Payback

  Karla sipped her tea, a determined look on her face. “It’s been almost two days since he rang,” she said.

  Lucie looked over her cup at her friend. She looked terrible, her skin pale and drawn. She’d obviously not been sleeping.

  “I just don’t know what to do,” Karla continued. “One minute it’s all okay and the next he’s blowing all cold, like he wants to end it.”

  Lucie reached across the table, squeezing Karla’s arm. “Perhaps you should think about taking some time out. Giving it a bit of space. You need some time to yourself Karla, you can’t go on like this.”

  Karla’s stared down at the table, red hair curtaining her face, and when she finally looked up, Lucie could see the tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “Oh Karla,” she said, wiping away her friend’s tears with a tissue. “Is it really worth all this heartache?”

  “I love him,” Karla said. The simple statement implied that was all that mattered.

  “I know, but even so.” Lucie sat back, toying with the idea of being honest with her friend.

  She should have told Karla months ago to end the relationship with this man - he was obviously a no good, selfish son-of-a-bitch.

  “Listen Karla,” she said, leaning across the table and taking one of her friend’s hands in hers, “you said yourself that Frank has spent years in prison - and for murder! I mean to say—”

  “Yes I know, but he was innocent. He promised me he didn’t do it.”

  Lucie said nothing. Karla’s eyes were fixed on hers, the hurt in them overwhelmingly powerful. She sat back and sighed. Karla’s love for this man was obviously too much for her to listen to any reservations that she might have. There was nothing she could say or do that would dissuade Karla from continuing to see him.

  “I don’t care what you think, Lucie. I know he didn’t do it. He’s not capable of such a thing.”

  Getting up, Lucie fetched some biscuits. Not that she was particularly hungry, but because it gave her something else to concentrate on, and it just might stop her from blurting out something hurtful. This man was playing her friend for a fool. He had no real feelings for Karla at all, he was just using her. Why else would he still be playing these hurtful mind-games after all this time?

  She returned to the table and sat down, pushing the plate of biscuits towards Karla with arched eyebrows. “So what do you intend doing then?”

  Karla picked up a biscuit and studied it for a moment, then dipped it into her tea. She gave a shrug and a bitter half-laugh when a piece dropped off with a soft splosh.

  “That about says it all, doesn’t it?” she said, spooning out the soggy pieces and tapping them into the saucer. “My life is one big dog’s dinner, just like this bloody biscuit, but no amount of fishing about with a teaspoon is going to sort out this particular mess, is it?”

  Lucie shrugged, thinking it best to say nothing.

  Sighing, Karla took a drink of her tea, pulling a face when she got a mouthful of soggy crumbs.

  “Want me to pour you a fresh cup?”

  Karla shook her head and picked up her phone to check the time. “No, it’s okay thanks. Guess I should be going. It’s getting late.”

  Saying her goodbyes, Lucie stood at her front door, watching her friend walk down the path to her car, wondering how such a nice person had managed to get involved with such a low-life as Frank Collins.

  Whatever happened between them, it wouldn’t be good, that much was for certain. Why couldn’t she see the man for what he was?

  “God-damned arse!” Lucie swore, slamming the front door.

  *

  After talking to her friend, Karla had made up her mind that she would put some space between herself and Frank, and this time she meant it. She needed time alone to think things over. Lucie had been right, something was wrong between her and Frank, and she had to figure out what to do about it.

  Coming back to her empty house, she sat on the settee with a cup of hot chocolate, going back over the past couple of years, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

  Why had he kept so many secrets from her? If he really thought anything of her at all, surely he’d have told her about his past and let her make up her own mind?

  The doubts and questions flew around in her head like a murder of crows that had suddenly been frightened into the air; cruel, noisy black shadows, their calls only leading to further dark doubts.

  Where had he been for the past two days? What had he been doing? What had he meant when he’d said that his daughter had not killed herself. That he had some kind of proof?

  Unable to cope with the muddle of questions inundating her, Karla decided to go to bed and sleep on it before it drove her crazy. Her mother had always told her to sleep on a problem - that it would become clearer in the morning. She hoped that her mother’s advice would turn out to be right this time, even though she didn’t hold out much hope that it would.

  To make sure she had an uninterrupted sleep, Karla unplugged her landline and turned off her mobile. The last thing she needed right now was a call from Frank in the middle of the night.

  Chapter 31

  “Come on, get a move on. We have to leave for the airport in the next hour if we want to catch our flight.”

  “But I still don’t understand, Marcos. Why do we have to go tonight? Why can’t we wait until tomorrow?”

  Marcos tried to snap the locks on the suitcase shut, but it had too many clothes inside. He flipped open the lid and dumped a handful of his wife’s clothes back on the bed.

  “Because we can’t,” he answered.

  Marcos saw his wife eye the dresses he’d just tossed from the suitcase, but knew she wouldn’t argue with him, she never did. She turned to a smaller suitcase instead and began packing the children’s clothes. “Where will we stay?” she asked.

  “With your mother. At least until I buy us a house.”

  His wife straightened from her packing and stared at him.

  “I’ve been saving,” he said, careful to keep his attention on the task at hand, so that he wouldn’t have to see the disapproval he knew would be lurking in her eyes.

  “What have you done Marcos? Where has all this money suddenly come from that we can afford to buy a house? Is this why you’re making me rip our children away from everything they know - their friends and school? Have you done something so bad that we have to run away now?”

  Marcos sighed loudly and went to her. He took her shoulders in his big hands and looked down into her eyes.

  “Have I ever let you down?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Haven’t I always done what’s best for you and the children? Looked after you all like a good husband and father?”

  Her head moved in a slight nod, the worry still bright in her eyes.

  “I really don’t have time to explain it all now,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Just please do as I ask and get things packed as quickly as you can.”

  “But—”

  Marcos was saved from any further argument by the buzzing of his mobile. Pulling it from his pocket, he nodded at the suitcases and clothes spread out on the bed, then hurried from the room.

  “Yes?” he shouted into the phone.

  “Is that Marcos Farris?” A pleasant voice he didn’t recognise.

  Marcos closed the kitchen door and sat on the edge of the table. It groaned slightly under his weight.

  “Yes,” he responded after a slight hesitation.

  My name’s Bell, Cole Bell. Mr Hunter asked me to collect you.”

  “Collect me?” Marcos tried to switch his thoughts from getting out of London as quickly as possible, to the man on the phone. He didn’t have time for this. He had a plane to catch.

  “Sorry I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Mr Hunter would like to see you. Right away.”

  “Look I’m busy right now. Tell him I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  Shoving the mobile back in his pocket, Marcos headed back up th
e stairs to the bedroom, but had only taken a couple of steps when the doorbell rang. Swearing, he turned back and hurried down the hall.

  A small, slightly Chinese looking woman, stood on the doorstep. She had a gun in her hand and a slight smile on her lips.

  “I suggest you accompany me to the van, Mr Farris so that we can have a little talk,” she said. “Mr Hunter has a few questions he would like answered.”

  Marcos hesitated, calculating whether he could disarm the woman without getting himself shot.

  “Who is it, Marcos?” his wife called from the top of the stairs.

  “Get back to the bedroom and keep packing,” he called to her, eyes still firmly fixed on the woman in front of him.

  “But the—”

  “I said get in the bedroom!” he yelled.

  The woman nodded and stepped to one side. “Good, that’s very sensible of you. We don’t want any unpleasantness with your family, do we?”

  A man stood on the pavement, holding open the garden gate. He nodded and smiled, directing Marcos to a van parked at the kerb with a wave of his hand.

  Marcos felt the fight leave him and stepped out onto the path, closing the front door behind him with a soft click that had a fatalistic finality about it.

  “You wouldn’t have been able to disarm me, you know,” the woman said, ushering him down the path towards her companion. “I saw the thought in your eyes. Far better that you come with us, than to get yourself and your family killed, is it not?”

  The van took off at a sedate pace, with Marcos securely cuffed hand and foot behind the driver’s seat. He swallowed back the dryness in his throat and the sickness that sat in his stomach, struggling quietly with the cable ties that bound his wrists and ankles. All he managed to do was make his wrists sticky with blood, so he gave up, turning to look towards the front of the van.

  The woman and man sat silently in their seats. Marcos could see the passing buildings through the windscreen between their heads. He wondered where they were taking him.

  “Lay still,” the man ordered when he tried to sit up to get a better view. The gun pointed at his head persuaded him to lay back down and keep very quiet.

  The van finally pulled into what appeared to be a large unlit car park. The woman turned off the engine and the couple sat quietly for some time. They seemed to be studying their surroundings. Marcos could hear the soft tick of the cooling engine and the rustle of the man’s clothes as he leant forward to check something he’d spotted outside.

  “Nobody about,” the man said softly. “Let’s get this done.”

  As the doors opened, Marcos shot his feet out in a powerful double kick. In the time it had taken for his captors to get to the back of the van, he’d managed to work himself over to the doors and lay on his back, knees drawn up to his chest, ready to kick.

  Marcos had no intention of going down without a fight. He knew in his heart of hearts that this was going to be no question and answer session, where he’d get to go home afterwards. They intended to kill him.

  The woman took the full force of his kick in the centre of her chest. The blow lifted her off her feet and shot her backwards. She collapsed onto the tarmac and lay still.

  Marcos’ legs were now hanging out of the van, and he struggled to sit upright, banging his skull off the roof. He swore, shaking his head, trying to clear his vision.

  The next thing he knew, his face exploded in pain and he was slammed flat on his back, his head cracking off the metal floor. The man climbed into the van and knelt beside him, the point of his knife pushed up into Marcos’ nostril.

  “You’d better hope that you didn’t do any permanent damage,” he said in a low growl.

  The knife sliced through the soft skin of Marcos’ nose and he was left groaning, tears flooding his eyes as the man clambered back out of the van again.

  Marcos could hear the couple’s murmering voices outside, but could make no move to escape. His eyes wouldn’t focus and he felt a cold patch on the back of his head where it had connected with the floor.

  The couple finally climbed into the van, slamming the doors shut. Marcos swallowed hard.

  The interior light flicked on and he could sense that the woman had her gaze locked on him. She was breathing heavily.

  Marcos’ vision cleared a little and he looked up into her eyes. He didn’t like the expression he saw there one little bit.

  The man leant over and poked Marcos’ nose. The pain was incredible, but he did his best to hide it. The man smiled and nodded, as though in appreciation of a challenge well met.

  Then brought his hand into view.

  Marcos’ eyes narrowed as the overhead light glinted from the sharp blades protruding from the handle of the craft knife.

  Chapter 32

  If he was being honest with himself, Frank would have had to admit that he was despondent and angry in equal measures - an unusual combination of feelings that he was having trouble dealing with.

  On the one hand, whenever the image that was now permanently burnt into his mind popped into his consciousness again - something that it did with a disabling regularity - a terrible black rage overtook him, and he could think of nothing other than tearing Conrad Hunter’s bowels from his body and making him eat them in front of him.

  On the other, was a terrible realisation that his relationship with Karla was falling apart and he could see no way of saving it . . . except perhaps one.

  Frank had tried ringing Karla a couple of times while on the train, but his calls had gone straight through to her answering service. He’d left messages that he would be arriving at Inverness soon, and that he had something really important to tell her.

  He planned to ask her to marry him!

  The train finally pulled into the station and Frank hurried back to the guard’s van, where he unloaded his bike. Trying Karla’s number one last time, he grunted his dissatisfaction when he had no success, slipped on his gloves and pulled his bike out on to the main road. Traffic was light this early in the morning and twenty minutes later, he was speeding down the A9 toward home.

  As Frank’s bike purred its way along the tarmac, his mind was only half on his riding. He eased his grip on the handlebars, suddenly aware of how tightly he’d been grasping them. His thoughts had been back with Conrad Hunter again and what he would do to the man who’d destroyed his daughter’s life - probably not the best thing to be thinking about when speeding along at nearly eighty miles an hour.

  One thought dominated now - one thought that kept returning to haunt him, no matter how he tried to push it away. He fought hard to dismiss it, arguing with himself that he had all the evidence he needed now to get Hunter sent down for murder, so he had no need to take any action against the man himself.

  He should let the police do it. The photos would be enough proof . . . but at the back of his mind, he knew that without the evidence of the girl, they might not be. She had run off to Ireland and he had no idea where she might be.

  Conrad Hunter deserved to die for what he’d done to Mandy, and it was up to Frank to make sure that he did. He had no option. There was no other way.

  The realisation brought a kind of relief and he straightened his back, sitting more comfortably astride the big machine as he opened the throttle and amalgamated with the throb of the engine - totally alive for the first time in a decade.

  He hadn’t been there for Mandy when she was alive, but he damn well would be now that she was dead!

  *

  The ride back to his cottage had enlivened Frank and he now felt as tall as a tree, slamming his bike up onto its stand with a new vigour. He could do what needed doing, he had the contacts - it would just take some planning and a little bit of luck. He was on a swing now, nothing could stop him. It was just like the old days again - when he was Hunter’s minder - a time when nobody would have dreamt of getting in his way.

  This one is for you Mandy, my precious baby. This one is for you!

  As he entered the l
ounge, Frank’s attention switched to the answering machine. A single red light blinked on its silver fascia, and the intermittent bleep notified him that a message was waiting. Pushing the button, he listened as Karla’s voice came from the tinny speaker. She spoke in a halting tone, her words disjointed and making little sense.

  Frank played the message again, slowly sitting as he listened, his whole body ice-cold, a large empty space where his stomach used to be. He sat perfectly still after the message had ended, unheeding of the bleep that indicated a further message waited, his mind numb.

  Slowly he stood, grasping the arms of the chair to steady himself, then made his way across to the cupboard, stretching out a trembling hand for the bottle he knew was there.

  He didn’t bother with a glass.

  Chapter 33

  Mai Bell clutched a handful of the big man’s thick hair, steadying his head while her husband held the knife close to the sweating face.

  “We prefer using two blades in this craft knife,” she said in a gentle tone. “That way the skin is shredded far too badly for any doctor to repair. It leaves a real nasty mess.” She sounded as though she were lecturing a class on plastic surgery.

  Mai Bell nodded at her husband and, using a quick downward thrust, he sliced the man’s cheek open . She could see the shock in the man’s eyes, but he made no noise. At the moment it would feel like a sharp stinging sensation, no more than a nasty paper-cut, say. But later, when Cole had added a few more, deeper cuts, the pain would become apparent.

  Mai Bell smiled down at him, ignoring the story of the future in his eyes, should he ever manage to get free. She nodded again and a second pair of deeper, parallel cuts, appeared alongside the first. This time the man did flinch.

  “What the hell you want from me?” he managed between gritted teeth, his accent much thicker now.

  “Two things,” Mai Bell said. “Firstly, do you have any more photos of Conrad Hunter and the girls? And secondly, where do I find the girl called Chantelle?”

  The man stared at her silently and she nodded again.

  “No, wait!” he shouted.

  Mai Bell held up her hand and her husband lowered the knife.