Gone Again (17 page)

As he drove through empty streets, he could feel fury simmer inside him, replacing the adrenalin from the break-in. He nurtured it, built it into something he could use for what was coming.

And yet he was still plagued by doubt. What did Lauren and Caledonia Dreaming have to do with this guy Fisher, someone who could hire thugs to burgle and torture people? What was the password they wanted? What would the police do once they got to the flat? Was he right to leave Ruth to look after Nathan and deal with all that? They’d be safer in police custody than where he was going.

The thought of Nathan made his stomach cramp. His son had killed a man to save his daddy. What a thing to live with for the rest of your life. On top of Lauren dying and everything else, this was a lifetime of trauma piling up.

The wind was still tormenting the trees as he sped round Cameron Toll towards Morningside and Merchiston. Taxis and night buses trundled along the street as he raced across roundabouts and junctions.

He drove past all the big houses with sprawling gardens, moneyed families sleeping soundly at night, never any problems in their little bubble worlds.

He shot across Holy Corner and hung a right, slowing, trying to keep his hands on the wheel from shaking.

He stopped a few doors down from number 40. There were no cars parked on the street, everyone in their driveways, so he stuck out as a stranger, an unwelcome intrusion on the leafy paradise. Fuck it.

He glanced down at the pistol on the passenger seat. One fired round meant nine bullets left. He hoped he didn’t have to rely on that knowledge.

He picked it up, ejected the magazine, counted the bullets to be sure, then pushed it back in. Kept the safety on for now. Hauled open the car door and tucked the gun into his jeans.

The wind was making a racket in the tops of the oaks lining the street.

He got to number 40. The metal gates were closed across the entrance to the driveway, a hefty lock with a buzzer system.

Mark stepped back and scoped the place. He spotted a CCTV camera and ducked in behind the pillar. The gates were ten feet tall topped with iron spikes. The old stone wall to the side was shorter, but the top of it was coated in a line of cement with bits of broken glass jutting out. Mark had seen similar on houses across Edinburgh. Old homemade defences.

He looked at the camera. It was stationary, pointing at the middle of the gates. He didn’t think it could see him from here. He crouched then leapt, got a hand on the top of the wall, but jerked it away as a piece of glass sliced into his palm.

‘Shit.’

He looked at his hand. Just a shallow cut, nothing serious. He pulled his jacket sleeve down over his fist then jumped again, this time finding a hold in between the bits of glass. He kicked at a part of the stone wall and a small crumble of masonry fell out. He chipped away with his foot at the dried mortar until he had a foothold, then hoisted himself up, grabbing the top of the pillar with his other hand.

He heaved with both arms and dragged his body to the top of the wall, his stomach snagging on the glass embedded there. He sucked his gut in as the glass scraped at his T-shirt. He hovered for a moment, supported only by his hands, then carefully placed a knee on the wall between glass shards. Then on to his feet. The drop at the other side was less, only five feet to a landscaped lawn.

He jumped and crouched on landing, then was up and jogging towards the house. It was a mansion really. There were six cars parked in the driveway, room for several more. They were all out of sight from the main road. Mark wondered about that. He hunched and ran alongside the cars, then stopped at one. A silver Lexus. Mark knew the number plate from staring at it as he followed it across town.

Taylor.

He approached the front door. No light on over the porch. As he got nearer he noticed that all the windows had blackout blinds. He scanned upstairs. It looked the same, as far as he could tell from down here.

He walked round the house. All the windows were blacked out. What the hell was going on inside?

Round the back he heard voices. He pulled the Browning from his jeans and flicked the safety off. Ducked into the shadows of the house, pushed himself against the stonework and poked his head out.

There was a conservatory built out from the back of the house. The only piece of glasswork in the whole building you could see into. Two huge men in black bomber jackets were smoking at an open patio door. Serious bouncers. But bouncers for what?

He couldn’t make out what they were saying. They finished their cigarettes, spat on the gravel, then went inside and slid the door closed. He didn’t know if they’d locked it or not. They left the conservatory and sauntered back into the house.

He crept to the door, keeping an eye on the inside. Didn’t see anyone. He tried the handle. Locked. Looked around for something heavy. Nothing.

He flicked the safety on the gun, wrapped it in the material of his jacket pocket, then thumped it at a corner of the glass.

The smash echoed in his ears.

He held his breath and waited.

No one came.

He reached in with his hand covered in his sleeve and slid the lock over. Pulled the door open and went inside. He felt drawn into the building, as if he had no free will any more. He had to let this happen, had to find out.

He crept from the conservatory into a utility room. Washing machine and dishwasher, food cupboards. From there through to a hallway. It was dark, but light spilled from a big room at the front of the house. He heard voices and laughter. Men. A clinking of glasses and bottles.

He crouched, scared to go closer. Just then, a man came from the room into the hall. Mark ducked back into the utility room and peeked round. The man stopped halfway down the hall and went into a bathroom.

Then another man came out the room, this time with a woman in her underwear. She was black, strong features, high heels and white lace. He was in a grey suit. They were arm in arm as they headed up the stairs.

A brothel.

The other man came out the toilet and went back into the lit room.

Mark waited. Didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t think straight. He stayed there, his pulse thumping, his breath shallow and fast. He thought about Lauren. He gripped the gun handle tighter. Stepped from the utility room. Heard voices again, coming from upstairs. Getting louder. He ducked back inside.

A man and a woman. He recognised the man’s voice, then saw him coming down the stairs.

Taylor. With another prostitute, blonde, Eastern European-looking, in a kimono. They both went into the main downstairs room and Mark heard other voices, it sounded like guys taking the piss out of each other, or sharing a joke.

Mark realised he’d been holding his breath, and puffed air out of his lungs.

What was the link to Lauren?

As he stood there wondering, another couple came out the room and headed upstairs – him a fat, middle-aged guy in a black suit, her a beautiful redhead, tall and sleek.

Then Taylor appeared again, this time heading for the front door with one of the bouncers. He buttoned up his suit then put a hand on the bouncer’s shoulder and handed him some money.

Mark scurried through the utility room to the conservatory and slipped out. Darted round the side of the house and stood in a small copse of elm that was shimmering in the wind. He watched Taylor come down the steps waving to the bouncer, then he was in darkness as the front door closed.

Mark moved through the trees until he was as close as he could get to the Lexus.

Taylor was almost at the car now, his key out, the security lights on the Lexus blinking as he unlocked it. In the flashing amber, he was grinning, smug.

Mark stepped away from the trees and strode towards him, pointing the Browning.

‘Don’t make a fucking sound.’

Taylor stopped. He looked as if he’d been punched in the gut. He turned to the house.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

Taylor’s eyes darted around.

‘I will shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.’

Taylor seemed to deflate a little.

‘Now get in the car.’

Taylor just stood there looking at Mark.

‘I said, get in.’

Taylor slowly opened the driver’s door and got in. Mark kept the gun on him and got into the back seat.

Taylor turned round. ‘Look . . .’

Mark brought the butt of the gun down on the side of his face.

‘Fuck.’ Taylor grabbed at his eyebrow. It swelled up straight away, his eye closing a little. ‘Jesus Christ.’

He clutched at his forehead and breathed out heavily.

Mark pressed the gun to his neck.

‘Tell me what the fuck is going on here.’

Taylor leaned away from the gun barrel pressed against the flesh of his neck. Mark jabbed it in again.

Taylor flinched. ‘OK, take it easy.’

He seemed too calm, Mark didn’t like it.

Mark flicked his head towards the house. ‘Is Fisher in there?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Fisher.’

Mark drew the gun back and smashed the butt into Taylor’s face, at the swollen bit. This time the skin broke and blood spurted out so far it splattered on the inside of the windscreen.

‘Shit.’ Taylor clutched at his eye. He hunched forward for a moment. ‘You’ll fucking blind me.’

‘I’ll do worse than that if you don’t tell me what I need to know.’

Taylor gasped in air and sniffed, wiped blood away from his eye, but still didn’t speak.

‘Is Fisher in there?’ Mark said.

Taylor glanced at the house, Mark followed his gaze. No sign of activity.

‘How do you know about Fisher?’

‘I saw you meet him. I followed him here.’

Taylor shook his head. ‘You have no idea what you’re getting into.’

‘Is he in there?’

Taylor dabbed at his eye. His hand came away bloody. ‘No.’

‘Does he own the brothel?’

Taylor laughed, then nodded.

‘What’s all this got to do with Lauren?’

Taylor’s leg was twitching. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t fuck around. Tell me.’

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with Lauren.’

Mark grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. He jammed the Browning under Taylor’s jaw, pointing up.

‘Look, I’ve got a dead guy bleeding all over my living-room floor. Him and another guy came to my flat while me and my son were asleep, tied me to a chair and beat me. Told me they were looking for a password and were working for Fisher. So why don’t you tell me how this is connected before I blow your fucking head all across this beautiful interior.’

He wondered if he could really do it.

Taylor gave him a deadpan look. Almost a smile. ‘I don’t know anything about all that.’

Mark pushed the muzzle of the pistol into Taylor’s left shoulder and pulled the trigger.

The blast of the gun was deafening in the car. Blood sprayed from the wound over the gun, Mark’s hand and the windscreen. Taylor rocked in his seat then lunged forward in pain. The back of his shoulder was a ragged hole, the bullet had made a mess coming out. Blood pulsed out the hole in Taylor’s suit as he screamed and clutched at his shoulder.

Mark grabbed his hair and yanked him back into his seat, then jammed the Browning against his head.

The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Behind it, Mark thought he caught a whiff of piss. Taylor must’ve wet himself.

Mark looked at the house. Nothing.

He turned back to Taylor. ‘Tell me what this has to do with Lauren.’

‘You don’t understand. He’ll kill me.’

Mark moved the Browning from Taylor’s head to his knee.

‘Maybe you want to be in a fucking wheelchair for the rest of your life?’

Taylor looked scared now. Good. His hand was at his bleeding shoulder, his eyes looking at the gun pressed against his kneecap.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what Fisher had planned. It was only supposed to be a warning, that’s what he told me.’

Mark glanced behind him at the house. Still in darkness.

‘Go on.’

Taylor was trembling, almost crying.

‘Fisher has lots of places like this. Caledonia Dreaming helps him find the properties. He finds the girls.’

Mark thought about what he’d seen inside.

‘Trafficking?’

Taylor nodded stiffly.

‘What else?’

Taylor shook his head and cringed.

‘Are you stupid?’ Mark said, pressing the barrel of the Browning into Taylor’s knee. ‘I will shoot your fucking kneecap clean off.’

Taylor looked at the gun, then at his bloody shoulder. ‘He uses Caledonia Dreaming to clean his money.’

‘Laundering.’

‘He buys legitimate properties with the profits and sells them on.’

Mark was starting to see. ‘Lauren found out.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you had her killed.’

Taylor smelled of panic now. ‘It wasn’t like that. Lauren came to me with information. It didn’t occur to her that I was involved. She’d been looking at accounts she shouldn’t have. Her being a junior partner, she felt she had a lot to lose if the company was into dodgy shit. I stalled her, told her I’d take it to the police. Then I told Fisher. He was supposed to warn her off. I could never approve of murder.’

Mark lifted the gun and smacked it off Taylor’s face again, this time the cheekbone. He heard a crack.

‘Couldn’t fucking approve? Prostitution, trafficking and money-laundering are fine, though, yeah?’

‘I liked Lauren, she was a good friend.’

‘I swear, don’t you dare insult her memory like that or I will shoot you in the fucking face.’

The gun was rammed into Taylor’s damaged cheek now.

Mark thought of his wife’s dry lips, her tangle of hair.

‘So these guys at my flat were after a password.’

Taylor nodded.

‘What password?’

Taylor took his hand away from his shoulder and flinched. ‘Fuck, this hurts.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Are you going to take me to a hospital?’

‘Just tell me.’

Taylor hesitated, then gave him a resigned look. ‘We checked her work email. She sent a copy of the files to her Gmail account.’