Death Sentence (31 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ he finally offered, at least attempting something near contrite.

‘Too little too fucking late, Adams,’ Patrick snarled and tensed the lead. ‘Will
sorry
bring Chelsea back? Well, will it? If
you
hadn’t turned up, poking around in
my
business, she wouldn’t be lying out there now stone-cold-fucking dead!’

‘
Jesus Christ!
What do you
want?
’ Adams looked up at him.

Terror in his eyes, Patrick saw, with some satisfaction. Wasn’t so high and mighty now, was he? Towering over him, putting the boot in, his little lapdog standing by and watching him. Bastard.

‘For starters: you to grovel, Adams. To crawl on your hands and knees and beg.’

‘I’ll do it! Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Please …’ Adams glanced towards his wife and back ‘… let them go.’

Patrick looked him over. ‘And where would the fun be in that?’ he asked leisurely. ‘I want them to see, Adams. I want your adoring little family to
know
what a snivelling little coward you are under all that police bravado. How, when push comes to shove, you would gladly sacrifice them to save your own worthless skin.’

The copper ran the back of his hand over his forehead.

Patrick wasn’t too happy with him moving without permission, but he gave him that, given his current position.

‘You see, Adams,’ he went on coolly, ‘in my mind, people who intimidate and bully other people, calling them names, like
bastard
and
animal
, when they’re obviously neither of those things, need to be taught a lesson, don’t y’think?’

He paused to let that sink in. ‘You’ve humiliated me once too often, Adams. Even way back when we were kids you just couldn’t resist, could you?’

Matthew looked desperately at him, no idea where the hell this was going.

‘Don’t look as if you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Sullivan fumed, ‘getting me hauled up, in front of everyone, taken the piss out of. I bet you just loved that, didn’t you, Adams?’

The school assembly?
Matthew’s heart lurched in his chest. This was utterly insane.

‘That requires an answer, Detective.’

Panic clutching at his insides, Matthew scrambled for the right one. ‘No. I …’

‘Louder, Adams.’ Sullivan gave the lead another tug.

‘Yes! Whatever! Just …’ Matthew’s voice cracked. ‘For pity’s sake, let them go!’

‘Pockets, Adams, empty them,’ Sullivan instructed. ‘Everything on the floor. Now. And if you’re thinking of using the gun you no doubt have secreted about your dubious person,’ he aimed the shotgun at Rebecca, ‘she just might fall off her shoes. Get my drift?’

Hopelessly, Matthew nodded and looked back to Becky.

The fear constricting his throat threatened to choke him as he met her eyes. Her eyes were haunted, desperately pleading above the ugly tape on her face. Her limbs were shaking. Her feet pushed into stilettos. Blood-red stilettos. Matthew felt his own blood run cold. The kind of heels she’d often said she couldn’t walk in to save her life. And now her life depended on her staying upright in them, perched on a box, her hands tied behind her, a rope around her neck which would pull tight and hang her in an instant if …

God, no.
Perspiration running in rivulets down his back, Matthew hurriedly fumbled to retrieve the contents of his pockets. Finding his wallet, he laid that on the ground, followed by his phone. His hand closed around the cold metal of the gun in his other pocket. It might as well be a water pistol. There was no way to use it. No way to risk trying. Pulling in a ragged breath, which stopped painfully short of his chest, he lifted the gun out, laid that on the ground, and then waited.

‘Push it away.’ Sullivan nodded towards it.

Matthew noted the bastard’s finger brushing the trigger of his shotgun and did as instructed.

‘The cuffs, Adams,’ Sullivan reminded him.

His gut twisting as he guessed what use Sullivan would put those to, Matthew reached around under his jacket and retrieved his handcuffs. His mind raced as he placed those down, frantically searching for a way to try to persuade a psychopath from doing what he was intent on, dread settling like a hard stone in his stomach as he came up with nothing.

‘You’ve forgotten something else, Adams,’ Sullivan commented, glancing down at the items.

Confused, Matthew shook his head.

‘Your little puff tube, Adams. Where is it?’

Shit.
Matthew blinked away the sweat tickling his eyelashes. Without that, if he had a full blown attack, he’d be worse than useless. Sullivan would reach for it anyway, if he didn’t give it up. Matthew knew him well enough to know that. Gulping back his mounting terror, he pulled the inhaler from his inside pocket, praying that the preventer he’d taken earlier might help ward off an attack, which felt more imminent by the second.

He fully expected Sullivan to crush it under his heel. Perplexed when he didn’t, Matthew concluded that Sullivan needed him alive and functioning, for now, until he’d completed the transfer of money. Thereafter … For himself, Matthew was past caring. For Becky, though … He looked back to her, his heart cracking inside him. For Ashley. Matthew glanced towards her. Ashley’s eyes, where he’d glimpsed a glimmer of happiness, of hope, were back to those of a guilty, frightened child’s.

‘Oi, Snow White,’ Sullivan gestured her, ‘bring me some water. And be
very
careful if you don’t want to end up in more trouble than you already are for shagging the copper. She didn’t rate you much, by the way. Did you, sweetheart?’ Sullivan went on, revelling in his pathetic power. ‘Prefers it rough. I must say, she gives good—’

He stopped, panic flooding his eyes, as Ashley shouted behind him, ‘Stop! Stop now, or I’ll shoot!’

Oh, Christ.
Matthew’s gaze shot past Sullivan, to where Ashley stood, the gun—his gun, which somehow she’d managed to pick up—held in both hands—and pointed at Sullivan. Pointed very shakily at Sullivan.

She was ashen-faced, unfocussed. She hadn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of hitting him. ‘Ashley, don’t,’ Matthew attempted to inject some kind of calmness into his voice.

‘It’s not worth the risk.’ He glanced towards Becky, praying Ashley would understand.

‘You’d better fucking not,
Ashley.’
Sullivan turned his gun towards Matthew, ‘unless you want to splatter the copper’s brains all over the show. Then again, maybe you do. Hey? What do you think, sweetheart? Would you like to take a pot-shot at him? Shoot him in the leg or the arm for using you so cruelly and then casting you aside?’

Ashley’s eyes at last found Matthew’s; he saw palpable fear in hers.

Matthew’s insides flipped over as she tightened her grip. ‘Don’t listen to him, Ashley. We’ll get out of this, I promise. Just put the gun down safely.’

‘Yeah, right. Course you will, sweetheart, if you do as I say and don’t listen to anymore of the copper’s bullshit. You really are full of it, aren’t you, Adams?’

‘Ashley?’ Matthew tried to concentrate on her, watching helplessly as a tear cascaded down her cheek, then another.

‘Ashley,’ he tried again, but Ashley appeared not to be hearing him. Catching a sob in her throat, she lifted the gun higher.

‘I’ll do it!’ she cried, shaking so badly now she could barely support the weight of it, let alone aim it. ‘I will.’

‘You do, and
click, clack, crack
, sweetheart, the lovely Becky swings.’ Sullivan’s aim swung back to Becky. ‘Put it down! Now! Over there, by my bag.’

‘Do it, Ashley,’ Matthew implored her, his heart almost imploding. ‘Ashley,
please …’
he begged.

‘Better do as the copper says, sweetheart,’ Sullivan warned her. ‘It’s her funeral if you don’t.’

Matthew felt the cloying atmosphere close in on him, as Ashley deliberated. She glanced at him, back to Sullivan. Then, choking out another sob, she lowered the gun.

‘Over there.’ Calmly, Sullivan nodded towards the bag. ‘And then, sit.’ He waited while she placed the gun where he’d instructed and then made her way falteringly to the far wall, where she slid, looking shell-shocked, to her haunches.

Sullivan moved then, pointing his shotgun towards Matthew.

‘Stay,’ he said and backed away, to pick up the gun and secure it at the back of his waistband.

He didn’t look at Ashley, didn’t acknowledge her at all, but strolled back to Matthew instead. ‘You have some online banking to do.’ Pausing in front of him, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and thumbed something into it. ‘You have an incoming text. Make the transaction. Make it smoothly. Make it now, and no funny business. Do I need to add threats?’

Matthew glanced incredulously at him, as Sullivan picked up his phone and handed it to him. Did he really think he’d try anything? That he gave a stuff about money compared to the life of his wife? Dragging a hand quickly across his eyes, Matthew pulled up the message, as Sullivan walked around him. Calling up his bank details, ignoring Sullivan’s slow whistle of appreciation as he obviously noted the balance, Matthew selected
Make a Payment

, pasted Sullivan’s details in and hit
Send
.

It didn’t go.
Fuck!
Matthew’s heart stopped.

‘What are you pissing about at, Adams?’ Sullivan asked warily behind him.

Matthew felt the hairs rise on his neck. His mouth went dry.

‘No signal,’ he said tightly.

Sullivan didn’t speak for a second, and then, ‘You prat!’ he fumed. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that? You’ve just been online. I sent you a—’

‘It died!’ Matthew shouted desperately. ‘There’s no coverage!’

‘Gimme the fucking phone.’ Sullivan reached over him and snatched it.

Fear permeated every pore in Matthew’s body. The money had been his only hope, his aim to try to persuade Sullivan to take it and run, to convince him that fleeing the country leaving three dead bodies behind him wouldn’t be his smartest move. Matthew’s only hope now was that he wouldn’t do what the fear gripping the pit of his stomach was telling him he might.

Walking agitatedly back and forth, Sullivan jabbed at the phone, cursing as he did. He checked his own phone, then, ‘The handcuffs,’ he said, turning back to Matthew, his tone flat, his expression inscrutable. ‘You know what to do.’

Wiping at a bead of sweat dripping from his face, Matthew swallowed back his nausea and reached for them.

‘One wrist and then arms behind you.’ Walking back around him, Sullivan nudged him in the back with a knee.

Classic execution position.
Matthew’s stomach churned, as he clicked a bracelet in place.

‘Behind you, Adams,’ Sullivan repeated coldly.

Not even enough saliva to wet his dry lips, Matthew did as instructed. The sound of Sullivan clicking the cuffs into place was like a thunderclap, deafening, final. Matthew dragged air raggedly into his lungs and waited.

‘I think it’s payback time, Matthew,’ Sullivan said, quietly in his ear.

‘Don’t!’ Ashley screamed, scrambling to her feet. ‘
Please
don’t.’

‘Sit!’ Sullivan barked. ‘Or you’re next!’

Sit down, Ashley.
Please sit down.
Matthew willed her. Then, mentally reciting a useless prayer as he felt the nozzle of the gun come to rest at the base of his skull, he closed his eyes and braced himself. He heard the blow before he felt it, the dull thud, before the searing pain ran the length of his spine.

‘Sweet dreams, sunshine,’ Sullivan snarled, as Matthew went down.

‘Oh, dear …’ Matthew heard him again as his vision swam in and out, finally turning to white. ‘She really is a sloppy cow, your wife. She’s gone and lost one of her shoes.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Her sobs catching raw in her throat, the toes of her bare foot scrambling desperately for hard surface, Rebecca fought to stay upright. She
had
to.
Please God! Make him stop!
She clamped her eyes closed as the animal plunged the butt of the gun down again against Matthew’s back, and again, so brutally Rebecca was sure she heard bones crack.

Hearing the foul obscenities spilling from his torturer’s mouth, Ashley’s sobs, as she rocked to and fro where she sat on the floor, Rebecca snapped her eyes back open, to see him pulling back his foot and landing another vicious blow to her husband’s side.

‘Payback, Adams,’ he snarled, bending to clutch hold of his hair, forcing his head back at an impossible angle. Blood trickled from Matthew’s mouth, he didn’t move, which only seemed to inflame Sullivan’s temper further.

Uttering, ‘
Bastard
,’ he slammed Matthew’s head back down to the ground, and then kicked him again, hard.

‘Stop!’ Ashley screamed, her voice high-pitched and hysterical. ‘You’ll kill him!’

‘Be quiet!’ Sullivan yelled. ‘Shut the fuck up, unless
I
tell you to talk!’ He jabbed the gun in her direction, dragged an arm over his mouth and then looked down at Matthew, his breath heavy from his exertions, his face twisted with hatred.

‘Scum,’ he spat and pointed the gun downwards, pressing it against Matthew’s temple.

No!
Struggling to keep her balance, her legs trembling violently beneath her, Rebecca felt the rope jerk tautly at her throat as her foot slipped, nothing but fresh air beneath it.
Please don’t. Please don’t let him do this. Please …
Time seemed to slow down as she prayed hopelessly to a god who couldn’t hear her, her head swimming, her senses dulling.

‘Fetch the knife!’ She heard him shout over her heartbeat, now a sluggish thrum in the base of her neck. ‘In my bag, silly cow! Fetch it. Now!’

Rebecca felt him catch her, an arm around her thighs, then higher, around her waist. Her ankle bone scraped against the edge of the box, sharp pain shooting through her, as he yanked her towards him, his odious body supporting hers.

Was he going to cut her, or cut her down? Vaguely, Rebecca wondered. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to be here without Matthew. Didn’t want to be. She’d rather be with her babies. But then, she
would
be with Matthew, too, wouldn’t she? Rebecca’s thoughts made no sense in her head as her vision turned blood-red.