(2013) The Catch Read online

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not ours. We have no idea where it came from.’

  ‘Yes, we do. It came from a hole in the ground.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Robbie put up his hands. ‘Let’s take this a step at a time. You agree we’ve got to dispose of the car, yeah?’

  Quietly fuming, Dan nodded. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And this buddy of Jed’s will do it for us. But it’ll cost three hundred quid. Then there’s the fact that you’re left without a car, which is gonna get people asking a lot of awkward questions. Yes?’

  Dan nodded again, but said, ‘Taking this money is not the answer.’

  ‘Why not? Hank’s dead. This was sitting here all week and nobody came to get it—’ Robbie only just stopped short of mentioning the break-in. ‘What’s the point of leaving it to rot?’

  ‘It’s a matter of principle. I’m not a thief. I don’t want this money.’

  ‘You may not want it, but you need it. You can buy a new car and tell everyone you traded the Fiesta in.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re even thinking like this after what happened on Tuesday night. Because of your greed we had to go back the next night, and we nearly got caught.’

  ‘But this is different. It’s not gonna be missed.’

  ‘Why not? What if Hank stole the money? In fact, what if he stole it from the man who took a photo of your car?’

  Robbie shook his head. ‘This isn’t a fortune, not in terms of robbery. It’s more like ... petty cash. He must have travelled a lot, and got used to salting money away for emergencies.’

  Dan indicated the paperwork. ‘So what about this?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a mystery. And I agree that somebody may well be after it. But there’s not a lot we can do about that.’

  ‘We can put it back. And then, when they come looking, they’ll find it.’

  Robbie stared at him in disbelief. Not for the first time he was astounded that two people whose minds worked so differently could ever have become friends.

  ‘You’d really do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve no curiosity at all?’

  ‘Not after this week, no. You remember what happened to the cat?’

  ‘Eh?’ It took Robbie a few seconds; then he snorted. ‘Oh, curiosity killed the cat. Very witty.’

  Now Dan picked up one of the documents. ‘This mentions the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What if Hank was into espionage or something? We could have the security services after us.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Your imagination’s working overtime.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘If we’re gonna do the car, I’m getting another beer first. Just the one,’ he added, when Dan glared at him. ‘Wanna join me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I brought pizza for later, in case we get peckish.’

  Dan squinted at him, his head cocked to one side. ‘Is this your idea of a celebration?’

  ‘Why not? Let’s see off your poor old car in style.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘Hey, five grand on the table, in cash. Plus beer and pizza.’ Robbie did a little skip towards the door, half expecting Dan to lob an empty bottle at him. ‘That sounds like a celebration to me.’

  CHAPTER 69

  Jerry Conlon owned a house in Derinton Road, Tooting, in South London, the sort of tiny two-bed terrace that estate agents were prone to describe as a ‘cottage’. It was currently worth about three hundred thousand, but its value was meaningless since Jerry had been forced to remortgage a few years ago to pay off his second wife and put money into a trust fund for their grown-up son, who was severely disabled. Jerry never visited the lad – couldn’t even bear to think about him, if the truth were told – but felt he’d at least done the right thing financially.

  It wasn’t the sort of home he’d imagined himself ending up in. He’d hoped to be somewhere larger, out in the suburbs, with an en-suite bathroom and a huge great kitchen like the Blakes had. A decent garden with a hideaway shed and maybe a hot tub on the deck.

  But this was what he had, this and Jen-Ling, and on his good days Jerry knew to thank his lucky stars for that.

  Right now he wouldn’t class this as one of the good days, but it wasn’t exactly a bad day, either. He didn’t actually know how he felt, so he was enjoying a glass or two of mid-priced brandy while he tried to decide.

  The doorbell ringing came as a surprise. The sound had echoed away before he registered what it meant – a visitor – and even then he had to sit up and consider that for a moment. Normally Jen-Ling handled answering the door, along with most of the other domestic chores, so he sat back and waited for her to take care of it. Then, with a gentle start, he remembered that Jen-Ling wasn’t here tonight.

  Oops. Possibly he was slightly more befuddled than he’d thought.

  He got up, creaking and groaning like an old fence. All the hours he’d spent outside this week, crouching in bloody fields and bushes, had caused his joints to seize up and ache to buggery.

  He didn’t answer the door until he’d peered through the spyhole. Basic precaution these days. He wasn’t sure who he was expecting to see, but not Stemper, looking bored.

  Jerry opened the door. Stemper was wearing a raincoat over a suit, and holding his briefcase. Not more effing work to do?

  ‘What’s up?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘I think we should talk about the Blakes.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Jerry wasn’t going to be tricked into speaking out of turn.

  ‘They’re taking us for a ride. I’ve no idea what they’re paying you, but now we know there’s fifty million at stake, I’m willing to bet it’s peanuts in comparison.’

  ‘You didn’t sound that unhappy last night.’

  ‘You have to choose your moments, Jerry. Wait until you have the right kind of leverage.’ Stemper gave a disgusted little laugh, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though he was cold. ‘Do you know, they sent me a cheap bottle of Scotch as a “thank you” for my efforts so far? As if I’d regard that as fair compensation for all I’ve done.’

  ‘I know what you mean. They’re taking the piss.’ Jerry opened the door wide. ‘D’you wanna come in?’

  ****

  Stemper followed Jerry through a narrow, gloomy hallway into a combined living-dining room with laminate flooring and beige walls. There was a large TV, tuned in to an old episode of Dad’s Army, and a nest of tables, the smallest of which was home to an open bottle of brandy and a snifter glass.

  As Jerry sat down, he pointed at the bottle and said, ‘They got me that. I mean, St Remy’s nice enough. I’m not gonna turn my nose up at it. But Gordon knows I like my cognac, I was talking to him about it a few weeks back. If they seriously wanted to show their appreciation they could have got me a bottle of Hine Antique XO.’

  ‘That’s the rating system?’

  ‘Yeah. Extra Old.’ Jerry snorted. ‘Might’ve guessed you’d be an expert on booze, along with everything else.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Stemper made a show of looking around the room. ‘Is your wife here?’

  ‘That’s the other thing. They sent me this pair of theatre tickets. Some friend of theirs had spares and they thought I might like to take Jen-Ling. But it’s Billy Elliot.’

  Stemper grimaced: the reaction that Jerry clearly desired.

  ‘I mean, as if I’d wanna sit in front of Billy fucking Elliot ...’

  ‘I hope she hasn’t had to go on her own?’

  Jerry shook his head. ‘She works in a laundrette. One of the girls there has gone with her.’

  ‘So you have a night in with St Remy.’ Stemper chuckled again. ‘Well, I may have another treat for you.’

  As he spoke he set the briefcase down on the coffee table, popped it open and shifted it round for Jerry to see. He’d placed a few official-looking documents on top, printed for him by Gordon Blake. As Jerry leaned
forward, Stemper moved alongside him, directing his attention to the briefcase, and Jerry didn’t see him take the bondage rope from his pocket.

  ****

  Jerry was squinting at the text, wondering if Stemper was going to propose blackmailing the Blakes for a larger cut, and then he felt Stemper coming in close, as if to perch on the edge of the chair. It seemed inappropriate, far too intimate, and then in a blur of movement there was something around his throat, pulling tight, and Stemper was on him, forcing him down and off the chair.

  He ended up on his knees, Stemper’s weight on his back and some kind of noose around his neck, Stemper gripping it as though bringing an unruly dog under control.

  Jerry tried to speak but all he managed was a gargling noise. The confusion gave way to panic as Stemper’s ‘friendly guy’ persona dissolved like aspirin and was replaced in Jerry’s mind by the knowledge that this man solved problems, in ways that nobody ever liked to describe; and in hinting to the Blakes that he felt he was being undervalued, Jerry had gone and declared himself a problem.

  The unfairness of it broke his heart. Jerry knew he wouldn’t get a chance to explain, much less plead for mercy. Not that it would do any good. The Blakes had ordered this: Stemper was merely the weapon they used. You might as well beg a gun not to shoot you.

  Despite everything, Jerry couldn’t help marvelling at their ingenuity. The theatre tickets, specifically for a show that wouldn’t appeal to him. The brandy, cheap enough to make him resentful, and thus determined to drink it out of spite. The booze had softened him up, made him slow and pliable. Even the decision to let him knock off early this afternoon must have been part of it. At the time he’d thought it a bit strange not to get a bollocking for losing the guy in the Citroen.

  He’d been rolled into a trap with consummate skill and cunning, and the only saving grace, as far as he could see, was that Jen-Ling was to be spared. Jerry knew he must do whatever it took to protect her, even if whatever it took meant dying quietly, without a fuss.

  ****

  As well as bondage ropes, the generous pockets of Stemper’s raincoat contained the other tools for his night’s work: they included a rubber-ball gag with leather straps and a lacy bra-and-knickers set in a size that would fit Jerry.

  First in was the gag, so he couldn’t scream. He was still making guttural noises but Stemper grabbed the remote control, upped the TV’s volume and changed channels until he found a boisterous game show.

  He kept the pressure on his makeshift noose, tight enough to render Jerry compliant without causing him to pass out. Hauling him to his feet, Stemper pushed and cajoled him upstairs, ignoring the muffled cries and moans.

  The main bedroom was painted black and silver and boasted a hideously revealing mirror on the ceiling. Stemper couldn’t have designed a better backdrop for the scenario he had in mind. Better still, there was a TV on a chest of drawers, complete with a built-in DVD player.

  He laid Jerry down and sat astride him, releasing the rope around his neck while he slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves. Then he gripped Jerry’s right hand by the wrist and saw to it that Jerry’s fingers touched the gag and the ropes and the underwear.

  Undressing the man wasn’t a task he relished, but he bought compliance with a simple threat: ‘If you struggle I’ll revert to Plan B, which I prepared in case you chose to accompany your wife to the theatre. It involves us waiting until she gets home, and then what happens to you will also happen to her. But it will be far, far worse. Understand?’

  He hadn’t put Jerry down as a brave man, and he was right. But it seemed that he did possess a measure of chivalry. Without a murmur he allowed Stemper to strip off his clothes and put the lingerie on him, and then he meekly flopped over to lie face down on the bed.

  Stemper looped the other bondage rope around Jerry’s ankles, bent his legs at the knee and joined that rope to the one around his neck, tightening it to the point where Jerry’s head was tipped back. To ease the chokehold on his neck Jerry had to move his feet closer, until his heels were almost level with the base of his spine. Although his arms were free, they could do little more than flail at the ropes. Perhaps, in sheer desperation, he might have been able to save his life by tugging on the rope at his neck, even if it meant dislocating his hips. But Stemper wasn’t about to permit that.

  The last touch was the amyl nitrate. Stemper pressed the bottle into Jerry’s hands, then put it to his nostrils and told him to inhale. By this point Jerry seemed as eager as Stemper was to get it over with. He sniffed for all he was worth. His face, already flushed and swollen, grew redder still. He began to make rapid high-pitched noises, like the cry of some exotic bird.

  There was one additional task – the most distasteful of all, and not always achievable. The last time Stemper had used this method the victim hadn’t shown any hint of arousal, but Jerry’s physiology was more obliging.

  With mechanical efficiency, Stemper ensured that there would be traces of semen to consolidate the impression that this was a sex game gone tragically wrong. While he worked, he could see Jerry weakening, the oxygen deprivation putting an enormous strain on his heart as the muscles in his legs succumbed to the will of gravity, slowly throttling the life out of him.

  It was now safe for Stemper to pop downstairs and fetch the DVD from his briefcase. He added Jerry’s prints to the DVD and put it into the machine. By the time the first images of hardcore amateur porn appeared on the screen, Jerry Conlon was spared the sight of them.

  He was dead.

  CHAPTER 70

  It was both a strange and a strangely fine evening. Although he wouldn’t have admitted it to Robbie, Dan found it remarkably cathartic.

  He had no desire for food, but once the pizza had been microwaved and he caught a whiff of melted cheese and hot pepperoni, he realised he was starving. He didn’t intend to have a second beer, either. Or a third. Or a fourth. But it was Saturday night, and he wasn’t going to be driving home, so why the hell not?

  ‘See, we’re giving the Fiesta a nice send-off,’ Robbie said, after he’d packed up the boxes and put them by the door.

  ‘Like a wake?’

  ‘More like a Viking funeral.’ Robbie thought that was hilarious, for some reason.

  As it turned out, destroying the car wasn’t as simple as they’d anticipated. Noise was one factor that Robbie hadn’t considered. It was a dry evening, and not windy enough to muffle the clang of hammer against metal.

  It was Dan who found the solution, fetching a thick cushion from one of Hank O’Brien’s armchairs. Then they took it in turns, one of them holding the cushion by its edges and placing it against the car, while the other swung the sledgehammer. They tried to pick random spots, working harder on some areas, but still the end result was a bizarre pattern of damage that didn’t look remotely natural.

  ‘Anyone can see it’s been vandalised on purpose,’ Dan said.

  ‘Yeah. But where’s the damage from Tuesday night?’

  Dan peered at the bonnet and around the edge of the shattered windscreen.

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s the point. Now it’s just a write-off, ready for the crusher.’ Robbie reached for the fuel can. ‘Almost ready.’

  ‘I’m still not sure about this.’ Dan swallowed down a burp. Four empty bottles on the barn floor, and somehow he had a fifth one on the go.

  ‘I’m completely sober,’ Robbie assured him, though there were three empties next to his pizza box.

  ‘And you seriously want to do it in here?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘There’s no chimney.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  ****

  At that, Dan burst out laughing. He couldn’t explain what he found so funny, but Robbie probably had a fair idea, judging by the sour look on his face.

  They opened the big roller door as well as the access door to create a through draught. Robbie carried the document boxes out and put the
m in his car for safety, ignoring Dan’s argument that they should be returned to their hiding place. Dan watched him pick up the fuel can and start sloshing petrol over the Fiesta’s upholstery.

  ‘Don’t overdo it. You’re filling the air with fumes. Light a match and the whole place’ll go up.’

  Robbie sniffed once or twice, then shrugged. ‘Yeah. All right.’

  They stood outside for ten minutes, allowing the air to clear.

  ‘Wish I still smoked,’ Robbie said. ‘Maybe I’ll start again.’ A chuckle. ‘Cigars. Those big fat Cuban ones, like movie producers have.’

  Dan had no comment. He was steadily consuming his beer, having decided there was every reason to get totally pissed. Perhaps Robbie was right about him. He needed to loosen up, be more like Robbie. More like Louis.

  ‘Party animals,’ he muttered.

  ‘Eh?’

  Dan shook his head. ‘The other night, when Louis and his friends were causing that trouble ...’

  ‘Mucking around.’

  ‘Whatever. I don’t think it was just booze. I think some of them are doing drugs.’

  Robbie gave a regretful smile, as though Dan was the most naive man he’d ever met.

  ‘What d’you want me to say? I was up to all sorts at seventeen, and you could’ve been too, if you’d wanted.’

  ‘So you reckon they are? Louis as well?’

  ‘Maybe. But they’ll know not to go crazy.’ He tutted. ‘God, Dan, even after a few drinks you’re still trying to carry all the world’s problems on your back. Just give it a rest, eh?’

  ‘Wish I could.’

  ‘It’s easy enough. Just say you’re gonna do it. Then do it.’

  ****

  At Dan’s suggestion, Robbie used one of the pizza boxes as a taper. He lit it while still in the doorway, and took a few cautious steps into the barn.

  ‘Should be okay now, yeah?’

  Dan grunted. He stepped over the threshold, but decided he didn’t want to go much closer.