throw it from there, but didn’t trust his aim. He staggered sideways and found the ladder down, then swung himself round and over, holding on with one hand, taking the rungs too quickly, expecting to fall. Sara started to scream at the top of her voice. He looked over, heart in his mouth. She was flat on her back now, lying in the mud. It was already closing over her. There were fallen planks on the surface, but too far for her to reach. He had to get them to her.