Charles.’
Boxer had the use of the Mercedes. He sat up front with the driver, a thick-set Londoner with the customary shaved head, who’d used the last hour to install a sheet of plastic in the shattered window in the back. As they glided through the streets of Notting Hill, Westbourne Green, Maida Vale and Kilburn, the driver told him he’d only worked for Mr D’Cruz three times and nothing had ever happened before.
‘You spoken to your boss yet?’
‘Not on a Sunday evening.’
‘Is he the nervous type?’
‘Nah, he’ll just tell me to take a car with bulletproof windows. We have them. I just didn’t think that’s what we were getting into.’
‘Nor did Mr D’Cruz,’ said Boxer. ‘You’d better make sure your boss doesn’t talk to the police about this until you get clearance from me. There’s a delicate situation in progress.’
‘I don’t think my boss has very close relations with the police ... if you know what I mean.’
‘But don’t try dealing with that bullet in the back seat yet. We’ll organise some forensics to take a look at it.’
The car pulled up outside a large white stucco house in Belsize Park Gardens. Boxer took his small suitcase up to the top floor flat. He emptied out the clothes he’d been wearing in Lisbon, opened the case’s false bottom and removed twenty-five thousand euros in cash—his poker winnings. He put the blocks of money in a wall safe behind a painting of a sixteenth century Italian businessman, which had a heavy rococo gilt frame. He took out two thousand pounds in cash, shut the safe and replaced the painting.
In the kitchen he went into a saucepan cupboard, removed the pans and a section of the base. He lifted a floorboard underneath and took out a Belgian-made FN57 semi-automatic pistol with a spare twenty-round clip. He liked this gun because, although it was light, at just over one and a half pounds fully loaded, the rounds could penetrate Kevlar vests. He put the gun, spare clip and one thousand five hundred of the cash in the false bottom of his overnight bag. He packed clean clothes. From the spare room he took a small, hard-shelled, silver suitcase, which contained the recording equipment, a laptop computer, memory sticks, notepads, pre-prepared sign cards for use in telephone calls with the kidnappers, felt tips and Blu-tack. He took a pen torch and some metal tools from a cupboard and put everything by the front door and only then did he make his call to Martin Fox.
‘I’ve been hired,’ he said. ‘Somebody on a Vespa took a pop at D’Cruz en route between the Ritz and his ex-wife’s house in Kensington.’
‘Jesus,’ said Fox. ‘Still, I can’t say D’Cruz had the look of a virgin about him.’
‘You’d better arrange for forensics to extract the round from the back seat and get the ballistics on it,’ said Boxer. ‘I’ve told the driver not to touch.’
‘I’ll talk to D’Cruz’s insurers and I’ve got a DCS Makepeace coming to my office tomorrow to sit in my operations room. I’m sure he’ll be interested in that.’
‘I wouldn’t think it’s connected to the kidnap. Why kill the guy you want to pressurise?’ said Boxer. ‘You might get D’Cruz a bodyguard, too. The driver’s calm, said he’ll sort out a limo with bulletproof glass. Has D’Cruz spoken to you yet?’
‘No. Was he shaken?’
‘And
stirred,’ said Boxer.
The arrivals hall at Gatwick was busy. Mercy was standing well back from the mêlée of people crowding the barriers in front of the double doors from the customs area. She had a clear view down the channel where the arriving passengers would come. Amy’s flight had landed.
There was a strong smell of fried food, which was contributing to the sickness in her stomach, although most of that was coming from her mental state. She couldn’t help but feel that she’d failed as a parent. She thought her incapacity must have stemmed from the absence of her own mother, who’d
Boxer had the use of the Mercedes. He sat up front with the driver, a thick-set Londoner with the customary shaved head, who’d used the last hour to install a sheet of plastic in the shattered window in the back. As they glided through the streets of Notting Hill, Westbourne Green, Maida Vale and Kilburn, the driver told him he’d only worked for Mr D’Cruz three times and nothing had ever happened before.
‘You spoken to your boss yet?’
‘Not on a Sunday evening.’
‘Is he the nervous type?’
‘Nah, he’ll just tell me to take a car with bulletproof windows. We have them. I just didn’t think that’s what we were getting into.’
‘Nor did Mr D’Cruz,’ said Boxer. ‘You’d better make sure your boss doesn’t talk to the police about this until you get clearance from me. There’s a delicate situation in progress.’
‘I don’t think my boss has very close relations with the police ... if you know what I mean.’
‘But don’t try dealing with that bullet in the back seat yet. We’ll organise some forensics to take a look at it.’
The car pulled up outside a large white stucco house in Belsize Park Gardens. Boxer took his small suitcase up to the top floor flat. He emptied out the clothes he’d been wearing in Lisbon, opened the case’s false bottom and removed twenty-five thousand euros in cash—his poker winnings. He put the blocks of money in a wall safe behind a painting of a sixteenth century Italian businessman, which had a heavy rococo gilt frame. He took out two thousand pounds in cash, shut the safe and replaced the painting.
In the kitchen he went into a saucepan cupboard, removed the pans and a section of the base. He lifted a floorboard underneath and took out a Belgian-made FN57 semi-automatic pistol with a spare twenty-round clip. He liked this gun because, although it was light, at just over one and a half pounds fully loaded, the rounds could penetrate Kevlar vests. He put the gun, spare clip and one thousand five hundred of the cash in the false bottom of his overnight bag. He packed clean clothes. From the spare room he took a small, hard-shelled, silver suitcase, which contained the recording equipment, a laptop computer, memory sticks, notepads, pre-prepared sign cards for use in telephone calls with the kidnappers, felt tips and Blu-tack. He took a pen torch and some metal tools from a cupboard and put everything by the front door and only then did he make his call to Martin Fox.
‘I’ve been hired,’ he said. ‘Somebody on a Vespa took a pop at D’Cruz en route between the Ritz and his ex-wife’s house in Kensington.’
‘Jesus,’ said Fox. ‘Still, I can’t say D’Cruz had the look of a virgin about him.’
‘You’d better arrange for forensics to extract the round from the back seat and get the ballistics on it,’ said Boxer. ‘I’ve told the driver not to touch.’
‘I’ll talk to D’Cruz’s insurers and I’ve got a DCS Makepeace coming to my office tomorrow to sit in my operations room. I’m sure he’ll be interested in that.’
‘I wouldn’t think it’s connected to the kidnap. Why kill the guy you want to pressurise?’ said Boxer. ‘You might get D’Cruz a bodyguard, too. The driver’s calm, said he’ll sort out a limo with bulletproof glass. Has D’Cruz spoken to you yet?’
‘No. Was he shaken?’
‘And
stirred,’ said Boxer.
The arrivals hall at Gatwick was busy. Mercy was standing well back from the mêlée of people crowding the barriers in front of the double doors from the customs area. She had a clear view down the channel where the arriving passengers would come. Amy’s flight had landed.
There was a strong smell of fried food, which was contributing to the sickness in her stomach, although most of that was coming from her mental state. She couldn’t help but feel that she’d failed as a parent. She thought her incapacity must have stemmed from the absence of her own mother, who’d
Similar Books
