Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

He put his head down.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers, darling!’ The woman’s voice had turned angry when she realised she was being ignored.

Chet carried on towards Trafalgar Square, and from there to Whitehall. He walked down the opposite side to number 132 and stood for a moment observing the entrance. He didn’t really know what he was looking for — maybe an unmarked van parked suspiciously nearby; individuals carrying out surveillance in the street. He knew the signs to look for and right now he saw none of them, so he crossed the road and made his way into the building.

The big, marble-floored atrium was entirely empty, with the exception of a solitary security guard on reception — different to the guy Chet had spoken to that morning. He had black skin and dreadlocks and was reading a copy of the Sun. He glanced up when Chet was a couple of metres from the reception.

Chet smiled at him. ‘Graveyard shift, mate?’

The guard put down his newspaper and Chet noticed that he’d been examining page 3. ‘You said it, brother,’ he sighed.

Chet looked around, then leaned in a bit closer. ‘I wondered if you could help me out with something.’

‘Ain’t no one here this time of night,’ the guard replied. ‘Except me, of course.’ He prodded the newspaper. ‘And Delightful Debs from Dagenham.’ He laughed, and Chet joined in.

‘Not looking for someone here. I’m looking for someone who was here,’ said Chet. ‘A chick.’

A broad grin crossed the guard’s face.

‘I did a little security job here this morning. The name’s Chet Freeman. Check your computer if you like.’

The guard shrugged and tapped at the keyboard of his terminal. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment. ‘I got you.’

‘So I got talking to this girl. Said her name was Suze. Cleaning lady. Redhead. Kind of…’ Chet made a gesture with his hands to indicate a shapely figure. ‘Should have got her number there and then, I guess…’

A troubled look came on to the guard’s face. ‘Ah, I don’t know, man. I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. You know, home addresses and shit.’

‘Hey, course not. I understand. I was just thinking, you know, maybe a phone number… if you had it…’

He winked at the guard, who gave an amused shake of the head and replied, ‘I don’t know, brother. She must have been pretty cute for you to come chasing after her at this time of night.’

‘Yeah. Or maybe I’m just desperate.’

The guard laughed, then once more tapped on his keyboard. ‘Suze McArthur?’ he asked.

‘That’s my girl.’

‘She’s a temp. Only worked here yesterday.’ The guard scrawled a number on a yellow Post-It note and handed it to Chet. ‘Hope you get yourself some pussy, brother.’

Chet grinned. ‘You and me both, my friend.’

He turned and walked out of the building, the square of paper clasped firmly in his right hand.

It took him half an hour to get back to his car. It would have taken him less, but he went a roundabout way, down quiet side streets where he could look back and check he wasn’t being followed. By the time he’d got back to his vehicle, his leg was killing him — sharp, stabbing pains shooting from the stump up into the thigh, and a nagging soreness where flesh met prosthesis. It was a relief to sit behind the wheel. He drove out of the West End, pulling over on Tottenham Court Road to check he wasn’t being trailed, before heading to Aldenham Street in the maze between Camden and Euston Station. There were modern housing blocks on either side, but the street was deserted at this time of night and he parked in the gloom below a broken street lamp. He recovered his rucksack and removed one of the bulky mobile phones that he’d used to debug the offices earlier.

Seconds later he was dialling Suze’s number.

It rang six times.

Seven.

He was about to hang up when a voice came on the line. It was sleepy.

‘Hello?’

‘Suze McArthur?’

‘What… who is this?’ The girl sounded suspicious. Frightened.

‘Your friend from the roof.’

A pause.

‘How did you get my number?’ Her voice cracked slightly.

‘How did you get your hands on a laser listening device?’

Silence.

‘I let you escape today,’ he said finally. ‘You owe me. I want to know what you thought you were listening…’

‘I’m hanging up.’ Suze’s voice was wavering as she interrupted him.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

‘I’m hanging up…’ She sounded like a scared kid standing up to a bully. ‘I’m hanging up now.’

A click on the line, then silence.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Chet muttered. He dialled the number again, but this time it rang out.

He chucked the phone on to the passenger seat, leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He was dead beat. The beer, the scuffle at the flat, walking too far with his bad leg — it was all taking its toll. He ought to rest, but rest wasn’t on the menu. He’d be insane to go back home, but he needed somewhere to lie low. Where he couldn’t be found. Somewhere to get his head in order. With someone he could trust.

But as far as Chet was concerned, trustworthy people were as rare as a nun in a bikini. If Luke Mercer was in the country, Chet would already be on the way to Hereford. But he wasn’t, and in the absence of his old SAS mucker, there was only one other person he would even think of approaching. He picked up his phone and called a number that he knew by heart.

It rang for several seconds before a voice answered. ‘Who the hell

…?’

‘Doug, it’s me. Chet.’

A heavy sigh. ‘Jesus, Chet. What time is it?’

‘I don’t know — about 01.00? Listen, mate, I need a favour.’

‘Chet, this a wind-up? You been on the beers?’

‘No. Yes, but… look, can you meet me?’

A pause.

‘Now?’

‘Now. It’s important.’

‘Mate, I can’t. I’m out of town. Trains are done for the day. You never called — I went to the girlfriend’s place.’

Chet vaguely remembered Doug saying that his latest squeeze lived somewhere south of town. Mitcham Junction, was it?

‘Plus,’ Doug continued, ‘it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning.’

Chet cursed silently, his brain still racing.

‘Can you RV first thing?’

‘I guess…’

‘Clapham Junction. Platform 15 — one five — 06.30.’

‘Fine. Look, Chet, what the hell’s this all about?’

I wish I knew, Chet thought to himself.

‘06.30,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late.’

He hung up before Doug could reply.

Chet threw the phone down again and caught himself checking the rear-view mirror. Checking for what? He didn’t know, but he knew his heart was racing and his mouth was dry.

Fear? Damn right. But that didn’t mean he was going to succumb to it. He kept his gaze on the mirror, and prepared to sit it out till morning.

Suze McArthur stared at her phone like it was a snake. She was shaking. How had that guy tracked her down? Who was he working for?

A chill sickness welled up in her stomach. She found herself shivering, and felt as though all the strength had left her limbs. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her, but that did no good.

A noise in the corridor outside.

Suze heard herself gasp.

It was nothing, she told herself. She remembered being a child, terrified by strange sounds after her lights had been turned out. Her doctor father, when he was not away, would come in and smooth down her hair. ‘There’s no one here, princess,’ he’d whisper. ‘Just Mummy and Daddy, and we won’t let anything scare you. All you can hear is our old house creaking. That’s what happens at night.’