Out of Reach Page 16

  “Fuck you!” Baker laughed. He handed Schaefer a photograph and a couple of pieces of paper. The photo was of an auburn-haired, ethereal woman in her late twenties. Printed on one of the pieces of paper was an address. On the other was a satellite photograph of a house in the country.

  “That’s his niece, Mary. Lives off the grid; no credit card, no bank account. I tracked her down through an old mobile number. Not that you give a shit of course.”

  “Of course,” Schaefer confirmed.

  “Her place is in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  Schaefer studied the satellite image. The remote, isolated house had good visibility on all sides. It was the perfect place for someone who wanted to see what was coming.

  “I’m going to need you to come with me,” Schaefer told Baker.

  “I don’t do country,” Baker replied. “I prefer my grass in bags.”

  “I need you to come with me,” Schaefer repeated flatly.

  “Shit,” Baker shook his head in defeat.

  *

  The Royal Inn on The Park had a twenty-five-year-old, green Land Rover that was used for wholesale runs, driving drunk regulars home after a lock in, and other odd jobs. Schaefer could take it whenever he needed it, which was rarely. London had become actively hostile to cars and the price of diesel meant Schaefer was better off on foot. He didn’t believe in burning money that could otherwise be used to find Amber. But the Wye Valley was beyond the reach of his Oyster card, and Schaefer reluctantly asked Tilly for the keys to the 4x4 that was affectionately nicknamed Smokey. Heavy, sluggish, and unforgiving, it was nonetheless the vehicle that Schaefer wanted in the event of Armageddon. When all other cars turned to ash, this two ton beast would be chugging through fire and flame running on aftershave, rum, or mouthwash.

  Schaefer was following Baker’s new BMW in the inside lane of the M4. He could tell by the way Baker was driving that the fat man was annoyed at having to drive so slowly, but Smokey topped out at sixty-eight. Baker’s slick, black M5 was designed to impress his clients, fill his friends with envy, and sweep away the inhibitions of accessible young women. Schaefer lifted the stiff, plastic indicator column when he saw Baker’s left tail light start blinking yellow. Baker pulled onto the services slip road, and Schaefer followed.

  “What d’you want to find this guy for?” Baker asked, before he forced a handful of chips into his mouth. He and Schaefer were sat at a small plastic table in Burger King, and Schaefer was getting a salutary reminder of why he never liked to eat with Baker. Schaefer was having a black coffee while his companion gorged himself on three Whoppers with cheese, three portions of fries, a milkshake and some kind of chicken in a bun.

  “I got given his name,” Schaefer replied, looking around the miserable restaurant. Forget fuel, this was food as greasy, addictive self-loathing comfort. All around him greasy mouths chewed chunks of fatty sandwiches.

  “Who gave it to you?” Baker quizzed. He took another bite of burger.

  Schaefer looked at Baker impassively.

  “Come on, Schaefer. This is me,” Baker protested, giving Schaefer a good view of the churned matter inside his mouth. Baker used the back of his hand to wipe some of the grease off his lips, and then took a gulp of his vanilla shake. Schaefer rarely traded notes with Baker, but this might be one of the few instances where the glutton’s knowledge might prove useful. The Collective was the strongest lead Schaefer had picked up in years, and there was a chance Baker might have encountered the group.

  “Security service,” Schaefer replied in a low voice.

  “What the fuck?” Baker laughed, his mouth full of burger. His laughter quickly evaporated as he saw that Schaefer was deadly serious. “You’re kidding me?”

  Schaefer shook his head.

  “Why did they come to you?” Baker asked.

  “Lomas heads a cult called the Collective. You ever come across it?”

  Baker’s mood suddenly turned sombre and he put down his burger.

  “The Collective?” Baker asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck,” Baker said quietly. “I never expected to hear that name again. It was about twelve, maybe thirteen years ago. I was hired to find this missing kid. Scotty Costa. I went to school with his mum, Leanne. She met this Spanish DJ, Eduardo, and brought him back to the East End. He got big in clubland and then fucked off to Ibiza leaving her with this kid. Sent money and all, but never really spent much time with the boy, so Scotty fell in with a rough lot. He regularly spend days away from home without telling his mum where he was. But when he went missing for two weeks, Leanne came and begged me to find him. I wish to fuck she’d gone to someone else.”

  Baker shook his head at the memory. Schaefer had rarely seen this bravado-filled man troubled by anything that a smutty joke and a knowing wink couldn’t solve.

  “It took weeks to piece together his last movements, but I tracked Scotty down to this old fuck, Morris McCarthy. McCarthy had picked the kid up at Waterloo Station. I have no idea what Scotty was doing there, but the security cameras snapped him going off with McCarthy. I didn’t know who the old git was, but then I got really lucky. McCarthy had made an illegal right turn on The Cut, and got snapped by a traffic camera. Scotty was sat right next to him in the passenger seat. We had the two of them together, and we had McCarthy’s licence plate. When the cops raided McCarthy’s shithole in West Ruislip, they found the remains of five kids buried in the garden; all teenage boys. McCarthy claimed he had to kill them to save the world. He said they were all being groomed for great evil by this thing called the Collective. He copped an insanity plea, and somehow managed to hang himself. In Broadmoor. You got any idea how hard it is to kill yourself in that place?”

  “You ever look into the Collective?” Schaefer asked.

  “What for? I thought it was a figment of a nutter’s imagination,” Baker said in genuine disbelief. “It’s real. Fuck. What is it?”

  “Some kind of cult. Seems to have been around for hundreds of years. I read a fourteenth century journal that mentions it.”

  “What do the spies want with it?” Baker asked.

  Schaefer hesitated, remembering Shark Eye’s instructions outside the situation room.

  “I can’t say,” Schaefer replied.

  “I see,” Baker said flatly. “This is heavy, even for you Schaefer. And this guy Lomas runs it?”

  Schaefer nodded.

  “And you think the Collective has got something to do with Amber’s abduction?” Baker asked with sudden realisation.

  Schaefer nodded again. Baker shook his head slowly as he considered the implications of what he’d learnt.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when we find him,” Baker observed.

  Schaefer simply stared at the fat man with cold, hard, unforgiving eyes.

  *

  The Wye Valley felt ancient. The feeling was partly due to absence of the glass and concrete that usually dominated Schaefer’s life. Life in London was so far removed from the natural world, that one could easily forget that humanity had not forged the Earth in its image. Freed of man-made interference, Schaefer was able to appreciate the craggy landscape and rock formations that were born millions of years ago, before Man had mastered even the simplest of tools. But it wasn’t just the land; there was something more profound. Try as he might to shake it, Schaefer felt the presence of an ancient consciousness that permeated the region. It was as though the world around him was alive and aware. It was aware of him.

  Schaefer turned off the dual carriageway that cut through the hills onto a narrow road that ran towards Symonds Yat. The road ran alongside the River Wye at the base of the valley, and the rocks that had been carved by the forces of ice and water loomed above Schaefer.

  “Inretus vir.”

  Schaefer heard the voice before he saw the dog. It was the largest Rottweiler he had ever seen, and it stood proudly in the middle of the road. Schaefer stepped on the pedal and the brakes screeched into a
ction, bringing the heavy car to a half a couple of feet away from the impassive beast.

  “Watch where you’re going, you fool!” exclaimed a grizzled old man, as he emerged from the bushes beside the road. He grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled it out of the way. They stood and watched as Schaefer put the Land Rover into gear and drove further into the valley. He checked his rear view mirror and saw Baker give the cantankerous old man a leisurely view of his middle finger as he drove past. The man yelled something at Baker, who simply smiled back.

  TWENTY TWO

  Schaefer turned off the narrow road, onto an even smaller one that wound up into the hills. The Land Rover clipped the lush foliage that overhung the road as it climbed out of the valley. The landscape changed as Schaefer crested the hill. Bushes and ferns gave way to trees, and soon Schaefer was driving through farmed forest; the pine trees evenly spaced to make for easy harvesting. About four miles out of the valley, Schaefer caught sight of his destination through the trees. Mary Lomas’ house was a large white Victorian building, with gothic arched windows and a grey, slate tile roof. The window frames had been painted black, which made the house look like a chessboard designed by a lunatic. Schaefer scanned the area for Baker, and couldn’t see his car anywhere. Their plan required a degree of separation and concealment, and Schaefer was satisfied to see no sign of the fat man.

  Schaefer turned off the forest road onto the private drive that led up to the house. The rough dirt track was sufficiently potholed to test the Land Rover’s suspension. There wasn’t a garden as such; the land around the house just seemed to blend into the surrounding forest with an ease that made Schaefer wonder whether it too belonged to Mary Lomas. A brand new blue Toyota Hilux was parked in front of the house, which was well-kept and clean. The only dilapidated element of the property was the badly potholed drive, and Schaefer considered the possibility that it had been left in that state deliberately. It would discourage accidental tourists from confusing it with a public highway, and force any vehicles approaching the house to slow to a crawl. Schaefer looked at the house and wondered whether he was being watched. His question was answered when he parked near the Hilux and stepped out of his car.

  “Who are you?” Mary Lomas asked aggressively. She stood on the painted white porch, and held the collar of a huge German Shepherd that strained to bound towards Schaefer. Mary wore a white linen blouse and dark blue jeans. Her lustrous red hair fell around her alabaster face, which looked stern and unwelcoming.

  “My name’s Thomas Schaefer.”

  The dog barked suddenly as Schaefer took a step forward. Schaefer had been mauled by a German Shepherd once before and decided not to test his luck. He stopped moving.

  “Are you Mary Lomas?” Schaefer asked.

  There was no response, but Schaefer didn’t need one. This was the woman from the photograph Baker had shown him.

  “I’m looking for your uncle Edward,” Schaefer continued. “There are some things I need to talk to him about.”

  Mary’s stern expression wavered and was replaced by a momentary look of dreamy wistfulness.

  “I haven’t seen him for years,” Mary said softly.

  “It’s very important that I find him,” Schaefer countered.

  Mary focused suddenly, her stern mask returning. She stared at Schaefer with angry intensity.

  “I can’t help you,” Mary said angrily. “I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He could be dead.”

  “If I could just talk to you,” Schaefer said, taking a step forward. The dog barked and snarled.

  “There’s nothing more to say,” Mary responded. “I’d like you to leave.”

  Schaefer looked at the big dog that was straining to be unleashed and decided not to push things any further. He stepped back towards the Land Rover.

  “Sorry to have troubled you,” Schaefer said.

  Glad to have the car door between him and Mary’s guard dog, Schaefer started the engine and drove slowly up the bumpy drive towards the road. He looked in the wing mirror and saw the receding figure of Mary Lomas watching him from her porch.

  At the end of the drive, Schaefer turned right, heading further into the forest. He looked through the trees and could see Mary was still watching him. Ahead of him, concealed behind a long stretch of large rhododendron bushes, was Baker. When he was out of sight of the house, Schaefer stamped on the brakes and came to a rapid halt beside Baker’s BMW. The fat man was already out of his car.

  “Billy’s got the phone covered,” Baker said as Schaefer climbed out of the Land Rover. “If she calls anyone, we’ll know.”

  Schaefer could picture Baker’s greasy, thin brother in some tiny windowless room in London sat in front of whatever monitoring equipment enabled him to illegally wiretap people’s phones.

  “How long are you going to wait?” Baker asked as he clambered into the Land Rover.

  “I’ll give it a couple of hours,” Schaefer replied. “Then I’ll have to go back and try the direct approach.”

  Baker shook his head.

  “Don’t fuck up my baby,” he said, indicating the pristine BMW that abutted the bushes.

  “I’ll look after it,” Schaefer said. “Now get lost.”

  Baker slammed the door shut, and sped away.

  Schaefer moved carefully, taking care not to be seen. He crept to a point where the branches of two rhododendrons intertwined and crouched down. He was able to find a small gap in the foliage that offered a view of the house. Mary Lomas watched the Land Rover as it carried on along the forest road. She waited until it was gone from sight and then pulled the large dog inside and shut the door. Rhododendrons were poisonous to most other plants, so there was nothing but a few broken twigs and dry earth to worry about when Schaefer sat down. He turned so that he could see the house through the small gap. His plan was to shake the niece with his visit. If Edward Lomas was in the house, he’d find out. Either Lomas would leave, or nothing would happen in which case Schaefer would find him when he paid Mary another visit in a couple of hours. If Lomas was elsewhere, Mary would try to warn him somehow. With her communication compromised and Schaefer watching the house, anything she did would be found out. Schaefer didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, Mary came jogging out of the house. She jumped in the Hilux and drove the blue pick-up truck hurriedly over the potholed drive. It bumped and bounced around, until it reached the road. Mary turned left, and headed down towards the valley. Schaefer broke cover, jumped in Baker’s BMW, pulled a U-turn, and followed.

  The Hilux followed the winding road back down towards Symonds Yat. It turned left when it reached the junction, and headed further up the valley, towards the source of the river. Schaefer kept his distance. Baker’s windows were tinted and if Mary caught sight of him, hopefully she’d assume he was a flashy estate agent or second-home City-boy. Mary drove on for another six miles, until they were well away from civilisation. The regularly spaced holiday homes had given way to countryside interrupted by the odd house. As they progressed, there were fewer and fewer reasons for a stranger to be out in this neck of the woods, and Schaefer had to be careful not to be noticed. He dropped back even further, allowing Mary’s truck to drop out of sight on the curves. The road followed the bend in the river and curved right. When it straightened up, Mary was gone. A few moments later, Schaefer saw the Hilux parked in front of a two-storey wood-panelled, red boathouse. The boathouse stood on the south bank of the River Wye. It was the last house before the end of the valley. Beyond it, the road swept in to run alongside the river, before an abrupt turn that forced vehicles over a single track bridge that stretched over the water to the north bank.

  Schaefer swung the BMW into a lay-by and dropped out of sight. He opened the door quietly, and crept towards the boathouse, as Mary made her way up the red wood stairs. She hurried along the balcony that ran around the first floor. When she was out of sight, Schaefer moved quickly and quietly towards the house. He climbed up the stairs, and, as he made his wa
y along the balcony, heard voices through an open window.

  “A troubled man came to see me today,” Mary said. “He was looking for you.”

  “I know,” a man’s voice replied. “He followed you here.”

  Schaefer could only assume that, in spite his precautions, the man had seen him approach. There was no time to lose. He rushed at the door and put his full weight behind it. The lock splintered from the frame, and the door swung open wildly. Mary was standing in a cluttered hallway with Edward Lomas. She looked round in shock, but Schaefer noticed that Lomas did not look the slightest bit surprised. Schaefer charged at the frail, old man and grabbed him by the throat.

  “Where’s my daughter?” Schaefer demanded, as he hurled Lomas against a crowded bookshelf.

  Mary tried to pull Schaefer away from her uncle, hitting, punching, and pinching with all her might. With his quarry in his hands, Schaefer barely registered the blows.

  “Leave him alone!” Mary yelled.

  “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” Lomas choked. “The man you work for knows more about your daughter than I do. You’ve been followed.”

  Schaefer hesitated and loosened his grip slightly.

  “Mary, we fought the inevitable for as long as we could,” Lomas said sadly.

  Something about the man’s calm troubled him. It was as though he had expected this. Lomas must have registered the momentary doubt.

  “See for yourself,” Lomas gasped, signalling the nearest window.

  Schaefer pulled Lomas to the window, and with horrific realisation, saw a car pull up next to Mary’s. There were two suited men in it. Schaefer looked at them with dismay – it was Smoker and Scarface, Shark Eyes’ henchmen. Schaefer could not understand how they’d tracked him. He was trained in counter-surveillance; he would have noticed a tail. He’d changed his phone. Baker was the only weak link, but the fat man would know better than to betray him. It was a conversation that they would have later. And then there was Lomas, who had known of the men’s approach before it was possible.