Severed

3

Tinny music penetrates my subconscious, a familiar tune mangled into a mobile phone jingle. It seems to go on for a long time, and in my head I hum along to it, trying to remember what it's called.

Then my eyes open and I am awake once again. The first thing I see through the car's windscreen is pine trees. Lots of them, rising up on each side of the track my car is parked on. This is my BMW 7-Series – I recognize the leather interior. The music is coming from an unfamiliar mobile phone on the seat next to me. Beside the phone, standing upright, is an equally unfamiliar black leather briefcase. There is also a litre bottle of Evian with the seal intact. I reach over and pull off the lid, gulping the water down until my raging thirst passes.

The memory of what happened to Leah comes flooding back, and I experience another wave of grief. I hurriedly look round the car, but there's no sign of her and I realize, with a sense of shame, that I've left her behind, all alone in that stinking little room. I am dressed now in the clothes I'm assuming I was wearing last night: a long-sleeved cotton shirt, jeans and a pair of sand-coloured Timberland boots.

The phone is still ringing. I recognize the tune now: it's the 'Funeral March'. Someone, somewhere, has a macabre sense of humour, and it's clear that whoever it is knows I'm here and wants to speak to me.

I hunt around in my pockets for my own phone, but it's gone, which I suppose is no surprise. I look at my watch again. It's 10.41. I've just lost the best part of another hour of my life, but then that's a lot better than Leah, who's lost maybe fifty years of hers.

I pick up and press the answer button. 'Hello,' I say wearily.

'Mr Tyler. I'm glad you're awake.' The voice is deep and artificial, disguised by a voice suppressor.

I don't say anything. I don't have to. I can tell from the confidence in the tone that the person addressing me knows my situation.

'I'm guessing you slept well,' the voice continues. 'I'm not surprised. It must have taken it out of you, slicing the girl's head off.'

I feel a long slow shiver go from the small of my back to the nape of my neck. Still I don't speak.

'You don't have to say anything, Mr Tyler. As long as you do what you're told, this whole unfortunate matter can be tidied up, and you can avoid spending the rest of your days in prison.'

'You've got the wrong man,' I say at last, trying to stop my voice from shaking. 'I don't know any Mr Tyler, and I haven't cut anybody's head off.'

'I thought you might not remember the actual event, not after all the drugs you've been taking. A nasty mixture of rohypnol, dimethyl-tryptamine and a trace of amphetamine sulphate. Very good for losing your inhibitions. Not so good for the memory. That's why I made the film, which I understand you've already watched. Let me lay things on the line for you, Mr Tyler, just so there are no misunderstandings. The DVD you watched is a copy. I have the original. I also have possession of the murder weapon. The fingerprints on it are yours and yours only. I can release both these things to the police at any time, and if I do, there'll be no court in the country that could fail to convict you of murder. Do as I say, however, and all the evidence connecting you to this brutal crime will be destroyed, and you will never hear from me again.'

'What is it you want?' I ask, knowing that I'm speaking to the man – and I'm guessing by the tone beneath the suppressor that it is a man – who murdered my lover, and that for the moment at least I have no choice but to cooperate with him.

'On the seat next to you is a briefcase,' he answers. 'The lock code is one-four-one. Open it.'

Keeping the phone to my ear, I place the case on my lap, key in the combination, and click open the twin catches. I exhale when I see what's inside. At least a hundred thousand pounds in bundled fifty-pound notes are staring back up at me, probably more. I work in a business where I'm used to seeing large sums of cash, but never this amount in one go. Sitting on top of the bundles of notes is a silver pistol which I recognize instantly as a Glock 19. I pick it up and eject the magazine. It is fully loaded with live nine-millimetre ammunition. Shoving the magazine back in, I return the pistol to the case and shut it.

'I'm not going to shoot anyone,' I say into the mobile.

'It's your choice, Mr Tyler, but you have a task to perform, and the gun may come in useful. When I end this call, I am going to text an address in east London to the phone you're now holding. You are to go to that address and tell the person who answers the door that your name is Bone and that you have what he's asking for. Your job is then to take delivery of a briefcase from him.'

'What's in it?'

'You don't need to know that. What you need to know is this: under no circumstances are you to leave the address until you have ownership of that briefcase. If you do, then our arrangement is finished and I will hand over the evidence I have against you to the police immediately. Do I make myself clear?'

I know right then that by following his instructions I am heading into extremely dangerous territory, but in the end, I figure I have no choice. This guy, whoever he is, holds all the cards. I, on the other hand, have no idea of his identity. But make no mistake, I'm going to find him. And when I do, he's a dead man. First of all though, I need to buy time, and the only way I can do that is by following his instructions. Once I have the briefcase he wants, then maybe I can move forward.

'All right,' I tell him, 'I understand. But what are you going to do with Leah?'

'Don't worry about the girl. No-one's going to find her body. And no-one except you and I knows that the place where you awoke this morning exists.'

His coldness is sickening. 'That's not what I meant,' I say. 'I want to make sure she's properly buried.'

'You have no choice in this matter,' he answers, and I think again about what I'm going to do to this bastard when I find him.

But for now, it's going to have to wait. 'Where the hell am I now?' I ask, looking round at the trees.

'Drive to the end of the track and turn right. Eventually, you will get to a road. Turn right again. By that time, your GPS navigation system should be working. It won't work where you are now because of the extensive tree cover. Then all you need to do is type in the address. You're about an hour away from the northern edge of London and you are expected at the east London address at twelve thirty.'

'One last question. What day is it?'

'It's Friday,' he replies, not missing a beat. 'Now get moving, Mr Tyler. The clock's ticking.'

He cuts the connection and leaves me sitting there with the phone to my ear, still trying to think where Thursday went. I know little about memory loss, whether or not it's permanent, or whether at some point it'll all come flooding back to me. It's hugely frustrating, given the position I'm in. This bastard has me bang to rights, there's no doubt about it, and I realize now that Leah's murder has definitely been carried out in order to set me up. The question is why. Why have I been chosen, and what exactly have I been chosen for? You see, all the evidence the man on the other end of the phone has pointing to my involvement in the crime, from the way he lured me in to the positioning of the scars on my back, tells me one very important and very disturbing thing.

He knows me. To set me up so perfectly, he has to.

And if he knows me, I must know him.