D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

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.

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?’