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Casey is warming to her theme. “We’re fairly sure Kira Semyonov orchestrated the raid on our warehouse last year, stole our guns. We could ask for them back in exchange for Marlon.”
“I doubt if she still has them,” Tony puts in. “And in any case, how can we be sure she’ll trade valuable weapons for a corpse?”
There’s general murmur of agreement, before Cristina speaks again.
“What if it’s not a corpse we offer?”
All eyes turn to her. “Go on,” Ethan urges.
“There were no Russian survivors, no one to report back. And The Widow hasn’t seen the bodies. She’ll have heard rumours, probably, but can’t be certain. No one outside our circle knows for sure how many died. If we lead her to think her son was injured but not killed, that he’s still our prisoner, she’ll trade then.”
There’s silence. We all look to each other, then to Ethan. The scheme is brilliant in its simplicity.
Ethan beams and kisses his wife on the mouth. “Fuck, I married well.”
CHAPTER10
Tony
“Seventeen,”Rome crows and sinks his third red ball. He saunters around the snooker table, lining himself up for the black poised over the bottom-left pocket. “Get your money out, loser.”
This will be the third frame he’s won in a row. My game is slipping. I’m sorely tempted to cough just as he lines up for the shot, that’ll teach the cocky bastard.
I’m saved the bother when my phone trills in my back pocket. Rome scowls at me over his shoulder.
“You did that on purpose.”
I shrug and check the screen. It’s an unknown number. I hit ‘reply’.
“Is that Mr Haigh?” It’s a woman’s voice, though not one I recognise.
“Yes. Tony Haigh,” I answer. “Who’s this?”
“Molly, at the Hope and Anchor.”
“Ah. Hello, Molly.” I remember the barmaid from the other evening. She separated me from a fifty quid bonus in exchange for her taking over the evening shift so Jenna could spend the time in bed with me. It was one of my better investments. “Is there a problem?”
“No, I dinnae think so. I was just wanting tae have a wee word wi’ Jenna. Is she wi’ ye?”
A red light flashes in my head. “No,” I reply. “She isn’t. She should be there, at the pub.” I check my watch. It’s just after ten in the morning, and I’m still at Caraksay. By the time we’d laid out plans for laying a trap for The Widow, it was late. Most of us decided to remain on the island overnight.
“Oh. I see. It’s just that I arrived fer work this mornin’ an’ she’s nae ’ere.”
“What do you mean, not there?”
“Like I said, Mr Haigh. Nae ’ere. An’ ’er bed’s nae been slept in. I assumed she’d be wi’ ye somewhere. I tried ringin’ ’er, but nae answer, so I rang ye. I need tae ken when she’ll be back, like. I’ve an appointment wi’ the chiropodist at twelve so I need ’er tae do the bar. I’m a martyr tae me feet, Mr Haigh. I really am.”
My head is whirling, but one thing stands out, stark and terrifying, towering over everything else. Jenna is missing. The possibilities are horrendous. That bastard DC Waddington is my chief suspect. I swear, I’ll peel his skin off an inch at a time and dissect him, slowly, if he’s laid a hand on her again.
All night. She’s been gone all night. I feel sick.
Christ. Holy fuck!
I dump my cue on the table, sending the balls scattering. “I need to go.”
“What’s happened?” Rome demands to know.
“Jenna’s gone. Disappeared.”
