Muller was whistling a tune to himself, partly, Gareth surmised, to mask the tension he was feeling. His eager, darting eyes were screwed up as if he were experiencing a throbbing migraine. He swept his gaze from wing mirrors to rear-view and back again at frequent intervals, every now and again stiffening on spying something that alerted his spring-tight suspicions, his whistling coming to a dramatic halt, then cranking slowly back up when he felt reassured. They’d been driving about two hours and Gareth noticed the route had largely been on back roads, avoiding any major arteries. Apart from the tune he whistled, Muller had been infuriatingly quiet, the majority of his questions being batted away like an irritating fly with the reply that he’d find out soon enough and not to worry.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ said Gareth at length.
‘Look in the mirror; you’re not dead yet and that’s always a good sign,’ he said lightly, allowing himself a mist-thin smile. ‘Anyhow, you’ve got a gun. How much more trust do you need?’
The gun. The weapon sitting heavy and brutally aggressive in his pocket. He was alarmed at how quickly he was growing accustomed to carrying it. ‘True,’ he said. ‘I guess.’
‘Don’t worry, Gareth,’ he said for the umpteenth time, which Gareth found a trifle worrying all the same, ‘this will be all over soon enough. You’ll find out all you need to know. I just have to get you somewhere safe, so hang in there, buddy. You’ll be passed onto my colleagues — trusted colleagues. Until then you are in real danger of losing your life. For that matter, we both are. Look, you must be tired; grab a bit of shuteye — we’ve got another hour or so to go yet.’
It was dawn when they turned off into a leafy green lane, rolling arable fields veiled in mist all around. It all looked so normal. So peaceful. They bumped down the lane for a few minutes till Muller took a sharp swing to the left, down an even narrower lane that led directly to an old dilapidated farmhouse shielded on three sides by ranks of long-established trees. Muller killed the engine and bade Gareth leave the car. He went round the back of the vehicle and took out a black case from the boot, his head swivelling from side to side as he scanned the yard, the run-down outbuildings, and the hedges and fields beyond.
‘Go inside,’ he said, tossing Gareth a bunch of rusting door keys. ‘I’ll hide the car from view. Put the kettle on for a coffee, eh?’
Gareth unlocked the old door, all its paint having flaked away over the decades and revealing grey weatherworn wood. The place smelled strongly of neglect; obviously it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Gareth wasn’t sure it was even habitable, or indeed safe to go inside. The tiny living-room-cum-kitchen had an old padded sofa and armchair huddled together for comfort in front of a 1950s beige-tiled fireplace, the carpet being a survivor — just — of the 1970s, bearing a garish red and yellow flower pattern that almost hurt the eyes; the wallpaper looked far older and in parts it had come away with the damp to reveal a pattern from a previous decade lurking beneath. The windows were so mired with filth it looked like someone had washed them with mud. An empty terracotta plant pot sat alone and despondent on a dirty windowsill peppered with dead flies and wasps; it looked like someone had been careless with a bag of currants. An old, cream dial phone from the 1960s sat on the floor amid entrails of nicotine-yellow and brown cabling which led to who knew where.
He saw Muller drive the car past the window, or a vague shape he assumed must be a car glimpsed through the fog of dirt. Heard the door opening and being slammed shut. He went to an ancient-looking fridge; the light came on when he pulled open the door, and it buzzed like a large moth in a jam jar, but all that was inside was a single carton of semi-skimmed milk. He found an old kettle by a stone Belfast sink and filled it from a rusty cold-water tap that coughed and spat and finally, with a hefty grunt, threw up a torrent of water. He sat it on a gas cooker that was so smeared with brown fat it almost disguised the fact it was once white.
‘All we have to do now is wait,’ said Muller brightly as he came into the room; he looked decidedly more at ease now they were in the farmhouse. He had the black case in his hand. ‘There are a few provisions in the cupboard over there, if you find you need to fix yourself something to eat. There’s even a TV through there.’ He pointed to a doorway. ‘Portable but adequate for the rubbish that’s on these days.’
‘How long are we going to have to wait?’ Gareth asked.
‘Could be some time,’ he returned. ‘We have to make special arrangements for you.’ He went over to the window and pulled back the dusty, nicotine-stained net curtains, surveying the yard as he’d surveyed the service station car park. ‘Best if you just relax and settle down.’
‘But if you gave me some answers,’ said Gareth shortly. ‘Why am I, of all people, being targeted, and what’s my sister’s involvement in all this?’
Muller bent to the kettle, checked it was boiling and then went to a cupboard, taking out a couple of mugs. He set them on the grimy worktop. ‘It’s just not my place to tell you.’
‘So you keep saying. It’s not good enough.’
‘Look, fella, it really isn’t.’ He sighed, turning and leaning with his back against the worktop, his arms folded. ‘OK, time to settle up some, I guess. The least I can do.’ His eyes looked askance as he scratched the side of his neck in thought. ‘First, I was lying; this isn’t about gold, jewellery or even drugs and the like. This goes way beyond those commodities.’
‘So I assume we’re still talking big money being involved.’
‘You wouldn’t believe how big,’ he said.
‘What’s being bought and sold?’
Muller’s eyes settled on Gareth’s questioning face. He paused, licked his lips. ‘You are.’
Gareth frowned fractionally, then laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, right, like I’m worth a small fortune! So much so someone back there wanted me dead. It doesn’t make sense.’ His smile faltered and fell away when he saw Muller was serious. ‘Come on, Muller, I’m hardly worth a thing. I have a cottage in Wales, a small but scratched collection of Bob Marley singles and a battered old 1970s Land Rover — oh, and a couple of Premium Bonds I bought way back in ’95. Your average underworld leader is unlikely to get excited over that lot.’
‘Let’s say, to the right buyer you’re worth about ten million pounds — each.’
Gareth laughed again. ‘OK, Muller, cut the fun and games, what’s all this really about? What’s the truth?’
‘The truth? Straight up?’
‘Straight up.’
‘I reckon it could easily be pushed up to fifteen million.’
Silence fell over the pair of them and any semblance of humour on Gareth’s lips faded like breath on a windowpane. ‘You’re serious…’
‘Deadly.’
Gareth plonked down on the sofa; the weakened cushion springs sagged beneath his weight. ‘Go on…’
Muller shook his head solemnly. ‘You really haven’t the faintest idea, have you? What you are, what you’re capable of.’
‘It appears not. Enlighten me.’
Muller opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. He turned to the boiling kettle. ‘How’d you like your coffee — strong, weak or transparent?’ He poured hot water into the mugs.
‘I’m just an ordinary guy.’ he said again.
‘Sure you are. One question: ever had a cold, Gareth?’
‘What?’
‘Ever had a cold, a touch of the flu maybe?’
‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘What about a virus of any kind? In fact, think back; when was the last time you ever got ill, the last time you went to see a doctor with your average run-of-the-mill ailment?’
Gareth thought about it. ‘I’m one of the lucky people who seem to escape catching colds, I guess.’
‘You think it’s lucky?’
‘Well, genetic, obviously. An accident of birth, that’s all. The right genes coming together. So that’s what makes me a valuable scientific wonder, is it? The man who rarely caught a cold — big deal.’
‘Do you know who your mother is, Gareth?’ he said with his back still turned to him, slopping milk into the mugs.
He was taken aback by the question and change of tack. ‘Never knew her; she dumped me in Cardiff railway station as a baby. So I get my lucky no-cold gene from her, so what? It happens.’
‘It might surprise you, but I know a man who knew your mother pretty well.’ He passed Gareth a mug of coffee. ‘I made it medium. I don’t know how you guys drink this shit like you do.’
Gareth was on his feet. ‘Who is this man? How did he know her?’
‘Let’s say they shared each other’s company for a while.’ Then Muller froze, his head whipping back to the window. He placed his mug of coffee on the worktop.
‘Come on, man, you can’t leave it hanging like that. Who is he?’ But Gareth was brought up short by Muller’s raised hand signalling him to be quiet.
‘You hear that?’
Gareth shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
‘There’s someone out there.’ He reached into his coat for the gun, flicked the safety catch.
‘We ought to phone the police,’ said Gareth with escalating alarm.
‘I am the fucking police!’ he said, gliding swiftly to the front door. ‘Go through there,’ he ordered, indicating a door to another room. ‘Keep out of sight and let me handle this.’
‘Is it Camael?’
‘Maybe. The bastard’s been damn good at tracking us if so. I didn’t catch sight of anyone following us.’
Muller put his hand on the door handle, twisted it, the gun raised almost to his cheek. He peered through the crack, then waved energetically for Gareth to do as he was told. Gareth turned, and as he did so a figure emerged from the other room, arm outstretched, a pistol gripped firmly in her hand. She bound smoothly across the kitchen, barging past Gareth before he’d even had time to register what was happening.
‘Put the gun down, Muller!’ she said crisply.
Muller’s face was a mask of complete astonishment. He raised his firearm instinctively and for an instant thought about firing it, but in a second the red-haired woman had her own gun inches away from the side of his head.
‘Go ahead, nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ she said.
Gareth fumbled in his pocket, brought out the gun Muller had given him back at the hotel. He brought it to bear on the woman. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but let the man go,’ he said, rather more confidently than he felt.
She didn’t even bother turning round to him. ‘Put that thing away, Gareth; it’s not even loaded.’
He looked helplessly down at the gun, unsure now what to do. He’d no idea how to check to see if she were telling the truth.
‘OK, Muller, drop that thing and close the door,’ she snarled, her jaw chewing agitatedly at the gum in her mouth. He did as he was told and she kicked the fallen weapon away. ‘Over there, by the wall,’ she ordered and Muller complied with a scowl. She saw Gareth studying the gun in his hand. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake give it here!’ she said, snatching it from him. With a deft working of her left hand she flicked out the cartridge case and handed the gun back to him. ‘See, it’s as empty as a politician’s promise. He was pissing up your back, Gareth, lulling you into a false sense of security.’
‘You’ve come to kill me!’ he said, horrified, backing away.
She peered at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You really are dumb, aren’t you? No, I’m not going to kill you. I’ve come to save your arse. Someone else isn’t going to be so lucky though.’
‘He’s the police,’ said Gareth.
‘The police? Nice one, Muller.’ She waved the gun at the man who had his hands behind his head. ‘Let’s see the ID, Muller. Throw it over to Davies.’
He reached carefully into his pocket, took out a wallet and tossed it to the floor in front of Gareth. He bent down to pick it up. ‘You bitch,’ said Muller.
‘Yeah, right. Now give it to me, Gareth,’ she said, gun aimed solidly at Muller’s head. She glanced at the contents of the wallet and sneered. ‘I’m surprised at you, Muller; I’d be ashamed to use such cheap Mickey Mouse stuff. I know there’s an economic depression, but still…’
Muller remained tight-lipped, averting his eyes, breathing heavily.
‘They’re false?’ said Gareth.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m seriously wondering whether you’re worth all the trouble,’ she scoffed. ‘Of course this shit is false. Everything about him is false.’
‘Don’t trust her,’ Muller said. ‘It’s real enough.’
‘He saved me from Camael,’ Gareth defended. ‘I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.’
‘He saved you alright; he saved you for himself,’ she corrected. ‘Isn’t that right, Muller?’
‘She’s crazy!’ he fired back in return. ‘Don’t believe a word she tells you.’
The woman took out the ball of gum and tossed it into the cold, dead hearth. ‘Maybe I am crazy, maybe I’m not,’ she returned calmly. ‘How is Randall Tremain these days? Still the same heartless bastard? I’m betting he’s really pissed off with you right now. Not the kind of man you’d deliberately cross, so I say you’re very brave, very desperate or as thick as pig shit.’ She caught sight of a flash of recognition on Gareth’s face. ‘That’s right, Davies, this guy, your guardian angel, your Errol Flynn, is in the pay of Randall Tremain, who, as you know, is in the pay of Lambert-Chide, where the dirty salary chain stops At least as far as we can tell. Only I reckon Muller here thought the pay wasn’t up to scratch and ever the sleazy opportunist decided to give himself a pay rise, isn’t that so, Muller?’
If ever a man’s face betrayed his inner turmoil it was Muller’s, thought Gareth, as he sized up the situation, running through limited options. For the first time he saw a fault line of nervousness open up in the man’s iron-hard exterior.
‘Is this true, Muller?’ asked Gareth.
Muller gave an emphatic shake of his head. ‘She works for Camael,’ he fired bluntly. ‘You listen to her and you’re as good as dead, Davies.’
‘You were at Gattenby House. I saw you talking with Tremain,’ he said. ‘What’s the truth, Muller?’
‘The truth,’ interrupted the woman, ‘is that this man is a hired private investigator, hired initially to find your sister. They’ve been searching a long time. Lambert-Chide has many people looking for her. But there was a shift in plan when Muller realised your connection, your importance to Lambert-Chide. He was instructed to bring you in, but obviously thinking about his old age and retirement to some exotic location or other, he decides to keep you for himself, and then broker a better deal with Lambert-Chide for your handover. Foolproof. Except that I’ve been tracking you for a while now, Muller, and what a trail; as bright as Halley’s Comet. You may be good at finding people but you’re shit at covering your own tracks when you thought no one was watching.’
Muller’s eyes were looking resignedly at the floor. He’d abandoned exploring options for tackling the woman; he’d shifted to consideration of new and different plans. The change was plain to see, thought Gareth, physical, plastered all over the man’s face, in the way he carried himself. The woman went over to the old armchair and sat down letting Muller stew in his heated thoughts for a while.
‘I followed you when you first came to look at this place, when you hired two cars and when you booked the hotel room. So what’s going on here, I thought? Then the penny dropped; you never intended delivering Davies to Tremain. I’m afraid there’s a rather dark and damp cellar here, Gareth, in which you would no doubt have spent some considerable time until negotiations were complete and you were handed over to Lambert-Chide. If you don’t believe me take a look downstairs. There’s a bed made up for you, even a portaloo; no expense spared.’
‘Is this right, Muller?’ Gareth said. But he didn’t need a reply. He knew it was. He could read it in the man’s shattered resolve.
‘OK, so what’s your point?’ said Muller. ‘Where is all this headed?’
‘But before you could get to Davies Camael turned up, didn’t he?’ she continued. ‘Took him for himself. It would have been down to me to get him out but I figured you’d be so desperate to secure your investment you’d go ahead and do it on my behalf. And so here we are. Tell me if I got any of that wrong, Muller,’ she said.
‘You want a share, is that it?’ said Muller. ‘We can work something out.’
If Gareth had any lingering doubts then they were swept away by Muller’s statement. ‘What the fuck is it with you guys?’ he fired angrily. ‘I’m not a piece of meat to be bought and sold, to be bounced from one set of weirdos to another! Give me some fucking answers!’ he demanded.
They both looked at him. ‘How much have you told him?’ the woman asked.
‘Jack shit.’
She shrugged. ‘Might be for the best, for now,’ she conceded.
‘I’m going to phone the police right now!’ he said. ‘The fucking real ones!’ They watched silently as he went over to the old phone and lifted the receiver. He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘The line’s dead,’ he said flatly.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Now sit down, Gareth, and be a good boy.’ She motioned with the gun and he looked at it warily, quietly going back to his place on the sofa.
This time it was his turn to mull over options, and none of them looked good. He felt totally helpless, a piece others were moving around a board in a game he couldn’t fathom.
‘So who is paying you?’ Muller asked.
Her stony expression didn’t waver. ‘I’m doing it for love,’ she said.
‘Yeah, so you are. What’s your price?’
‘Not everyone’s like you, Muller,’ she said. ‘Let’s say I’m motivated by other things. I know you’ve already been in contact with Tremain, when you made the call in the service station car park. You made him an offer. How did he take it?’
‘He’ll come round when he sees he hasn’t got a choice,’ said Muller.
‘What he wouldn’t give to know your whereabouts right now, eh, Muller?’
Alarm fired up in his eyes. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Let me put you out of your misery. I’ve told Tremain I have Davies and I have you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘By my reckoning we have a couple of hours before they get here.’
‘You crazy bitch!’ he said, terror leaching colour from his face. ‘You gotta be kidding!’
‘I don’t do humour,’ she returned.
‘What do you want? Half? It’s yours.’
‘I don’t do money either. This way, Muller,’ she pointed to the door to the next room. ‘We’re going to put you down in the cellar. I hope the bed’s comfy.’
‘Tremain will kill me!’ he protested. ‘He’ll kill you too!’
‘Comes with the territory,’ she said, and waved for him to get a move on. Reluctantly he led the way through the door. They paused by another door in the corner of the room. ‘Go on, Muller, open it.’ He did so. It opened out onto a series of stone steps leading down into a darkened basement. He made one last attempt to reason with her but she prodded the barrel of the gun between his shoulder blades and he clumped downstairs. There was a door at the bottom with a shining new padlock on it. ‘Inside, Muller,’ she said. He went quietly inside the room and she closed the door on him, snapping the padlock in place. She heard him cursing her from the other side.
When she came back up the stairs Gareth was waiting for her. He’d picked up Muller’s gun. ‘I’m betting this one is loaded,’ he said, pointing it at her.
She ignored him. ‘I’m famished,’ she said, walking over to the fridge. ‘What have we got to eat?’ She opened the fridge door. ‘What is it with men and empty fridges?’ she opined.
‘I mean it; I’ll use this thing if I have to. I want some answers. Talk.’
‘So now you want to listen to me? If you’d have done that before it would have saved us both a lot of trouble.’ She pointed to the case Muller had brought from the car. ‘Open it, Gareth, if you don’t believe me.’
He went over to the black case, the gun trained on her still. He snapped open the gold fasteners. There were many documents inside, including a variety of passports and plane tickets. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
‘As soon as you’d been handed over he was planning on making a quick getaway and losing himself somewhere exotic and far away.’ She nodded at his hands. ‘It could have been far worse than a few pinpricks.’ She removed her leather jacket. She wore a tight-fitting T-shirt that emphasised her slender torso, her small breasts. ‘Camael wants you dead; Lambert-Chide wants you alive — it’s all a matter of taste, I guess.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Like I said, I don’t do humour.’
‘Enough of the mind games. Who are you?’
‘Caroline Cody.’
‘And who exactly is Caroline Cody?’
‘Someone sent to help save you.’
‘I’ve been told that once before and I’m not about to fall for it again.’
She gave a careless shrug. ‘Suit yourself, but I’m all you’ve got between people like Muller and Camael. She opened a cupboard door. ‘We’ve got bread. You like bread?’
Gareth ran a hand through his hair, his hand trembling. ‘This is complete and utter madness. I have to get out of here.’ He lowered the gun, then dropped it onto the sofa as if it were something dirty and offensive.
‘Sure you do. You go out there and you won’t last more than a couple of days. One or the other will get you. And don’t even think of going to the police. That’s a shortcut to your funeral. Like I said before, life is never going to be the same again for you. Gareth Davies? Forget him. As far as you’re concerned he doesn’t exist anymore, not if you want to stay alive.’ She began to hum the Bee Gees’ song Staying Alive. ‘Great, we have crab paste,’ she said. ‘You like crab paste?’
Gareth rubbed his tired eyes. ‘How did I ever get into this mess? One day I’m going quietly about my business, the next thing I know a sister I never knew I had throws herself in front of my car, and then I’m on the run for my life not knowing who to trust, and best of all not knowing why.’
Caroline took the lid off the crab paste and sniffed it. She threw it back in the cupboard. ‘You’ll know soon enough. Look, I don’t mean to sound so vague, but right now is not a good time to hit you with the full story. Trust me, it will either freak you rigid or you’ll think me crazy.’ She angled her head. ‘Crazier,’ she said. ‘Or both, which is the most likely scenario.’ She nodded at his bandaged hands. ‘How are the hands and feet?’
‘Sore but I’ll survive.’
‘That’s my little soldier,’ she said.
They heard a dull rumbling from down below as Muller pummelled the cellar door. ‘Is he going to be OK?’ Gareth asked.
‘Only until Tremain gets here.’
‘You really believe Tremain is capable of killing someone?’
Her face steeled. ‘I know it,’ she said. ‘From personal experience.’