James Deegan - John Carr

He paused.

Trying to decide whether to bollock the fucker, or punch him.

The look of contrition in the Russian’s face softened Carr a little.

‘Listen, Yuri,’ he said, ‘I’m going to let it go this time, but if you let me down again you and me are away round the back of the block, and then Oleg’s going to have a go, and then when you get out of hospital you’re looking for another fucking job. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes,’ said Yuri. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Good man,’ said Carr. ‘Don’t worry about it. But it doesn’t happen again, understood?’

The Russian nodded.

‘Go and make yourself a strong black coffee, splash some water on your face, and keep alert.’

Carr took his tea outside and drank it while watching the sun rise over the hills to the east.

Felt the humid air warm a degree or two.

Another day in paradise, for some.

He finished the tea, threw the dregs into a flowerbed, and went back inside.

Had a piss, and a quick shower, and then padded along the cold tiles to the study.

He booked a pair of lunchtime flights back to Heathrow for himself and Alice, and then went to pack his kit.

39.

JOHN CARR HAD just loaded Alice’s suitcase into the boot of the villa’s Range Rover, when his mobile rang.

Number withheld.

He tended not to answer unknown callers, but under the circumstances this could be a friend or a relative.

He clicked green, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the engine on to get the AC kicked in.

‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his daughter.

The expression on her face, he’d seen it many times: it was the vacant look of a young squaddie who’s just gone through his first real firefight.

He couldn’t help smiling, slightly.

‘John, it’s Justin Nicholls,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

Carr said nothing.

‘We met at your flat a while back?’ said Nicholls. ‘You, me, and Guy de Vere.’

A mental image of Justin Nicholls appeared in Carr’s head: nicely cut pin-stripe suit, expensive shirt, pinkie ring, discreet silver watch.

Black shoes with a mirror shine.

Sitting, uncomfortably, in Carr’s place in Primrose Hill.

With Guy de Vere, Carr’s old platoon commander from 3 Para, turned 22 SAS CO, then DSF, and now Commander Field Army.

A meeting to offer Carr a role in a new outfit being set up, strictly on the QT, by certain people at MI6, in the British Army, and various other interested parties.

For various unspecified tasks.

‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘I remember you.’

‘I understand you’re in Marbella,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’m sorry to hear that your daughter got caught up in it.’

Carr didn’t even bother asking how he knew.

‘She’s fine,’ he said.

‘And I’ve been reading with interest of your exploits.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Yes. First thing I saw this morning. We have pretty good sources in the Spanish police. Mind you, we’re not the only ones with sources in the Spanish police.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re all over the Daily Mail this morning.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. With a photo.’

‘Aye?’

They must have taken it as he left the cop shop – the place had still been crawling with media.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘Not a very good one.’

‘Hard to take a bad photo of me, Justin.’

‘Low light,’ said Nicholls. ‘Taken from the side. You wouldn’t know it was you.’

‘What does the story say?’

‘“Hero Brit on beach of hell”,’ said Nicholls. ‘That’s the headline. You can look it up online.’

‘What does it say about me ?’

‘It names you, and says you’re in your forties, and believed to be a former soldier.’

‘Does it mention the Regiment?’

‘No. It says you live in Hereford. I suppose people will work it out.’

‘Does it mention George?’

‘Who?’

‘My son. He was with me.’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘Anyway, I understand you may have seen one of the attackers?’

Carr chuckled – it amused him, the way the English upper classes tap-danced around things, using euphemisms and hints and never getting to the fucking point.

‘Justin, you know I saw him. I’m sure you’ve already read my statement to that effect. Why else would you be calling me?’

‘Ha,’ said Nicholls. ‘I haven’t yet seen the statement actually. Though I expect I will fairly shortly. Would you mind giving me a heads-up?’

‘Not much to tell. I saw a guy staring at the girls. Just thought he was a dirty old man at first. They pulled a picture of him off of the CCTV. Mean-looking fucker.’

‘Speaking of the girls, do you know the identities of the women who were taken?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘It’s all over social media.’

‘I don’t use social media.’

‘One of them was the daughter of the Prime Minister.’

It took a lot to shock John Carr, but that certainly knocked him back.

‘I see,’ he said, after a few moments.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘I understand you’re booked on the one o’clock into Heathrow.’

Carr said nothing.

‘Anyway, I wondered… If anything occurs to you, if you remember something you didn’t tell the Spanish police, would you mind giving me a bell?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’ve got my number?’

‘In my head,’ said Carr.

He smiled to himself: it was actually stored in his phone under ‘James Bond’, but he wasn’t going to tell Nicholls that.

‘Great. Thanks. Look, I’d better get off. It’s chaos here, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

Carr certainly could imagine: he had a vision of the MI6 HQ teeming with headless chickens.

Chinless, clueless, headless chickens, at that.

But he just said, ‘Aye.’

The call ended and Carr turned to Alice.

‘Buckle up,’ he said.

‘Who was that?’ she said.

‘Your granny,’ he said.

‘For fuck’s sake, Dad,’ said Alice, shaking her head. ‘Why’s everything got to be secret squirrel with you?’

He chuckled.

‘I’m a leopard, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I cannae change my spots.’

40.

CHARLOTTE MORGAN, MARTHA Percival and their captors had arrived at a compound on the outskirts of Saïdia not long after midnight.

There the first part of the two women’s ordeal had ended, with their removal from the stinking, sweating hiding places under the floors of the two Land Cruisers.

They were half-carried, half-dragged quickly in through the open door of a stone house.

There they were split up, Martha being taken through a further door on the left, Charlotte through a door on the right.

The two men carrying her stood her upright, and then a third – and the man with the dark eyes and the livid red hole in his leg, the man who had filmed the murder of Emily Souster – began the process of stripping off the duct tape.

She was dripping with sweat, and it came easily enough off her wet skin, but it pulled strands of her hair out where it was wrapped around her head.

She did not cry out, and when it was finally all ripped away, she stood there defiantly: she was damned if she was going to show these men her fear.

Almost four hours she had spent in the 4x4, being bounced around the cramped interior on the rough roads, and fighting to keep her sanity. Several times she had almost lost control, her mind and heart racing, the panic rising as she imagined she was suffocating, dying in this tiny, claustrophobic box.

If she could survive that, she could survive this.

Dark Eyes looked her up and down, and grinned lasciviously, a bucket of brackish water in one hand.