‘Sit down; we need to take care of those wounds.’ He went over to the curtains and drew them against the dark, then opened a green plastic first-aid box he’d brought with him from the car. ‘You were damn lucky,’ he said, glancing up at Gareth Davies’ deathly-pale face as he lowered himself into a well-worn armchair. He was staring at his bloodied hands, examining the puncture wounds the needles had left. His fingers were dreadfully painful to move and his feet hurt like blazes.
The hotel room was small but adequate, the sort of place frequented by sales reps and the like, he thought. Basic comforts they sought on their way to somewhere else. Outside the window was the gentle hum of traffic, sounding like a breeze at the coast. They’d pulled off the motorway into a service station, parked up, to Gareth’s surprise, at the front of the small motel.
‘So where are we exactly?’ said Gareth. The journey through the mines, outside into the car and driving down busy roads to the service station had passed in a fevered haze punctuated by moments of rising terror and pain. When he questioned his saviour the man had told him in no uncertain terms to wait. He had to concentrate on getting them as far away from the mines as possible. All would be explained in good time.
The man took a roll of bandage and a tube of cream from the first-aid box. ‘We have to bathe these first,’ he said. Take your shoes off and I’ll find something for you to clean the wounds with. Don’t want them getting infected. The small ones are always the worst,’ he added.
‘Where are we?’ Gareth insisted. ‘And why aren’t we going to the police? I was nearly murdered back there. And you shot those men!’
‘First, you’re in Surrey,’ he explained, going to the bathroom and running warm water into a plastic cup. He handed it over to Gareth with a wad of cotton wool. ‘Here, clean your hands and feet.’
‘What the blazes am I doing in Surry?’
‘The mines are in Godstone. I guess they like those sorts of places.’
‘Would they have killed me?’
He flipped the top off a tube of antiseptic cream, gave it a cursory sniff. ‘Oh yes, most definitely. Dab a little of this into those wounds and I’ll bandage them up for you. They might hurt like the devil but they’ll heal OK. Like I said, you were lucky; I’ve seen what these bozos are capable of and you got off lightly.’
‘I have to contact the police,’ Gareth said, getting to his feet, limping to the phone and lifting the receiver.
His rescuer dashed over and took the phone off him, placed it back on the bedside unit. ‘Definitely not a good idea, Gareth, trust me. Tantamount to throwing chummy in the water to attract sharks. And anyway, there is no need; I am the police.’ He took out a wallet and wafted ID in front of Gareth’s confused eyes.’
He caught sight of the name Detective Robert Muller. ‘You’re not British,’ he said.
‘As British as maple syrup,’ he quipped. ‘But being Canadian doesn’t stop me being one of the good guys.’
‘So what are you saying about attracting sharks; that the police are somehow involved in all this? It’s not safe to call them? That’s ludicrous.’
‘Might sound it, but all I can say is that at this stage is that you don’t know who you can trust.’ Gareth returned to his seat, took the weight off his throbbing feet. ‘When did you last eat?’
Gareth shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I’ll nip out and grab us something to bite,’ said Muller. ‘I’m famished.’
‘Forget the fucking food!’ Gareth burst. ‘What is going on? I need answers!’
The man sighed heavily. ‘I am most keen that you and your sister are kept alive, unlike the bunch you just encountered who want you very much dead.’ He heard a noise he didn’t like and went over to the curtains, peering through a slit onto the service station car park below. Headlights flashed through a dull fug on the M3 motorway in the distance and there was the steady moan of tyres finding its way through the double-glazing. Relatively quiet as it was early morning. He seemed satisfied all was well. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m tired of answering that bloody question.’
‘Look, it is very important that we find her. If we don’t then Camael and his mob will, and if he does then she’s as good as dead. You want that?’
‘No, of course not. But what has she done? For that matter, what have I done?’
Muller rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s rather sensitive information at the moment.’
‘Try me. Is this something to do with the gold jewellery, smuggling or something?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ Muller said, his tone of voice far away and non-committal.
‘Can you be more specific? And more to the point what’s your part in all this?’
Muller shook his head. ‘I can’t say more, except that I’m here to protect you, to find your sister and protect her too.’
He removed the bandage from its cellophane cocoon and began to wrap it carefully around Gareth’s hand. ‘Sure you are,’ he said. ‘But I can bet you’re not licensed to kill. You shot two men in cold blood back there.’ He winced as pain flashed through his hand. ‘What’s Lambert-Chide got to do with all this?’
Muller paused briefly then finished off the dressing, fastening it with a safety pin. He indicated with a nod for the other hand. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.
‘I saw you at Gattenby House; I was a guest there. You were speaking to the Head of Security — Randall Tremain.’
Muller’s lips cracked into a thin smile. ‘Let’s say his organisation is part of an on-going investigation.’
‘Into what?’
‘Not allowed to say.’ He fastened the bandage in place. ‘I once saw a guy who’d had nails driven through is hands and feet. That was unpleasant,’ he said, almost absently.
‘I’m counting my blessings,’ said Gareth grimly. ‘Who were those guys back at the mine? And who is this Camael?’
Muller sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Camael is a dirty piece of work, but I guess you already know that. Heartless and cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch of the first order. Whatever threats he made against you back there he would have made real. Will make real if he ever gets the chance. A driven man, you might say; driven by religious fanaticism. The worst kind of fanaticism in my book, and I’ve seen a few.’
‘So they’re from some kind of sect…’
He cocked his head slightly. ‘After a fashion.’
‘Called Doradus?’
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘The guys back there mentioned it, but I first heard about it from a raving red-head back at Cardiff station. Turns out she might not be as crazy as I first thought. She warned me not to go home, told me I was being tracked.’ He shook his head. ‘Turns out it was all true. The black guy back in the mines — he was the one at the station cafe. She pointed him out but I refused to listen to her.’
Muller’s interest had been sparked. ‘Describe her to me.’
Gareth did so, as much as he could remember. ‘You know her?’ he asked. ‘She with you?’
‘No, can’t say that I do know her, but whoever she is she sounds like big trouble,’ said Muller darkly. ‘Stay well away from her. You see anything of her then you tell me straight away.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a gun. Gareth flinched perceptibly. ‘You’re in deep shit here, man, and I’m the only one who can get you out. We’re OK here for now, but nowhere is truly safe; they’ll hunt us down soon enough, so we’ll make tracks in a couple of hours, after you’ve had a chance to eat and get cleaned up.’ He checked the gun and put it back into his coat. ‘Look, I gotta leave you for a while. Got to make an urgent call. Stay here in the room and you’ll be OK, you hear?’ He saw Gareth’s confused hesitation, his eyes all but glazed over in incomprehension. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, reaching back into his pocket and offering him a gun. ‘I always carry two. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘The hell it does! Take that thing away from me! I don’t know anything about guns; I’m British!’
‘Now’s the time to learn,’ he said stiffly, plonking the gun into Gareth’s bandaged palm. ‘See — safety catch on, gun good; safety catch off, gun bad. Aim, pull trigger. Simple.’
‘You think I’ll need it?’
‘You really need me to answer that? Right, so you understand; do not leave the room and do not answer the door to anyone but me. Be careful not to shoot any of the hotel staff by mistake,’ he grinned wolfishly. ‘The poor things are on minimum wage as it is.’
Gareth nodded dumbly. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Twenty minutes tops. I’ll fetch us a pizza and a beer or something.’ He went over to the curtains one last time, his eyes squinting. ‘Remember; don’t answer the door to anyone. Do not pick up the phone if it rings. I have to check whether it’s still clear to move you on to a safe house. I’ve got a change of car ready and waiting outside.’ He smiled warmly at the door. ‘Don’t worry, Gareth, you’re in good hands now.’
The woman watched him closely as he left the hotel and walked swiftly and with a sense of urgency across the lamp-lit car park. He paused by a parked Range Rover, popped the boot and took out a black case. He leant against the car door and made a short call on his mobile, the conversation obviously quite animated. Once finished he locked up the car and strolled across the car park, tossing the car keys into a black bin before going to another car, a Vauxhall Astra. He unlocked the boot and put the black case inside. She noticed, even at this distance, that Muller’s lips betrayed smug satisfaction.
She watched his passage through the shining backs of ranked cars and stopped at a 24-hour MacDonald’s to order food. Her fingers flicked on the radio and she swept back her red hair, looking at the early-morning sky, plum dark still. Massaging her stiff neck she took out a stick of gum and slipped it between her lips.