The Increment

TWENTY

Eleanor had come into his room. She was wearing a white T-shirt, but beneath it he could see the outline of her breasts, soft and warm. 'I'm frightened,' she said. 'I've been trying to sleep, but I can't.'

Matt looked up towards the window. They were back in the first safe house now: moving every other day made them harder to track. Even now Ivan was off somewhere preparing another house for them. The first light of dawn was breaking through the frosted glass.

'Like we were saying, it's OK to be afraid,' he said. 'Fear is natural.'

He ran his fingers through her hair. Even though she was sweaty, she smelt good. Her skin was stretched and sleepy. Matt held her in his arms, feeling her breath on his chest. They hadn't made love yet, he felt guilty about Gill; but, he reasoned, she left me. Something was happening between them, they were drawing closer. Maybe it was just the chase, the sense of common danger. Maybe it was being thrown together in extreme circumstances. Matt couldn't be sure. But he was certain of one thing. Right now, there was no one he would rather be with.

We got into this together, and we'll get out of it together as well.

He slipped away from the bed, washing himself in the bathroom. There was no shower, just a piece of plastic hosing jammed into the tap from which a trickle of rusty water emerged. Only one razor had been left lying in the cupboard, and it had last been used several years ago: the blade was rusty and clogged with dirt, biting into Matt's skin as he dragged it across his face. He washed away the two smears of blood it left on his chin, and looked at the face staring at him from the mirror. He looked older. There were lines around his eyes, his skin was rough, his complexion blotchy, and his hair looked uncut and unkempt. This is taking its toll, he reflected. If I don't finish this soon, it's going to finish me.

His jeans were hanging from the back of the chair, his polo shirt next to them. Matt started to slip them on. The mobile in his pocket was ringing. He looked at the machine curiously. It wasn't his normal Nokia: he'd chucked that away since it could be used to track him down. It was a cheap Motorola. Ivan was supplying him with a new one every day to reduce the chances of detection, stolen and fitted with a new SIM card, with a pay-as-you-go account issued in a false name. The phone was safe to carry around, and only Ivan had the number.

Matt picked up the phone, punching the green answer button. 'Matt,' said Ivan. Then there was a pause on the line. 'I just heard from Damien. It's about Gill.'

'What is it?' said Matt quickly.

Another pause. That fateful hesitation Matt had learnt about in the regiment. The delay the Ruperts employ before they tell a mother or a wife or a sister of the death of a man.

'She's dead.'

Matt buried his face in his hand. It had been weeks now since he'd heard from Gill. After that argument back in Marbella, she walked out of his life in a way he'd never imagined possible. One minute they had been about to get married. The next minute she was gone. And all that had come between them was Guy Abbott and his fucking job.

Matt slammed his fist against the wall, shaking loose a tiny cloud of dust. If I'm in any way responsible for her death, I'll never forgive myself.

'Where?' said Matt. 'How?'

'Matt, you have to stay calm,' said Ivan.

'I need to see her.'

'No,' said Ivan, raising his tone. 'It's too dangerous. You mustn't go anywhere where they might find you.'

'Just tell me where she is,' snapped Matt, his voice rising.

The phone line was dead. Matt hurled it across the room, pulling on the rest of his clothes. His head was burning with a hundred different emotions. Sorrow, regret, confusion and despair were all mixing together in a lethal cocktail. But one emotion was trumping all of them. Anger.

A line has been crossed. This is a different country we've moved into. Bringing them to justice is not enough. Now I take my revenge in the reddest blood. Or I die trying.

Matram leant back against the table of the Travelodge. He was chewing on what the front desk described as a 'breakfast selection buffet'. That struck him as a rather grand description for a plastic tray with a rubbery croissant, a carton of processed orange juice and a tub of sweet strawberry yogurt. Still, it was food that would get them through another day.

'This is our moment,' he said, looking out at the Increment. 'The prey is about to fall into our hands.'

Eight faces, silent and passive, looked back at him and nodded. First thing this morning, he had called the other six back from around the country. Today, he sensed, he needed all his people right here. A good general, he judged, ruled by instinct as much as reason: and right now his instincts were telling him that the enemy was closer at hand than he could have imagined. The bait was about to be taken.

A quote from General Patton, the American commander in Europe during the Second World War, and Matram's most revered military hero, was rattling through his mind. A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan next week.

'Last night, the offices of Eduardo Lacrierre, the chief executive of the pharmaceutical company Tocah, were broken into,' started Matram, looking down at the unit. 'A secretary was found unconscious there this morning, after she interrupted an intruder last night.' He paused. 'I believe that must have been our targets, Browning and Blackman.' Matram ground his fists together. 'I want them found, and I want them found now.'

The unit remained silent, as Matram walked slowly across the room and stood looking out of the window. In the regiment, the rule was that all the men, whether they were squaddies or Ruperts, were equal. When you were out on a job, everyone's voice carried the same weight. That didn't apply in the Increment. It was Matram's unit, and when he told you to do something, you obeyed.

'The woman we took yesterday,' Matram continued. 'That was Browning's fiancee. I'm going to make the assumption that he's heard of her death. And he's going to want to see her, that's the kind of man he is.'

Matt walked silently by himself through Plumstead Common. It was still early in the morning, but the sun was already shining, and the light breeze blowing in from the west was doing nothing to take the heat out of the air. Another scorching day.

In the distance, he could see two mothers playing with their children. The kids were stripped down to their shorts, screaming and splashing water over each other. Matt watched them for a few minutes. One day I always imagined Gill and I would settle down and have a kid or two. I never thought about it much, but that was what I expected for the future. So long as I didn't get killed in some miserable foreign war, we would eventually be together.

And now she's dead. And that future has turned into ashes and dust.

He could see Damien a hundred yards distant, sitting by himself on a park bench. His shoulders were hunched, and his head bowed, looking intently at the ground. Matt could feel his pace slowing, reluctant to travel the last few yards. Damien was Gill's brother, and Matt's oldest friend: like many siblings, although they looked different, he and Gill had the same voices and mannerisms. Matt and Damien had spent their childhoods together, running in and out of each other's houses. This had been the park where they would come and play, close enough to their houses for them to be allowed out by themselves. There had been countless different wars played out on this turf, and there was a hundred different tunnels, rat runs and mazes they had used as boys when they were escaping from irate policemen, park wardens, bus conductors and ice-cream van drivers.

And although Damien had become a villain while Matt went off to join the army, that had never stood between them: they were both men who fought for a living, and understood that their trade had its own rules. Matt had no closer friend, nor anyone he could rely on more completely. When he and Gill had become engaged, they were about to become brothers-in-law, yet they had been brothers in spirit all their lives. And now this.

'What happened?' asked Matt, sitting down on the bench next to Damien.

'Her body was found first thing this morning,' said Damien. His voice was slow and measured, but Matt could hear the cracks in it. 'On Putney Heath. It was taken to the mortuary, and the police have been examining it there. They called me, and I went to see her, to identify the body.' He paused, choking back the words. 'No obvious cause of death. There was some bruising around her cheeks, like someone had been slapping her. But that didn't kill her. Right now, nobody can say what it was.'

Matt's eyes narrowed, looking out across the park. The mums were still playing with their kids in the distance, and he could see a couple out walking their dog. The man was shouting something at the animal, but it didn't seem to be responding: a golden spaniel, it kept bounding on ahead of them. A jogger, the sweat pouring from his face, was just turning the corner, panting along the pathway towards them. 'Are you alone, Damien?' he hissed. 'Are you sure nobody saw you come here?'

Suddenly, Matt could feel Damien's hands around his throat. His knuckles were digging into his skin, and he could feel the supply of oxygen to his brain starting to slow as the pressure on his windpipe increased. 'What the fuck are you up to, Matt?' shouted Damien, his face red with anger. 'Gill's dead, you're sneaking around London like a man on the run. What the fuck's going on?'

His hands broke free from Matt's neck when he could see that he was not fighting back. Matt remained silent.

'You got her involved in another of your bloody moneymaking schemes, didn't you?' shouted Damien.

'I'm in a mess, Damien. Probably the worst mess I've ever been in.'

'Tell me about it.'

Matt started to talk. He began with Abbott, the job in the Ukraine, then everything that had happened since then, up to the house in Hammersmith where he and Eleanor were hiding. The words came out slowly and painfully, as if Matt were frightened of them himself. When he had finished, he put out an arm, resting it on Damien's shoulder. 'I'm up against the Increment. And you want my guess? I reckon they took Gill because they thought she might lead them to me.'

Matt looked out across the park. The couple with the dog were walking back across the park. The man was still snapping at the animal, the women at his side looked furtively over her shoulder at them. Matt glanced across at Damien, noticing that he too was observing the couple.

'See those two with the dog?' started Matt.

Damien nodded. 'Yes… that dog doesn't know who the fuck they are.'

'A decoy,' whispered Matt. 'I thought you said you weren't followed?'

Damien shook his head. 'I didn't realise I would be up against the regiment's finest,' he said bitterly.

Matt hesitated. It was clear now. Gill had been squeezed for information, and when she hadn't given them any, they'd killed her and dumped her body. They knew it would be found. They knew Damien would collect the body, and they knew he would be in touch with Matt. All they had to do was follow him.

You could follow it like the moves on a chessboard. Straight from the murder manual of Jack Matram.

They were in open space. At least two people, the two mothers with their children, could see them — that gave them some cover. He couldn't be certain what rules of engagement the Increment had been given, but the chances were they would avoid a firefight on open ground.

'The sewer,' said Damien.

Matt nodded.

'Start walking,' said Damien.

Matt stood up. He glanced again in the direction of the couple. They were thirty yards across the common. The man was about thirty, with blond hair, and cold, grey eyes. The woman was maybe slightly older, with short dark hair. The dog was still bounding ahead of them, still ignoring their commands.

'I'm going to buy you five seconds,' whispered Damien. 'After that, you're on your own.'

Aged eight or nine, Matt, Damien and some of their mates used to throw eggs at passing buses. They did it every afternoon on the way back from school. Once, the driver stopped, left the bus and started chasing after them. Matt and Damien had escaped, diving into an old disused sewer half a mile across the common that came up behind a garage next to the high street.

That was a quarter of a century ago, reflected Matt. Would the tunnel still be there?

Matt tensed himself. In his mind, he had a map of the distance between here and the safe house: it was at least ten miles back to Hammersmith. Eleanor would still be there, alone. If he could just break free of them, he could get to her and move on. Depends how fast I can move, he told himself. And whether fate is on my side.

Damien whistled to the dog. From about thirty yards distant, its ears pricked up, and it started running towards him. From their childhood, Matt could recall how Damien had always been good with dogs. He knew the signals and the whistles that would make each breed run towards him. Suddenly, he realised what Damien was doing. It was time to make the break.

'Go,' hissed Damien. 'Go.'

Matt peeled away, his heels digging into the hard tarmac of the walkway that stretched across the common. He switched on to the grass, running up a slope that led towards the sewer. At his side, he could see the dog bounding up towards Damien. He could hear it barking as Damien lifted it clean from the ground, holding it in his arms. And he could hear the sound of the man shouting at him. 'Drop the dog, drop the dog.'

Matt's feet were already pounding against the grass. His blood was starting to pump through his veins, and the oxygen was filling his lungs as he took huge gulps of air.

Behind him, he could hear shouts, scuffles. Don't look around, he told himself. Every split second counted, every few yards took him further away from their reach.

If a bullet comes, better to take it in the back. At least you won't know about it.

He swerved down the pathway heading towards the bushes that formed the barrier between the street and common. Every muscle straining to push himself further forward. Matt ran every day in Spain, sometimes four miles, sometimes five: but that was along the beach, when he was rested, and had plenty of water. Now, his throat was dry, and the sweat was pouring off his brow.

He could still hear shouting, fighting. He looked back, just long enough to see Damien fleeing in the opposite direction, a trail of anger and confusion in his wake.

Back-up, thought Matt. If they are the Increment, then there will be back-up somewhere. And there may be helicopters overhead within minutes.

He pushed forward into the bushes, dipping out of sight of his pursuers. Diving on to the ground, he threw his hands down into the mud. The spot was as he remembered it. A few planks, now rotting with age, covered by a thick fresh layer of roots and brambles. Matt tore into the ground, cutting his fingers on the brambles as he did so, but the ground opened up, and he pushed the planks aside and squeezed himself into the space.

The sewer had been built in Victorian times, and had been abandoned half a century ago. It had been fine for eight-year-old boys, but it was a tiny space for a grown man, and his shoulders were up tight against the moss-covered brick walls. There was no light and, as Matt plunged forwards, he could feel the darkness surrounding him. Some roots had grown through the tunnel but, after he pushed through those, the way opened up ahead of him: some other boys had found it, he guessed, and had cleared some of the rubbish out of the way.

Not much changes in this part of London. Small boys are always playing at running away from something.

A light. Matt could see a chink at the end of the tunnel. He kicked away the plank that covered it, bursting out into the alleyway. It had been a garage last time he had been here. Now it was the back of a Starbucks: there were a pile of empty coffee bags in the bins, and the smell of cappuccinos drifted out of the building.

He hustled his way down the alleyway that ran down the side of Starbucks and came out on to the street, anxiety still stabbing at his chest. He brushed past a mother pushing her pram, knocking the cigarette from her lips. He could hear her cursing but ignored her. He pushed on, passing a row of shops. Keep going, he told himself. This is your only chance.

'You,' shouted a man. 'Where…'

Matt pressed on. Don't lead them to the house, he told himself. Wait till you know you've lost them.

He turned down a side street, running hard along the pavement, then ducked into another alley. Nobody seemed to be following. Two more streets, both taken at a hard jog. That led him back down towards the high street. He paused, taking a moment to check behind him.

Nobody.

The street was busy, crowded with people out shopping. Matt hesitated. He was aware the sweat was dripping off his face, and he was gulping down air, trying to get some oxygen back into his lungs. He bent over, taking a moment to rest, and to push some strength back into his muscles.

They think I'm a mugger. They're frightened of me, and who can blame them?

He started walking, then picked up the pace as he turned off the main street. He kept checking behind him, looking out for any signs they were on his tail. He scanned up into the sky, looking to see if there might be a helicopter. And he checked the cars sitting on the street, peering into each one as he passed it, making sure there was nobody sitting, waiting.

A cab. Matt jumped inside, barking out instructions to the driver. It was just after eleven in the morning. For the next twenty minutes, sweat was pouring off him as he checked and double-checked that there was nobody following. Then, after jumping out of the cab, he threw the door of the Hammersmith safe house open, shouting at the top of his lungs. 'Eleanor, Eleanor.'

Eleanor and Damien were sitting in the kitchen. Matt was relieved to see him, and even more relieved to see Eleanor was safe.

'Go,' Matt shouted. 'Go.'

'I'll get my stuff,' said Eleanor, starting to move.

'No,' shouted Matt grabbing the laptop. 'Just go, just go. Now.'

As they had fled the house in Hammersmith, Damien had called one of his gangster friends, and within minutes a black BMW 5 Series had driven up: safe transport to take them where they wanted. From now on, the old IRA safe houses were too risky: if the Increment knew that's where they were hiding, they would search them one by one. It was likely they knew most of the addresses. They would have to try their luck in hotels.

The Holiday Inn Express at Buckhurst Hill in Essex was twenty miles from Stansted airport, and mainly seemed to cater for people flying in and out of east London. There were a few businessmen in transit, and some stewardesses from Ryanair.

We stay half a step ahead. That's the best we can hope for.

He took the keys from the check-in clerk, and walked up the single flight of stairs to their room. Eleanor was following close behind. Ivan had already supplied them with false names and passports plus some more cash. The new identities worked well enough, and the receptionist had not noticed the uncertainty with which Matt signed his new name, Keith Todd.

Pay cash, use different names, and we're still hard to track down.

He closed the door behind him, shutting it softly. There was nothing unusual about the room. Pale blue carpets, pastel duvet, magnolia walls: it was standard corporate design, the same as a thousand hotel rooms right across the country. But for a moment, Matt could feel some of the tension starting to ease out of his limbs. They were alone, unwatched. They were safe. For now.

'How else can they get to you?' said Eleanor. 'They got to Gill because they thought they might get to you through her.' She paused. 'Who else is there?'

'There's Damien,' answered Matt, looking back at Eleanor. 'But he already knows they're on to him.' Matt paused, using a towel from the bed to wipe the sweat from his brow. 'Then Ivan. The Firm knows all about Ivan. They're old friends, go back a long way. But he knows how to be careful.'

He threw the towel back on the bed, looking around to see if there was an air-conditioning switch somewhere: the temperature outside seemed to be at least forty degrees, and the air blowing through the hotel was hotter than the fumes from a car exhaust. 'And you? How can they get to you?'

'They know about Ken, but that's no good to them. He's dead, and so is Sandy.'

Matt nodded. 'Who else? Mum? Dad?'

'Mum's dead, Dad went on holiday to Portugal. I don't even know how to get hold of him.'

'How about a boyfriend?'

Matt couldn't be sure, but he sensed Eleanor was blushing: a touch of crimson was flushing through her cheeks. 'No, there's nobody.'

Matt smiled. It was stupid, but he was pleased. 'You're sure? Even an ex. Doesn't matter if it was a couple of years ago. They might still track him down, start trying to beat some information out of him.'

Eleanor shook her head. 'No,' she answered. 'I've been busy, you know, what with the work. It's hard to find the space for other people sometimes.'

'Spare me the woman's magazine article,' said Matt.

He walked towards the window, pushing the curtain aside, already regretting having snapped at her: the tension was eating away at him, and he was taking it out on anyone. The hotel looked over a small garden, then backed on to the car park. In the distance, he could see the planes cruising into Stansted, their thick trails of vapour smudged across the sky. Then he could feel Eleanor's arms snaking around his back, her touch warm against his skin. 'Maybe you're cross,' she said, the hint of a tease in her voice. 'Maybe you were worried about there being someone else?'

Matt turned round, his lips colliding with hers. His tongue pressed down against her lips, and his hands started to ripple down her body, pushing back her long blonde hair, and tugging at the buttons of her blue blouse. Below, he could feel her hands dragging at his jeans, pulling him down on to the bed. Sex and danger, he reflected, as his arms pinned her back down on the mattress, pushing her down. One inevitably leads to the other.