Simon Kernick - Ultimatum

In the flesh, she was even more attractive — a tall, willowy blonde with golden skin, wearing a short red dress that showed off her long shapely legs, and high-heeled red court shoes that Voorhess reckoned she probably wore when she was having sex. A short red leather jacket completed the ensemble.

‘Oh God,’ she said, her mouth dropping open in shock.

‘It’s OK,’ he said calmly, lifting the gun. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Put your hands in the air for me.’

As she raised them uncertainly, he shot her once through her left eye, catching her as she stumbled, and simultaneously wrapping the towel round her head to stem the bleeding. The gun he’d used was the one he’d requested from the client, a.22 calibre with low-velocity bullets, designed to take people out at close range without making much noise or mess. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he knew from experience that it was always best to plan for any eventuality.

She was still moving, clearly not dead yet, and he brought her slowly down to the carpet, placing her in a sitting position so that she was leaning back against him, her body juddering in the crook of his shoulder, the warmth of her skin giving him an unpleasant feeling. He didn’t like this kind of thing. Putting the gun down on the carpet, he produced a lock knife from his overalls, flicked open the blade and drove it deep into her heart to finish her off and stop it pumping blood, holding her while she died in his arms.

When he was sure she was gone, Voorhess tied a knot in the towel, impressed at how little blood had been spilt, threw the body over one shoulder, and carried her into the adjoining garage. Mr Butt didn’t drive, preferring to take taxis everywhere, and Voorhess had parked his Shogun in there. He thought about putting the body in the Shogun’s boot, but that would just complicate matters. Instead he laid her down at the back of the garage, trying not to look as her dress rode up to reveal a bright red lacy thong with a black flower in the centre. It seemed such a terrible waste, destroying something so beautiful, and at such close quarters too, and he gave a sigh of relief as he covered her with a sheet of dusty tarpaulin, glad he didn’t have to look at his handiwork any more.

Mr Butt didn’t make a sound as Voorhess walked back into the room where he sat bound to the chair, but tears were streaming down his face. It was obvious he knew what had happened. The.22’s retort hadn’t been loud, but he would still have heard it.

Voorhess found a tissue and wiped away his tears.

This was the cue for Mr Butt to make a long keening sound beneath the gag, like a wounded animal, and Voorhess turned away, having no desire to watch the other man’s pain. At the same time, there was a bleep from the mobile phone the client had provided him with.

He slipped it from his overalls and checked the message. It read simply: GOODS READY FOR COLLECTION TWO HOURS. FOR USE 8 P.M.

Voorhess nodded slowly, looking over at the holdall on the sofa. The black explosives vest was poking out and he picked it up, along with the medical kit containing the diazepam.

It was time to make the final preparations.

16.52

Islington Nick held plenty of memories for Tina Boyd. She’d done two stints there as a detective — the first for four years, the second for two. It was the place where she’d fallen in love for the first and only time in her life. DI John Gallan had been her boss, a good-looking, good-hearted man who’d been snatched away from her far too quickly.

She didn’t miss the place. It was a big ugly building next door to an even uglier Sainsbury’s superstore, and most of the memories only made her unhappy on those few occasions she chose to dwell on them. It was, after all, events that had happened there that had driven her to alcoholism and the steady decline into darkness that had followed.

So it was with a hint of trepidation that she stepped through the doors, nodding briefly to a couple of civilian workers she didn’t recognize who were smoking just outside, and went into the reception area. The first thing she noticed was that there was no sense of urgency as a result of the bombs that morning and the terrorists’ ultimatum that had followed. The custody sergeant, an old timer called Barnes, was booking in a smiling drunk who appeared to have forgotten his own name and who was having to be held up by two PCSOs, while a second prisoner — young and feral — was arguing loudly with his escort as they tried to get him through the door to the cells. Other people — the lawyers, the civilian workers and the civilians caught up in the police system — wandered in and out, ignoring the dramas going on around them.

Mike Bolt was already in reception. ‘The interview team should be here in the next fifteen minutes,’ he said as they took the stairs to the second floor of the building. ‘But Brozi’s refusing to say a word without his lawyer present, and we’re not expecting him until five thirty. Plus he wants an Albanian translator, and we’re still trying to sort one out.’

‘He spoke English well enough to me,’ said Tina.

Bolt frowned. ‘The problem is, he’s not acting like a man who’s scared. I think his experience of the British justice system has made him pretty complacent.’

‘I’d have thought the fact that he’s being charged with the attempted murder of two police officers would have concentrated his mind.’

‘You know what it’s like, Tina. In this business, nothing’s cut and dried.’

And it wasn’t. A clever lawyer could easily twist the facts to suit his client’s case, particularly as none of the bullets Brozi had fired had come anywhere near hitting either her or Bolt. Ironically, it would have been a lot better for the case, and for scaring Brozi into cooperating, if one of them had actually been shot.

‘Listen, Mike,’ she said as they walked out of the lift and turned in the direction of the CID offices, ‘that message on Brozi’s PC might be a clue to something. Can you run it by the Albanian translator whenever he turns up?’ She took out her mobile. ‘I photographed it on here.’

‘Text me the photo and I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, not sounding particularly interested.

By now they were in an empty office where two phones sat on a desk with chairs at either end. ‘We’ve set up the secure line so you can talk to Fox from here.’ His expression was tense as he looked at her. ‘If he knows the names of the people involved in the attacks today, and he wants to help himself, then he’s got to tell us now, because we’re running short on time.’

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ said Tina, picking up one of the phones, while Bolt picked up the other so he could listen in.

After being patched through to the prison governor’s office, and given a short lecture from Governor Goodman on how talking to a prisoner like this was highly unorthodox, she was rerouted to the office where Fox had been taken along with his escort to receive the call.

‘So the lead I gave you this morning was useful?’ said Fox calmly as he came on the line.

‘We have Mr Brozi in custody, yes.’

‘Would that have anything to do with the events in Islington this afternoon?’

‘How do you know about them?’

‘I’ve got a TV in my cell, and I like to keep up with current affairs. It’s all over the news that two police officers were shot at by an armed man, who was arrested at the scene. It was Brozi, wasn’t it?’

Tina could tell he was trying to knock her off balance, as he’d done that morning. It was working too. The speed with which the media covered events, and Fox’s own access to their coverage, meant that even in prison he was only a few steps behind them. Briefly, she told him what had happened.