The Driver

#4 KARLY HAMMIL

Mr. Crawford had said to meet her at a look-out point in Crissy Field. He had arranged for her to take a temporary leave of absence from the campaign, saying that she had contracted glandular fever and would be out of action for at least a month. That, he said, would be enough time for them to come up with something better, but she knew that she would never be going back. In the meantime, he had promised that he would see to the money and the rendezvous was so that he could deliver her the first instalment. She had driven up to the park and sat in her car and watched as the sun went down over the Bay. It had been a bright day and, as the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the rusty red metal of the bridge glowed brightly in its dying rays. The lights of Treasure Island and, beyond that, Oakland, began to flicker, twinkling in the gloaming, growing brighter.

Karly wound down the window and let the air into the car. She took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, held them to her mouth and pulled one out with her lips. She lit it, sucking the smoke into her lungs, closing her eyes and enjoying the hit of the nicotine. The park was empty save for a couple of joggers who were descending the hill back towards the city. The night grew darker. The last ferry headed back to the mainland from Alcatraz. A jet laid down grey vapour trails as it cut through the star-sprinkled sky overhead. Gulls wheeled on lazy thermals. It was a spectacular view.

She saw the high-beams of a car as it turned up the steep road that ended in the vantage point. Karly finished the cigarette and flicked the butt out of the window. The car was an old Cadillac and it was struggling with the incline. As it drew closer she could see that it was dented on the front-right wing and the number-plate was attached to the chassis with duct tape. It slowed and swung into the bay next to her. She squinted through the glare of the headlights but they were bright and she couldn’t make out anything about the driver or the passenger. The door opened and the driver came over to her side of the car.

41

Julius had a small TV set on a shelf above the door and he was flicking between channels; they were all running with the same story. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the presumptive candidate as Republican nomination for President, had been found dead in his hotel room. Details were still sketchy, but the early indications were that he had taken his own life. Suicide. There was unconfirmed speculation that he had been found on his bed next to a bottle of scotch and empty bottles of prescription sleeping tablets. The anchors on all of the channels were reporting the news with the same breathless, stunned sense of disbelief. A major piece in the political life of the country had been swiped from the board. Friends and colleagues were interviewed, some of them fighting back tears. No-one could believe that Robinson had killed himself. It didn’t make sense, they said. He had been full of life. He had been determined to win the nomination and, now that he had almost achieved that, he was gearing up for election year. To do this, now, to end it all when he had so much to look forward to? It didn’t make any sense at all.

There were four other customers in the place today. They were all watching the television.

“Unbelievable,” Julius said as he slid a spatula beneath a burger and deftly flipped it. “Someone like that just topping himself? Don’t make no sense.”

“Goes to show,” said one of the others. “You never know what’s in a man’s head.”

The coverage switched to an outside broadcast. It was a hotel. Flashbulbs flashed as a figure emerged from the lobby of the hotel and descended until he was halfway down the steps, a thicket of microphones quickly thrust into his face.

“Turn it up, would you?” Milton said.

Julius punched the volume up.

Milton recognised the man: it was Robinson’s Chief of Staff, Arlen Crawford.

“Mr. Crawford,” a reporter shouted above the hubbub. “Can you tell us what you know?”

“The Governor was found in his room this afternoon by a member of the election team. Paramedics were called but it was too late — they say he had been dead for several hours. We have no idea why he would have done something like this. I saw him last night to talk about the excellent progress we were making with the campaign. I saw nothing to make me think that this could be possible. The Governor was a loud, enthusiastic, colourful man. This is completely out of character.” He looked away for a moment, swallowing, and then passed a hand over his face. “More than just being my boss, Jack Robinson was my friend. He’s the reason I am in politics. He’s the godfather to my son. He was a good man. The best.” His voice quavered, almost broke. “What happened this morning is a disaster for this country and a tragedy for everyone who knew him. Thank you. Good day.”

He turned back and made his way into the hotel.

“It might be a personal tragedy,” Julius opined, “but a national one? Nah. Not for me. Boy had some pretty strident views on things, you know what I’m saying? He wouldn’t have got my vote.”

Milton’s phone rang.

It was Eva.

“Afternoon,” Milton said. “Are you watching this?”

There was no reply.

Milton checked the phone’s display; it was definitely her. “Eva?”

“Mr. Smith,” a male voice said. “You’ve caused us a whole heap of trouble, you know that? And now you’re gonna have to pay.”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s not important.”

It was a southern accent. A low and lazy drawl. A smokey rasp.

“Where’s Eva?”

“She’s with us.”

“If you hurt her—”

“You ain’t in no position to make threats, Mr. Smith.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“About?”

“You know what about. We need to be sure you won’t mention” — there was a pause — “recent events.”

“The Governor.”

“That’s right.”

“And if I persuade you that I won’t say anything you’ll let her go?”

“Perhaps.”

“Right. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

There was a rasping laugh. “Perhaps and perhaps not but if you don’t play ball with us now, well then, it’s a definite no for her, ain’t it? How much does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“Gonna have to speak to her to make sure about that.”

Milton’s voice was cold and hard. “Listen to me — she doesn’t know anything.”

“Then maybe we just need you.”

“Where are you?”

“Nah, partner, it ain’t gonna happen like that. We know where you are. We’ll come to you. You stay right there, alright? Finish your meal. We’ll be along presently.”

42

They arrived in an old Cadillac Eldorado. Milton was sat in the back, in the middle, a large man on either side of him. He had checked the joint out after he had finished speaking to the man on the phone and could guess which of the other four patrons had followed him inside: a scrawny, weasely man with three days’ worth of stubble and a face that had been badly scarred by acne. Milton stared at him and the man had eventually found the guts to make a sly nod; emboldened, no doubt, by the prospect of imminent reinforcements and his opinion that they had the advantage. That knowledge wasn’t enough to stiffen his resolve completely, and, as Milton stared at him, his confidence folded and he looked away. Milton had wondered if there was some way he could use the man to even the odds but he knew that there would not be. What could he have done? They had Eva, and that, he knew, eliminated almost all of his options.

The others had arrived outside the restaurant ten minutes after the call. Milton finished his burger, wiped his mouth, laid a ten dollar bill on the counter and went to the car. He got into the back without complaint. There was no point in making things difficult for them.

That would come later.

There were four of them in the car, each of them wearing a biker’s leather jacket and each, helpfully, following the biker habit of having a nickname badge sewn onto the left shoulder lapel. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey. It looked like he was in charge. He was tall and slender, all knees and elbows, and Milton saw a tattoo of a swastika on the back of his neck. The driver was bigger, wearing a denim jacket with cut off sleeves that revealed heavy muscle. His badge identified him as Dog. The men flanking him both had long hair, like the others, and they smelled of stale sweat, pot and booze. There wasn’t much space in the back and they were pressed up against him. The one on his right was flabby, Milton’s elbow pressing into the side of his doughy gut, with a full red beard and shoulder length red hair: his badge identified him as Orangutan. The one on his left was different, solid slabs of muscle, hard and unyielding. If it came down to it, he would be the one to put down first. His nickname was Tiny.

They had a radio on; it was a news channel, and the show was dominated by talk of the Governor’s death. They discussed it with animation and Milton quickly got the impression that they considered it a tragedy.

The four of them seemed pretty secure in themselves and their ability to keep Milton in line. He noticed that they didn’t blindfold him or do anything to prevent him from seeing where he was being taken. Not a good sign. They didn’t plan on him making a return trip and so, they reckoned, it made no difference what he found out. They were right about one thing: Milton wasn’t planning on going back to wherever it was they were going. There would be no need after he was through. He would be leaving, though, and he would be taking Eva with him. And if they thought he would be as pliant as this once they had him wherever they were taking him?

Well, if they thought that, then more fool them.

They drove out to Potrero Hill, the gritty industrial belt on the eastern boundary facing the bay and, on the other side of the water, Oakland. There were warehouses, some old, others cheaply and quickly assembled pre-fabs. They navigated the streets to the water’s edge, prickling with jetties and piers, and then drew up to a gate in a tall mesh wire fence. The compound contained a warehouse and Milton saw stacks of beer barrels and trucks with the logo of a local brewhouse that he thought he recognised.

There were four big motorcycles parked undercover next to the warehouse.

Dog hooted the horn and the gates parted for them.

They took him into the warehouse through a side door. He paid everything careful attention: ways in and out of the building, the number of windows, the internal lay-out. The place smelt powerfully of hops and old beer and sweat and marijuana. He watched the four men, assessing and re-assessing them, confirming again which were the most dangerous and which he could leave until last when it came time to take them out.

They followed a corridor to a door, opened it and pushed him inside.

It was empty, just a few bits and pieces. It looked like it was used as a basic kitchen and dining area. A trestle table with one broken leg. Rubbish strewn across the table. Three wooden chairs. Several trays with beer bottles stacked up against the wall. A dirty microwave oven on the floor next to a handful of ready meals. A metal bin, overflowing with empty food packaging. Breeze block walls painted white. A single naked light bulb overhead. A pin-up calendar from three years ago. No windows. No natural light. No other way in or out.

Eva was standing at the end of the room, as far away from the door as she could get. There was another woman with her.

The skinny guy stepped forwards and shoved Milton in the back so that he stumbled further into the room.

Eva stepped forwards.

“Are you alright?” Milton asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

He kept looking at her. “They haven’t hurt you?”

“No,” she said. She gestured to the other girl. “This is Karly.”

“Hello, Karly,” Milton said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. There was no colour in her face. She was terrified.

“Don’t worry,” Milton told her. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“That right?” Smokey said from behind him, his words edged by a braying laugh.

Milton turned back to him.

“Alright then, partner. We got a few questions for you.”

“You should let us leave.”

“You’ll go when I say you can go.”

“It’ll end badly for you otherwise.”

Smokey snorted. “You’re something, boy. You got some balls — but it’s time for you to pay attention.”

“Don’t worry. I am.”

“My questions, you gonna answer ‘em, one way or another. No doubt you’re gonna get slapped around some, don’t really matter if you co-operate or not. Only issue is whether we do it the hard way or the fucking hard way. Your choice.”

Milton glanced over. The three men were all inside the room. Smokey was just out of reach but the big guy, Tiny, was close. The stack of beer bottles was waist high. The cellophane wrapper on the top tray had been torn away, some of the bottles had been removed and the necks of those that remained were exposed.

“Who are you working for?” Milton asked.

“See, you say you’re paying attention but you ain’t. I’m asking, you’re answering.”

“Is it Crawford?”

Smokey spat at his feet. “You gonna have to learn. Tiny — give him a little something to think about.”

Tiny — the big man — balled his right hand into a fist and balanced his weight to fire out a punch. Milton saw and moved faster, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around a bottle, feeling it nestle in his palm, pulling it out of the tray and swinging it, striking the guy on the side of the head, just above his ear. He staggered a little, more from shock than from anything else, and Milton struck the bottle against the wall and smashed it apart, beer splashing up his arm, and then closed in and jabbed the jagged end of the bottle into the man’s shoulder, then stabbed it into his cheek, twisting it, chewing up the flesh. He dropped the bloodied shards, grabbed Tiny by the shoulders and pulled him in close, driving his knee into his groin, then dropped him down onto the floor.

Three seconds, start to finish.

“The fucking hard way, I guess,” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

Smokey pulled a revolver from his waistband and brought it up.

“Get back. Over there. Against the wall.”

Milton knew he wouldn’t be able to take them all out but that wasn’t what he had in mind. He just wanted a moment alone with Eva. He knew they wouldn’t kill him, not yet. They needed some answers before they could think about that, and he wasn’t minded to give them any. He did as he was told and stepped back. The man waved the revolver and he kept going until he was at the rear of the room, next to Eva and Karly.

“Get him out of here,” Smokey said to the Orangutan and Dog, pointing at the stricken Tiny. They helped him up, blood running freely from the grisly rent in his cheek, and half-dragged him out into the corridor beyond.

“Last chance,” Milton said.

“For what?” Smokey yelled at him.

“To let us out.”

“Or?”

“I’ll make what just happened to him look like a love bite.”

His bravado seemed to confuse, and then amuse, the man. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Look at you — look where you are. You’re fucked, brother. You can have a couple of hours to think about that until a friend of ours gets here.”

“Mr. Crawford?”

“That’s right. Mr Crawford. He wants to speak to you. But then that’ll be the end of it after that. You’re done. Finished.”

43

Milton tried the door. It was locked. He paused for a moment, thinking. He could hear the deep, muffled boom of the foghorns from outside. Eva came to him. “Jesus, John,” she said, “Look at you.” She pointed to a spot on his shirt. “Is that yours?”

He looked down. A patch of blood. “No. I’m fine. It’s his.”

She turned to the front of the room and the splatter of blood across the bare concrete floor. Her face whitened as she took it in and what it meant. He could read her mind: the horror at what he was capable of doing, the ease and efficiency with which he had maimed the man. How did someone like him, so quiet and closed-in, explode with such a terrifying eruption of violence? How did he even have it in him? Milton recognised the look that she was giving him. He had seen it before. He knew that it would presage a change in the way that she felt about him. She was going to have to see more of it, too, before the day was over. Worse things. It couldn’t possibly be the same afterwards. Tenderness and intimacy would be the first casualties of what he was going to have to do to get them out.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m going to get us out.”

“Don’t worry? John —?”

“Are you sure you’re alright? They didn’t hurt you?”

“No. They just threw me in here. They asked me a few questions about you but that was it.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Who you are, what you do, how long I’ve known you.”

He took her by the shoulders. “I’m very sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes. She flinched a little. “You should never have been involved. I don’t know how they found out about you. They must’ve been following me.”

“I don’t understand why, though? Why would they follow you? What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“What you did to that man — Jesus, John, you fucked him up — are you some sort of criminal?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“It’s to do with the girls they’ve found.”

“Which girls? The ones on the beach?”

“I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“Governor Robinson,” the other girl, Karly, answered. “Right?”

“Do you know him?” Milton asked.

“I worked for him.”

“And you had a relationship with him?”

She nodded.

Milton asked her to explain what had happened and she did: how Robinson had discarded her, how she had gone to Crawford for help and how the bikers had abducted her and brought her here.

“You know he’s dead?”

“No,” Karly said, her mouth falling open.

“What do you mean?” Eva said.

“This morning. They found him in his hotel room. They’re saying suicide, but I don’t think it was that. Robinson was seeing the three girls they’ve found up on Headlands Lookout. I’m guessing the same thing happened with them as happened to you, Karly.”

“He killed them?”

“I doubt he knew anything about it. Crawford found out about them, maybe they threatened to expose Robinson, and he covered everything up. I spoke to Robinson yesterday afternoon and told him I knew about him and Madison. I said if he didn’t go to the police and tell them that he was seeing her then I’d do it for him. The names of the girls came out this morning. If I had to guess, I’d say he found out. It wouldn’t have been difficult to work out what had happened to them after that. He went to Crawford and confronted him and Crawford killed him.”

Eva listened and, as he explained more, her disbelief was replaced with incredulity. “So who are these men?”

“They’re working with Crawford.”

Eva’s brow clenched angrily. “None of this has anything to do with me.”

“I know it doesn’t. They took you to get my attention. They’ve got it now but they’re going to wish they hadn’t.”

“John — look around. We’re stuck.”

“No, we’re not. These boys aren’t the smartest. There are plenty of things we can use in here.”

She picked up a utensil from the table. “A plastic knife isn’t going to do us much use against a gun, and I doubt they’ll let you come at them with a bottle again.”

He picked up a roll of duct tape from the table. “I can do better than a plastic knife,” he said.

He didn’t know how long they had. Two hours, Smokey had said, but it might have been more or it might have been less, and he wasn’t sure how much time had already passed. He had to make his move now. Milton went to the stack of beer, tore away the rest of the cellophane wrapper on the top tray and took out three bottles. He took the duct tape and wrapped each bottle, running the tape around it tightly until they were completely sealed. He needed to make sure the caps didn’t pop off. A little resin would have been perfect but that was asking for too much. This should work well enough. It was the best he could do.

He opened the microwave and stood the bottles neatly inside.

“What are you doing?” Eva asked him.

“Creating a diversion.” He closed the microwave door. “I’ve seen four men. One of them won’t be a problem, so that makes three. Have you seen any more?”

“No.”

“Karly?”

“Four, I think.”

“Did you see any guns?”

“He had a gun.”

“I mean big guns — a shotgun, anything like that?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“I think I saw one,” Karly said.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. Yes. I’m sure.”

They would be wary of him now. It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Both of you — get to the back of the room. In the corner. And when the time comes, look away.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trust me, okay? I’m getting us out.”

“‘When the times comes?’ What does that mean?”

“You’ll know.”

Milton set the microwave’s timer to fifteen minutes and hit the start button.

He hammered on the door.

Footsteps approached.

“What?”

“Alright,” he called out.

“What you want?” It was the red-haired biker, Orangutan.

“I’ll talk. Whatever you want.”

Footsteps going away.

There was a pause. Milton thought he could hear voices. They were muffled by the door.

Minutes passed.

The foghorns boomed out.

He watched the seconds tick down on the counter.

14.12.

13.33.

12.45.

Footsteps coming back again.

“Stand back,” Smokey called. “Right up against the far wall. I’m coming in with a shotgun. Don’t try and do anything stupid or I’ll empty both barrels into your face.”

Milton looked down at the microwave timer.

9.18.

9.16.

9.14.

It would be close. If they noticed it too quickly, it wouldn’t work and he didn’t have a Plan B. If the man did have a shotgun he would be hopelessly outmatched. Too late to worry about that. He stepped all the way back, putting himself between the microwave and the two women.

The door unlocked.

It opened.

Smokey did have a shotgun: a Remington. The room was narrow and not all that long. A spread couldn’t really miss him from that range and the man was careful now, wary, edging into the room, his eyes fixed on Milton.

Once bitten, twice shy. He knew Milton was dangerous. He would be careful now. No more mistakes.

That was what Milton wanted.

It was the reason for the demonstration earlier.

He wanted all of his attention on him.

“Change of heart?”

“What choice do I have?”

“That’s right, buddy. You ain’t got none.”

“What do you want to know?”

“The Governor — you tell anyone what you know about him and the girls?”

“The dead ones?”

“Them, that one behind you, any others.”

“No,” he said.

“No police?”

“No police.”

“What about her?” he said, chin-nodding towards Eva. “You tell her?”

“No,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“You tell anyone else?”

“I told you — no-one knows but me.”

“Alright, then. That’s good. How’d you find out?”

“I had a chat with Jarad Efron.”

“A chat? What does that mean?”

“I dangled him off a balcony. He realised it’d be better to talk to me.”

“Think you’re a tough guy?”

“I’m nothing special.”

“I ain’t scared of you.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’ve got a shotgun.”

“Damn straight I do.”

“So why would you be scared?”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

7.17.

7.16.

7.15.

“You want to tell me what happened to the girls?” he asked.

“Obvious, ain’t it?”

“They wanted money.”

“That’s right.” He flicked the barrel of the shotgun in Karly’s direction. “She wanted money.”

“And then you killed them?”

“They brought it on themselves.”

“Who told you to do it? Robinson?”

“Hell, no. Robinson didn’t know nothing about none of this shit. We took care of it on his behalf.”

“Crawford, then?”

“That’s right. Crawford and us, we just been cleaning up the Governor’s mess is what we been doing. He had his problems, y’all can see that plain as day, but that there was one great man. Would’ve been damn good for this fucked up country. What’s happened to him is a tragedy. Your fault, the way I see it. What you’ve done — digging your nose into business that don’t concern you, making trouble — well, old partner, that’s something you’re gonna have to account for, and the accounting’s gonna be scrupulous.”

“What about Madison Clarke?”

“Who?”

“Another hooker. The Governor was seeing her.”

“This the girl you took up to the party in Pine Shore?”

“That’s right. You all came out that night, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“You find her?”

“You know what? We didn’t. We don’t know where she is.”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

6.24.

6.23.

6.22.

Come on, come on, come on.

“We don’t need to do this, right?” he said, trying to buy them just a little more time. “I’m not going to say anything. You know where I live.”

Smokey laughed. “Nah, that ain’t gonna cut it. We don’t never leave loose ends and that’s what y’all are.”

5.33.

5.32.

5.31.

Smokey noticed Milton looking down at the microwave.

“Fuck you doing with that?” he said.

“I was hungry. I thought—”

“Fuck that.”

He stepped towards it.

“Please,” Milton said.

The man reached out for the stop button.

He saw the beer bottles inside, turning around on the platter: incongruous.

Too late.

The liquid inside the bottles was evaporating into steam; several atmospheres of pressure were being generated; the duct tape was holding the caps in place; the pressure was running up against the capacity of the bottle. Just at that precise moment there was no more space for it to go. It was fortunate: it couldn’t have been better timing. The bottles exploded with the same force as a quarter-stick of dynamite. The microwave was obliterated from the inside out: the glass in the door was flung across the room in a shower of razored slivers, the frame of the door cartwheeled away, the metal body was broken apart, rivets and screws popping out. Smokey was looking right at it, close, as it exploded; a parabola of debris enveloped his head, the barrage of tiny fragments slicing into his eyes and the skin of his face, his scalp, piercing his clothes and flesh.

Milton was further away yet the blast from the explosion staggered him backwards and, instants later, the red-hot shower peppered his skin. His bare arms were crossed with a thin bloody lattice as he dropped his arm from his face and made forwards.

He looked back quickly. “You alright?”

Neither Eva or Karly answered but he didn’t see any obvious damage.

He turned back. Smokey was on the floor, covered in blood. A large triangled shard from the microwave’s metal case was halfway visible in his trachea. He was gurgling and air whistled in and out of the tear in his throat. One leg twitched spastically. Milton didn’t need to examine him to know that he only had a minute or two to live.

The Remington was abandoned at his side.

Milton took it and brought it up. He heard hurried footsteps and ragged breathing and saw a momentary reflection in the long blank window that started in the corridor opposite the door. He aimed blind around the door and pulled one trigger, blowing buckshot into one of the other men from less than three feet away. Milton turned quickly into the corridor, the shotgun up and ready, and stepped over the second man’s body. He was dead. Half his face was gone.

Three down.

One left.

He moved low and fast, the shotgun held out straight. The corridor led into a main room with sofas, a jukebox, empty bottles and dope paraphernalia.

The fourth man popped out of cover behind the sofa and fired.

Milton dropped flat, rolled three times to the right, opening the angle and negating the cover, and pulled the trigger. Half of the buckshot shredded the sofa, the other half perforated the man from head to toe. He dropped his revolver and hit the floor with a weighty thud.

He got up. Save the cuts and grazes from the explosion, he was unmarked.

He went back to the kitchen.

Smokey was dead on the floor.

Eva and Karly hadn’t moved.

“It’s over,” he told them.

Eva bit her lip. “Are you alright?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you?”

“I’m fine,” Karly said.

He turned to Eva. “You both need to get out of here. We’re in Potrero Hill. I’ll open the gates for you and you need to get out. Find somewhere safe, somewhere with lots of people, and call the police. Do you understand?”

“What about you?”

“There’s someone I have to see.”

44

Arlen Crawford waited impatiently for the hotel lift to bear him down to the parking garage. He had his suitcase in his right hand and his overcoat folded in the crook of his left arm. The car had stopped at every floor on the way down from the tenth but it was empty now; just Crawford and the numb terror that events had clattered hopelessly out of control. He took his cellphone from his pocket and tried to call Jack Kerrigan again. There had been no reply the first and second time that he had tried but, this time, the call was answered.

“Jack! Smokey!” he said. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Smokey’s dead, Mr. Crawford. His friends are dead, too.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

The elevator reached the basement and the doors opened.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want, Mr. Smith? Money?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Justice would be a good place to start.”

“Jack killed the girls.”

“We both know that’s only half of the job done.”

He aimed the fob across the parking lot and thumbed the button. The car doors unlocked and the lights flashed.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. There’s no proof.”

“Maybe not. But that would only be a problem if I was going to go to the police. I’m not going to go to the police, Mr. Crawford.”

“What are you going to do?”

No answer.

“What are you going to do?”

Silence.

Crawford reached the car and opened the driver’s door. He tossed the phone across the car onto the passenger seat. He went around and put the suitcase in the trunk. He got inside the car, took a moment to gather his breath, stepped on the clutch and pressed the ignition.

He felt a small, cold point of metal pressing against the back of his head.

He looked up into the rear-view mirror.

It was dark in the basement, just the glow of the sconced lights on the wall. The modest brightness fell across one half of the face of the man who was holding the gun. The other half was obscured by shadow. He recognised him: the impassive and serious face, the cruel mouth, the scar running horizontally across his face.

“Drive.”