Bolt nodded. Mo was right. There really wasn't much else they could do. An alert had been put out to all the UK 's police forces and now it was simply a matter of waiting. Without another word, he started the engine and pulled away.
But they'd barely been driving five minutes when Bolt's mobile started ringing.
'Who is it?' asked Mo, as he picked up the handset and examined the screen.
Bolt frowned. 'An old informant of mine. Strictly small time. His name's Maxwell.'
Thirty-six
When I woke up, I didn't have a clue where I was. Then I saw the empty armchair opposite me and the coffee table with the half-full ashtray and the Peroni bottles beside it, and I remembered I was at Maxwell's place.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The lights were on in the sitting room and the curtains were pulled but I could tell it was dark outside. I looked at my watch. Twenty past ten. I'd been out for an hour at least, probably longer. I got to my feet. The door to the kitchen was closed, but I could hear Maxwell in there. I needed a drink of water, then I needed to get to bed.
But I only took one step before the door opened and I realized with a single jolt of sheer terror that it wasn't Maxwell in the kitchen at all.
'Hello again,' said the Irishman, coming into the room, a gun with silencer raised in front of him. He was dressed in a black boiler suit and black boots, the saucer eyes cold and angry.
My stomach churned, and my legs felt like they were going to go from under me. All my optimistic thoughts of carrying on until I found Jenny, of defying the men I was up against – so attractive when I'd been sitting in the comfort of Maxwell's cottage with a large beer in my hand – turned immediately to dust, and I was once again what I'd always been: a terrified man out of my depth.
I didn't even think about running. There was no point. I was trapped. I tried to think of something to say, something that might stop him from doing what I knew he was about to do, but nothing came out.
'Didn't you believe me when I said I'd kill you if you carried on with your foolishness?' asked the Irishman, his harsh accent tinged with incredulity that I could be so stupid.
And the thing was, he was right. I had been stupid, utterly stupid, ever to have got involved. In that moment, I cursed Jenny Brakspear. And I cursed Maxwell too. I couldn't believe he had betrayed me like this. I knew he'd not been the most morally upright guy in the world, but I'd trusted him.
'Now it's time to pay for what you've done,' he said, grabbing my arm in a tight grip and pushing me back into the kitchen with the butt of the gun.
I could smell the chicken soup as I was shoved through the door. I saw Maxwell in there with the second kidnapper, the big lumbering guy with the shaven head. Both men had their backs to me, and even in my fear I felt a burst of rage. 'What's the matter, Maxwell? Can't you bear to face me, you treacherous bastard?'
Maxwell and Shaven Head turned round almost as one, which was when I realized that Maxwell wasn't a part of this at all. His face was bloodied and he had a deep cut above one eye. A rope had been pulled tight round his neck, the pressure making his eyes bug out. Shaven Head held one end of it in a gloved hand while his other held a gun, which was pressed hard against Maxwell's side. Maxwell, who was dwarfed in size by his captor, looked exactly like I felt: terrified. He wasn't even making any attempt to hide it, and this more than anything else extinguished any hope that I'd had. If even a hard bastard like Maxwell could be overpowered by these people, what the hell chance did I have?
'All right, let's go,' said the Irishman impatiently.
Shaven Head nodded and dragged Maxwell out into the hallway. I was given a shove and made to follow.
They seemed to know where they were going because they took us through the hall to the cottage's back door. I wondered immediately why they were taking us this way. It was only Maxwell's beloved vegetable patch that was out there.
The answer became obvious as soon as we were outside: the Irishman picked up a pair of shovels that were leaning against the door and handed one to each of us.
My heart beat savagely in my chest as I took mine and watched Maxwell take the other. Then I heard him groan because he too knew what we were going to have to do now.
I can't adequately describe the fear I experienced then. It was total and all-encompassing. My life didn't flash before me. Nothing like that. There was only the sure, solid knowledge that this was the end, that soon there would only be black nothingness. I wished I was religious, that I could have some small hope of salvation to cling on to, but I hadn't believed since I was a child, and death had always seemed too far away to care about.
But now… now it was right there at my side.
I felt dizzy as we were taken across Maxwell's small but well-kept lawn. I started to fall, but the barrel of the Irishman's gun pressed tighter into my spine, forcing me forward. I straightened up, desperate to delay the inevitable as long as possible, and kept moving.
Maxwell's vegetable patch was as big as the lawn itself and was bisected by a path that ran up to where his land ended and the woods began. We walked in dead silence up the path and then on to the soft soil so that we were standing side by side, facing the tree line. The night was warm and silent, and I was conscious of drops of light rain beginning to fall on my head. I swallowed and stood stock-still, staring blankly into the pines, ignoring Maxwell. Ignoring everything.
The Irishman stood on the soil behind us, while Shaven Head remained on the path and produced a torch from his pocket. He shone it on the side of my face and I thought I heard him snigger. My bowels felt like they were going to open and I clenched my buttocks together, not wishing to humiliate myself completely in my final moments.
'Time to dig, gentlemen,' said the Irishman, a genuine enjoyment in his voice.
I didn't hesitate, slamming my foot down on the shovel with more strength than I thought I was capable of, and hurling up a pile of dirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Maxwell hadn't moved, and I felt a sudden slither of hope. Was he going to make some kind of move? Do something that might save us?
Then he spoke. 'Listen mate, please. I'm nothing to do with this. He's the one you want. I don't know anything. He just came here tonight for a drink, that's all.'
'You know you're going to die,' said the Irishman, addressing Maxwell. His tone was calm and even, almost reasonable. 'But there are different ways that you can meet death. It can be quick, and comparatively painless. Or it can be slow and agonizing.' He emphasized this last word, letting it slide almost playfully out of his mouth. 'It's your choice which way it is, but I can promise you that if you don't do exactly as you're told, then by the time I'm finished with you you'll be begging me to finish you off.'
Maxwell at last got the message, and began digging.
And so we dug together. Dug our own graves. The adrenalin coursed through me as I worked, and the rain grew steadily harder. I was terrified, but the act of thrusting the shovel into the soil gave me something to concentrate on, and even though I knew that the moment I finished it would spell the end, I kept on going, if anything increasing my pace, as I concentrated my fear and impotence on the task at hand. It was as if I wanted to make sure my final act in this world was done in the best way possible so that I could leave it with my head held high.
'What's your name, my friend?' the Irishman asked Maxwell when his hole was half dug and mine two-thirds done. Shallow, but almost long enough for me to fit in. I pictured myself lying face down in it, a bullet in the back of my head, the rain drumming down on my corpse. Never to be found, or properly mourned by the two people I cared about most in the world: Yvonne and Chloe.