Death Sentence (23 page)

Satisfied he had everything he needed should Adams attempt to outwit him, he turned back to the woman. Ah, a flicker of life at last. Patrick noted a flutter of her eyelashes. About time, too. He’d barely touched her, one slap was all, and she’s spark out. Wasn’t going to be a lot of fun to play with unconscious, was she? Hmm, he didn’t know though. Even caked in mud, those legs were
very
tasty.

Patrick walked back to where he’d trussed her to one of the cross-beams, crouched, and slid a hand appreciatively up the outside of her leg, from her calf to her thigh. Her eyes sprang open then. Huge they were. She looked like one of those cute little bug-eyed bush babies, Patrick thought, standing to eye her amusedly. He’d caught her by surprise, obviously. Didn’t like being caught by surprise, women, always complained if you fancied an impromptu shag, which astonished Patrick every time. Why else did they think he’d keep them around, stuffing his bathroom full of their crap?

She didn’t look very comfortable. Patrick’s gaze strayed upwards, climbing her stretched arms, to her tied wrists and then on to the tops of her fingertips. Actually, she looked nice like that, he mused. Like a ballerina mid-pirouette, graceful and feminine, like women should look. And quiet, not gobbing off all over the place. Patrick dismissed a pang of guilt, as his mind drifted briefly to Chelsea, who’d rattled on like a train, most of it inconsequential drivel which grated seriously on his nerves.

Her wrists looked sore. Patrick started a downward perusal. Her own fault though. She’d left him no choice but to tie her up properly. And Patrick was a bugger for detail. Never leave anything to chance, his old man had drummed into him. Get emotionally involved with a woman, chances were she’d use his emotions against him, rob him of his dignity and his dosh and then bugger off and leave him. They were like that, tarts: manipulative little schemers, the lot of them. Chances were this one, with her wide ocean-blue eyes brimming with tears, would try to do just that. Hadn’t she already? Blinking beguilingly at him over the tape he’d placed over her mouth out of necessity. And then making a bolt for the sodding door the second he’d relaxed a bit and decided to trust her.

Well, no more. Give them an inch and they’d take a mile. Patrick reached to undo his tie, leaving it loose around his neck. If she wanted to piss about, she should know she’d be kissing her old man goodbye. End of.

‘He’s determined to settle old scores, see, your husband,’ rolling up his shirt cuffs, Patrick picked up where he’d left off. ‘Always trying to fit me up in any way he can. You’d think he’d let it go, wouldn’t you. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, it’s history. I beat the crap out of him. My old man does the same to me. He’s responsible for the death of my brother. I kill his kid. That didn’t go entirely to plan, I have to admit. She wasn’t supposed to be with you, see, but when you have to rely on idiots …’

Knitting his brow, Patrick paused to ponder. He didn’t hold with hurting kids, not normally, but … ‘
Quid pro quo,
I call it plain and simple.’

He shrugged and went on. ‘But will Adams let it go? Oh, no. Relentless, he is. Unbalanced, if you ask me. Dangerous in a copper that, especially a high-ranking—’

Patrick trailed off as his mobile rang. He plucked it from his pocket and checked the number.

‘Typical,’ he muttered. ‘Work, wouldn’t you know it? Idiots, all of ‘em. Leave ‘em alone for one minute … Sullivan?’ He pressed the phone to his ear and waited.

And paced, and sighed irritably.

Rebecca watched him, terrified. He was out of his mind, utterly insane, every statement he made more ludicrous than the last. What was he going to do with her? Dear God, what was he planning to do to Matthew? Following his progress, Rebecca attempted to tug on the ropes binding her hands, only to wince as a searing pain ripped through her muscles, every sinew in her body seeming to burn simultaneously. Feeling the stress of her impossible position through her abdomen, a dull ache in her pelvis, Rebecca was almost glad of the tape on her face supressing the choking sob in her throat.

‘So why are you ringing me? Just sling her arse out the door!’ he bellowed into his phone, turning sharply back to stride towards her. ‘What does she think she’s doing at a lap-dancing club, debuting for
Strictly Come Dancing?
Silly cow. If she’s too stuck-up to fuck, tough!’

Growing obviously more agitated, he span on his heel and marched away again.

‘
Christ-Almighty,
are you completely mental, or what? We do
not
discuss drugs consignments on the phone. How many times do I have to tell—?’

Rebecca watched him as he stopped talking to listen. ‘Tell Hayes I’ll call him,’ he said tightly and then eyed the ceiling. ‘I said. Tell. Him. I’ll. Call. Him!’

He turned back then, his face taut and white. ‘Right. And what about the progress on my boat?’

Another agitated sigh, then, ‘What do you mean
what
boat? My yacht, you thick twat! Have the marina called to say the service is done?’ He massaged a temple with his free hand. ‘Good.’

Jabbing at the phone to end the call, he ferretted in his inside jacket pocket and retrieved his cigarette box. ‘Heavies? Huh. Like a bunch of bloody fairies,’ he muttered, flipping open the top and dropping one of his vile smelling cigarettes into his mouth. ‘I swear if they had a brain cell between them, it’d die of loneliness.’

Pausing long enough to light up and draw in deeply, he turned back towards her, clearly considering what his next unpredictable, petrifying move might be. Rebecca felt herself flinch as he took a step towards her, his soulless black eyes roving all over her.

‘Course, none of this would be happening if it wasn’t for your husband,’ he said, blowing out a fat cloud of smoke and then plucking tobacco from the tip of his tongue. Rebecca inwardly recoiled, recalling how he’d slid that tongue wetly across her cheek and down the side of her neck.

‘
You
wouldn’t be here.’ Patrick pointed the joint he held between his thumb and forefinger at her. ‘
I
wouldn’t.’

He took another draw, narrowing his eyes as he looked her slowly over.

‘I certainly wouldn’t be owing money to dangerous bastards who never give up. Do you know how they collect, sweetheart, if you can’t come up with the goods?’ Cocking his head to one side, he watched her, scanning her face as if waiting for answers. ‘They start with fingers. Then they move onto more delicate areas. I’ll leave it to your imagination as to where. Then again,’ his mouth twisted into a disgusting smirk, ‘why leave things to the imagination …’

Rebecca gagged as his gaze travelled down her body.

‘What was that, sweetheart?’ He looked back to her face, his eyes full of mocking innuendo. ‘You getting all excited, are you? Desperate for a real man to fuck you, I bet.’

Rebecca tried to look away, but there was nowhere to look, except down. Lowering her gaze, she breathed deeply, her chest heaving, and then, courage surfacing from somewhere deep inside, she snatched her eyes back to his. She would
not
let him subdue her. He could hurt her, bruise her. Rebecca felt hot tears roll down her swollen cheeks. But she would
not
let him break her spirit.

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ he went on lewdly, enjoying himself. ‘I quite like to do it standing up. What d’y’think, shall we give it a go? Or maybe you’d like to wait until hubby gets here? Might turn him on enough to give you a proper seeing to, you never know. Nah,’ he said, taking another step towards her. ‘We might as well get you warmed up while we’re …
What the—?
’

He stopped, whirled around as a loud crack beyond the door interrupted his vile monologue.

‘Stay,’ he said absurdly, moving swiftly across the room to grope in his bag.

Rebecca’s eyes grew wide, as he straightened up.
Oh, dear God.
Her heart twisted inside her, as her gaze fell on the shotgun.

****

Dropping flat amongst the house-building debris, Steve didn’t dare move to take even a breath. Mud oozing beneath him, in his mouth, in his nostrils, rain slashing against his back, he stayed down. One arm outstretched before him, his mobile God knew where, he tried to stay calm, to remain detached, to not recoil from the stone-cold hand protruding from the earth, touching fingertips with his. Then, squeezing his eyes closed, he prayed.

Sullivan was yards away, the only thing obscuring Steve from his view: discarded beams and abandoned breeze block. His gun held high, Sullivan stepped closer. Steve ducked lower, pressing himself into the slush and slime underneath him.

He was merely feet away now. Steve could hear the man’s shoes squelching as he walked towards him. His heart hammering like an express train, Steve froze and waited, sure he would soon hear the dull thud of the gun emptying into his back, and then breathed out as he heard Sullivan mutter, ‘Fucking foxes.’

His body jolting as a single shot rang out, Steve stayed low, cautioning himself not to react. His own skin aside, that bastard had Rebecca in there. Steve had to stay alive. He had to get help.

‘Vermin, the lot of ‘em,’ Sullivan growled, his footsteps sucking into the mud as he moved away, back towards the house.

Overwhelming relief flooded through him; Steve stayed prone, praying hard. He let two minutes pass after he heard the front door open and close, and then eased his head up a fraction. He saw the coast was clear and slithered backwards, away from the lifeless grey limb, washed from the mud as if trying to claw itself free. A woman’s hand, Steve had registered, wearing a gold wedding band.

Elbows for leverage, the contents of his stomach threatening to rear up and choke him, Steve shuffled around, swiped rain from his eyes and squinted in the vague direction he’d come. He had to get back to the lane. His car was a fair distance away, but without his phone which had flown from his grasp when he hit the ground, that was the only way he’d get help. And Rebecca needed it. Now.

He silently cursed Matthew for not confiding in him, leaving him to put two and two together. Wasn’t hard, admittedly, once he’d realised Rebecca was on the missing list and who the apartment in Mayfair belonged to.

His heart breaking for the man, Steve took his chance. Glancing over his shoulder, he eased himself to his knees, checked again, and then pulled himself to standing. Keeping low, stumbling here and there over the deep tyre tracks left by digging equipment, he eventually straightened up and ran.

He’d almost reached the lane when he felt the impact, like a sledge-hammer slamming into his chest. The use of his legs gone in an instant, he seemed to fall in slow motion this time. His first sensation was an odd tingling, surging throughout his entire body. Seconds later, his left lung began to squeeze, making his breaths short and agonizingly painful. The warm sensation, he supposed, as his vision began to fade, was his blood flowing from the wound in his torso. His last thought, as he instinctively sought to protect his head from the assailant looming over him, was that if he didn’t turn up for his wedding, his fiancée would probably kill him.

He didn’t move as Patrick gave him another nudge with his foot. No reaction at all.
My, my
, Patrick thought,
we are an obedient little lapdog, aren’t we? Jumping at your master’s command, ready to die to protect him
. Had to admire that in a way, Patrick supposed. He only wished any of the cretins that worked for him were half as dedicated.

So, now what did he do with him? It occurred to Patrick, gazing around for signs of anyone in the vicinity, that whatever it was, he’d better do it quick. He was banking on anyone who might have heard the shots assuming it was a farmer going about his business. He’d heard shots himself, famers culling this or killing that, he’d guessed, so that wasn’t a problem. A dead body out in the open, however, just might be. There was no way he could leave him here, ready for some nosy-parker early morning walker to fall over. The filth would be crawling all over the show in no time.

He’d have to move him, he supposed. Him and his sodding car, inconsiderate bastard, he might have parked it closer. Supressing his irritation in favour of getting the job done, Patrick propped his gun on his shoulder and squatted to go through the copper’s pockets for his car keys.

Well now, what have we here?
A smile crept across Patrick’s face as he extracted an evidence bag containing certain personal items: his. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought, holding the bag high.

‘Job well done, DS Ingram. Take a promotion,’ he said. Patrick’s smile faded, though, as he noticed the blood staining his pristine white shirt.

Chapter Eighteen

He was taking a chance, breaking in. The likelihood of finding anything that might lead him to Becky here was slim, but Matthew had hoped to find something. What he’d found, up until now, was nothing. The house was pristine. Knowing Sullivan’s meticulousness, the madman got irked if even fresh air dared settle on his clothes, the cleaner was no doubt made to earn her money. Removing bloodstains from grouting, though, obviously wasn’t part of her job description. Whoever had attempted to scrub these stains out clearly hadn’t had the right tools.

Crouching by the side of the pool, Matthew examined the stains more closely, and then, noticing several strands of hair, felt himself reeling. Nausea grinding inside him, he immediately registered the colour, blonde, not Becky’s.
Thank God.
Relief flooding through him, Matthew carefully bagged the evidence and held it up to the light. Sullivan’s wife’s, he wondered? If not hers, then who’s? And where was his wife? His daughter? A cold-blooded sadistic bastard the man might be, but Sullivan doted on his daughter. Matthew doubted any harm had come to her. Chelsea, however … In Sullivan’s eyes she’d be just a woman, ergo an object to be used for his pleasure and then disposed of when he felt inclined to move onto the next.

Matthew should call it in. Taking her obvious absence into account, the definite signs of injury to someone, evidently a female, he really had no choice, but how could he? Glancing out across the pool as he got to his feet, Matthew tried to think, and then almost had heart failure as his mobile echoed shrilly around the annexe.