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‘Shut the fuck up,’ snapped the kidnapper’s harsh voice. ‘Next call will be the last, tomorrow at ten to arrange the drop. Out.’
The line clicked dead.
‘We’re clear from the Duke,’ Hooligan informed the investigators.
‘He said “out”, ’ Cook observed. ‘That’s ingrained voice procedure. He has to be long-term military.’
‘What did he mean by “don’t bother calling the filth”?’ Morgan asked the group, the American not recognising the slang.
‘It means the police,’ Knight answered. ‘So what now?’
‘Everyone meet at Kingsmill Road, but wait three hundred yards to the south. We go in together in case there are any surprises. Hooligan, bring your full set of forensics gear.’
‘Will
do, boss. What are you expecting to find?’
Morgan thought back to the pool of blood in Abbie’s penthouse apartment.
‘Our donor.’
CHAPTER 16
HAVING MET HOOLIGAN and Knight’s van on a quiet street in Battersea, Morgan’s Range Rover led the Private convoy to the front of a fire-damaged furniture store.
‘Riots,’ Cook guessed, seeing Morgan inspecting the destruction. ‘They’re probably still waiting on the plans to redevelop it.’ Cook stopped short of her next words.
‘Go on,’ Morgan encouraged.
‘You think pulling up like this is the best idea?’ she asked, as neutrally as she could.
‘Don’t ever be afraid to disagree with me, Jane.’ He smiled. ‘But I think we’re good. Our guys could be ex-military, but I don’t think they’ll have RPGs.’
‘True.’ Cook nodded. ‘But they probably do have a good knowledge of how to make use of IEDs. There’s all kinds of rubbish and litter around here where they could hide one.’
‘And what would they gain from that?’ Morgan asked, interested.
‘Time. They take out the people who’re getting close to them, or why else do they put something out here for us as a distraction? It’s either desperation or a trap. If we’re all dead, it doesn’t matter to the kidnapper. The Duke’s not with us, and he’s the one paying the ransom.’
Morgan thought it over.
‘Keep thinking like that,’ he told her, pleased, then spoke into a small button radio affixed to the neck of his hoody. ‘Knight, hold back here for now. I’m going to give the place a once-over. Take the van a hundred yards back.’
Knight’s reply betrayed his unease with the order, but Morgan was his leader. ‘If that’s what you want,’ the Brit answered, and the van reversed back along the street.
Scanning for wires that could lead to a firing point for any explosives, Morgan made his way cautiously to the front of the building. It had at one point been boarded up, but the chipboard was now ripped and torn, the graffiti dull.
He saw that there were several points of entry, which made him feel more at ease about an ambush. If he was setting a trap, the kidnapper would want to funnel the Private personnel into a chosen killing ground. It made no sense to allow them to clear the obstruction of the shopfront, only to try to ensnare them inside.
Pushing himself between the boards, Morgan eased into the shop and quickly moved five paces to his left, crouching into the deepest shadows. There he waited and listened for almost a minute. The only sounds were the Range Rover’s idling engine and the scurrying of mice.
He turned on his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness and played across the charred metal skeletons of beds and sofas. He saw nothing that put his senses on edge, so he got to his feet and slowly edged his way into what had been a display room. The torchlight shone on empty beer cans, the stubs of cigarettes and the general debris of the homeless. None of it was fresh. There was no odour to it.
No odour to hide the smell that now hit Morgan like a fist.
He was very familiar with it.
It was the smell of death.
