Severed

It seems I've made it.

9

It's another ten minutes before I feel I can breathe again. I'm still driving east, not a hundred per cent sure what I should be doing other than putting as much distance as possible between myself and the police. I turn the phone my blackmailer supplied me with back on, but there are no messages.

I'm hungry and exhausted. I take some deep breaths as the traffic ahead slows at lights, knowing that my situation's now taken a serious turn for the worse, while my memory of yesterday remains a steady, stubborn blank. Before I continue my search for Leah's killer, I need to stop somewhere and take stock of what's happening. And I need food. I desperately need food.

The phone starts playing the 'Funeral March' and I pull up onto the pavement to take the call.

'Have you got the case?' demands the robotic voice.

'Yeah, but I only just made it out,' I tell him. 'Things went wrong and now the place is crawling with police.'

'What do you mean, things went wrong?'

'The guy I was picking the case up from had some very dodgy security. They decided they wanted his money. There was some shooting and the police got called.'

'But he's all right, is he? The man who gave you the case?'

'No. He's dead. So's his security.'

'If you had anything to do with his death-'

'I didn't. I knew the guy.'

'What?'

Straight off, I know I've made a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut.

'I've met the guy before,' I say, trying to sound casual.

'Where?'

'That's my business.'

'What did he tell you about the case?'

'Nothing.'

'He was supposed to provide us with a code that would open it.'

'Well, I'm afraid he's no longer in a position to help you there.'

'He said the case would be booby-trapped. Is it?'

'It is, and it looks like it's been professionally done as well.'

There's a long silence down the other end of the phone. I imagine him trying to work out how to deal with this unforeseen and most unwelcome eventuality. I find myself enjoying his discomfort, even though it could very easily be deflected on to me.

'You'd better not be lying, Tyler.'

'I'm not,' I answer firmly. 'Check out the TV. It'll be on the news pretty soon. There are four people dead.'

'Where are you now?'

'A couple of miles east of the address you sent me to.'

'All right,' he says, sounding like he's come to a decision. 'I'm going to text you an address in King's Cross. You're to bring the case there in an hour's time, at a quarter to two.' The speed of his voice slows down and becomes calmer as he assesses the situation. 'When you arrive, knock on the door slowly four times. You'll be asked to identify yourself. Give your name, and say you have an urgent delivery that needs signing for. When you get inside, hand over the case to the man who lets you in, and in return he will give you a plastic evidence bag containing the murder weapon from last night, and the master copy of the DVD which shows you killing the girl.'

'I didn't kill her,' I snap. 'I didn't kill Leah.'

He ignores my protest. It's irrelevant to him. 'When I have confirmation that we have the case, her corpse will be disposed of, along with any further forensic evidence linking you to the crime, and you won't hear from us again.'

I feel a rage building. It's the way she's being described. Like some product that has malfunctioned and needs discarding. I fight to keep it down. Anger won't help me now. I'm almost certain I'm being sent into a trap, but once again I have no choice but to appear to co-operate.

'OK,' I say tightly, 'I'm on my way.'

'And, Mr Tyler?'

'Yeah?'

'Don't be tempted to try anything clever. I know exactly the type, dimensions and distinguishing features of the briefcase you collected. If you don't hand over the right one, you'll have to answer to the authorities for the girl's murder and mutilation.'

'You'll get the right one,' I tell him, but the bastard's already cut the connection.

I replace the phone in my pocket and look down at the case beside me on the passenger seat. So far, five people have died for whatever it contains, and I'm determined not to be number six.

It's time, I think, for some back-up.

10

I remember the day so vividly, and always will.

June the nineteenth 1996, a warm if cloudy summer's morning on the back roads of South Armagh, a mile from the town of Crossmaglen, and a few hundred yards from the Irish Republic. There were eight of us travelling in the Saracen armoured personnel carrier and we were responding to reports of suspicious movements at a minor border crossing. Because of the dangers of operating in that area, and the risk of ambush, a second APC containing a further eight members of the platoon was following a short distance behind, while a Lynx helicopter was providing aerial reconnaissance.

You were always a little nervy on any form of op in the bandit country of South Armagh, because this really was the IRA's home territory, but at the same time there was nothing to suggest that this day would be different from any other, and the mood in the back, where I was sitting, was even quite jovial. I remember that we were talking about the football. Euro 96 was on and England had beaten Holland 4-1 in their group match the previous night, which was, to put it bluntly, a surprise result. We'd wanted to paint the scoreline on the side of the APC, just to annoy the locals who we knew would have been rooting desperately for Holland, but this had been vetoed by our OC, Major Ryan, who knew it would be seen as unduly provocative, and would do little to bolster the 'hearts and minds' approach that was now being fostered by the British government in its efforts to get the IRA to declare a second ceasefire.

I was still smoking in those days and I'd just lit a cigarette and was about to add to the debate on England's chances of winning the competition when bang, it happened. Just like that. There was a deafeningly loud roar that seemed to engulf everything around us, followed by a sound like an aluminium can being crumpled, and the APC was lifted into the air before being slammed down on to its side. All six of us in the back were flung around the enclosed space like puppets. We were wearing berets rather than helmets, and I remember smacking my head hard against the ceiling before coming to rest in a twisted heap with someone on top of me.

Thoroughly disorientated, for the first few seconds I wasn't even sure whether I was alive or dead. Everything was utterly still, utterly silent. It's difficult to describe adequately, but it felt like I was unconscious, yet somehow aware of my surroundings. Then my ears began to buzz loudly, and I could just about make out the groans of my comrades, although it sounded like they were coming from a long way away. My eyes had squeezed shut instinctively, and when I opened them I saw that the interior light had gone out and I was in semi-darkness. Acrid-smelling smoke was filling the cab and it was difficult to see. The APC's armour plating was buckled and cracked, and flames licked at a thin jagged tear that ran down the side opposite me; but it had done its job and largely withstood the force of the blast that had knocked it upside down.

The smoke was making me choke and stinging my eyes, while the heat from the flames was burning the soles of my feet, and I felt a burst of claustrophobic panic as I realized that at any moment the fuel tank might blow, burning us all alive in this cramped, dark tomb. I had to get out of there.

The man on top of me was my best mate, Martin 'Lucas' Lukersson, who'd been sitting across from me in the back. As I struggled to get him off me, his eyes opened and he coughed loudly. I didn't ask him if he was all right. In those few seconds, he didn't even cross my mind. Instead, I silently thanked God that of all the people in the back of the APC, I was in the best position – on the opposite side from the bomb and nearest the rear doors.