No Turning Back Read online

  No Turning Back

  Also by Freddie P. Peters:

  Collap$e

  Breaking Po!nt

  No Turning Back

  Freddie P. Peters

  Henry Crowne Paying the Price Book 3

  No Turning Back

  First published 2019 by Freddie P. Peters

  www.freddieppeters.com

  Text copyright © Freddie P. Peters 2019

  The right of Freddie P. Peters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  ISBN: 978-1-9993373-1-5

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Lucy Llewellyn at Head & Heart

  Typesetting by Aimee Dewar

  This is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To Claude

  Prologue

  The blindfold sits heavy over his eyes. Henry fights the desire to adjust it and show his apprehension. He has been led down a series of long corridors; at least they feel that way. They must be underground judging by the lingering smell of damp and mould that had puzzled him at first. The floor feels smooth underneath his feet. Someone has used strong detergent on the floor but it hasn’t managed to cover the smell of decay.

  By his own estimation, Henry has been sitting on this small uncomfortable chair for fifteen minutes, perhaps longer. He spreads his long fingers carefully on his thighs. He does not want to fidget or, worse, show trembling.

  “Hello Henry,” says a voice that sounds familiar.

  He turns his head slightly. To his surprise he is not sitting directly in front of the door but side on. He does not respond.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  Henry still does not answer.

  “Remove the blindfold.”

  A pair of hands pull at the material and his eyes hurt even more. The mask comes off but Henry keeps his eyes shut.

  Should he open them? If he does he will know the man’s identity and there will be no turning back.

  “I am here to offer you a deal … a one-off chance.” The voice is smooth and convincing. It is what he has been wanting to hear since he walked through the doors of HMP Belmarsh. Henry inhales deeply and opens his eyes. The light blinds him and he jerks his head sideways, raising his right hand to protect his face. A strong spotlight has been placed above him. He need not have worried about the man’s face as it’s hidden in the shadows.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “Because I’m – a City banker?” He still can’t bring himself to use the past tense.

  “Wrong answer.”

  Henry’s head falls imperceptibly. He will not be defeated by the shame that eats him alive every day.

  “Because I’m – a terrorist?”

  “That’s a much better answer.”

  The man moves his head, indicating to the guards still standing behind Henry’s chair that they can now go. His handcuffs were removed when he was pushed down on the chair. How very confident of the men who have brought him to this place.

  But what could he do, deep underground in one of MI6’s bunkers?

  “You’re growing very close to Abu Maeraka?”

  Henry shrugs. “You mean Kamal?”

  “Who else did you have in mind?” The man is still in the shadows. But Henry can almost distinguish his shape. He is medium height but his shoulders are impressive. He has turned away for a short moment, enough to light a cigarette and its red dot now glows at his mouth. Henry almost wishes he had taken up smoking in jail. Only cigars, of course, to celebrate the obscenely large deals he used to structure and close in his investment banking days.

  Henry does not answer the man’s question. He has questions of his own. “Did you get him transferred to Belmarsh?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Henry’s throat tightens. These fuckers have been playing him all along. Anger, his old friend, grabs him again. It swells in his belly, a rumble that is familiar and exciting. Henry exploited that feeling so often when he worked in the City.

  But no more.

  He must stay in control. He must push away the images that haunt him: the Paddington bombing, the bodies, the smell of burning flesh and above all his cowardice.

  Inhale – Exhale.

  The man has moved behind him. Henry feels his proximity. Two strong hands land on his shoulders and the acrid smell of smoke assails his nostrils. The man is speaking in his ear. Henry does not understand what he is saying now … it is a foreign language, something throaty. Henry has heard it before, around him, Middle-Eastern – almost certainly Arabic.

  “Have you told anyone of your plans with Abu Maeraka?” The hands have tightened and the breath in his ear becomes hotter, the fetid smell of cigarettes repulsive. Henry’s fingers are digging into his thighs, his body stuck to the chair.

  Powerless.

  The door opens with a crash and men pour into the room: four, five – maybe more. They grab Henry’s limbs; push him back into a contorted position. A damp cloth sticks to his face and water starts gushing over it. The wet cloth has become so heavy, it clings even closer to his nose, to his mouth. His breathing slows. His head is leaden. His mouth gasps desperately.

  Breathe – Breathe.

  His chest is about to explode and at the very last instant the man removes the cloth.

  “What is your plan?” The voice is so calm.

  The room has become hotter as more men come in. They jostle to tear Henry’s clothes from his body and he can’t move. He should run. He should resist but remains frozen.

  Powerless.

  The cloth comes over his face again. The water fills his nose, his lungs. This time he will drown.

  He screams a noiseless scream that no one can hear.

  Chapter One

  Midnight, Inspector Pole stretched, moving his tall body gently so as not to disturb Nancy. He picked up his BlackBerry, scrolled down his emails. Nothing from Andy and no text either.

  Promising.

  He placed his hand over Nancy’s and squeezed gently. She moved a little closer, rolled her face towards him slowly, “Mmmm”. The music they had been listening to, a new Philip Glass piece Nancy had recently discovered, had just finished. Pole smiled. He looked at her slender body, the loose silk trousers and blouse that accentuated the curve of her waist and breasts. He turned sideways to face her more fully, resting his head on his bent arm. He squeezed her hand once more. Nancy’s eyes fluttered open and she stirred with a smile.

  “So sorry Jonathan.” She moved one arm lazily over her head, s
tretched, bent her arm and facing Pole rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s midnight after all,” Pole replied. Nancy falling sleep in his company felt more like a sign of trust than boredom.

  “Any news?”

  “Nothing,” Pole replied, placing a kiss on her hand. “In my profession no news is not always good news but tonight I —”

  The unmistakable buzz of the BlackBerry interrupted him and Pole rolled his eyes. Nancy chuckled.

  “Pole,” he answered.

  Nancy bent forward to grab the yellow notepad that now lived permanently on her coffee table and handed it to him with a ballpoint pen.

  Pole started to scribble.

  “Are you serious?”

  The person at the other end of the phone confirmed a piece of information. Pole cast a quick eye towards Nancy. He did not like what he was hearing.

  “Fine. With you in a few minutes.”

  Pole’s interlocutor seemed in turn surprised.

  “Yes, I said a few minutes. Yes, I know where this is.” Pole hung up.

  “Should I get ready too?”

  “Body found at the entrance of the Regent’s Canal – tied to a trolley.”

  “Is that reason enough to be calling you?” Nancy asked, dubious. “Someone’s death warrants attention, of course but …”

  “No, only the quirkiest cases go to your friend Pole.”

  “Do tell – the suspense is killing me. Metaphorically that is.”

  “The man has been identified as a well-known criminal, on the INTERPOL most wanted list.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t hide anything from you – he was a prolific art thief, Italian with deep mafia connections.” Pole had finished tying his shoelaces. He stood up. Nancy had already sprung off the sofa and was running barefoot towards her bedroom.

  “I’m grabbing a pair of shoes, be with you in two ticks. I am a consultant with the Met after all.”

  “But perhaps I should check first what this is all about?”

  “Nonsense, Jonathan. If art is involved you know you need me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Absolument mon cher,” Nancy said from inside her bedroom.

  Pole put on his jacket, pocketed his BlackBerry and moved towards the door. Nancy caught up with him.

  “Andiamo.” She closed the door of her apartment behind them. “Let’s see what the Italian Mafia has in store for us then.”

  * * *

  Islington High Street was teeming with people. Nightclub goers, restaurant goers, cinema buffs – an eclectic mix of age and culture that so characterised her neighbourhood. A group of giggling girls was heading towards Camden Passage, dressed in black but each sporting angel wings on their back and headbands with flashing bobbles – a hen party going to The Ladybird Bar, no doubt.

  Nancy was walking alongside Pole watching his determined pace. He had placed himself between Nancy and the pavement kerb as any gentleman worthy of the name would do. She recalled the first time one of her older colleague in Chambers had walked in this way and offered her an explanation. In the days when pavements were either small or simply non-existent, a gentleman would walk between the lady he accompanied and the road, shielding her from the splashes of mud, soiled water or sometimes worse. Nancy smiled but said nothing. She slowed down to let a couple of Punk men, complete with Mowhawks and safety pins, cross before her, losing a little ground to Pole.

  He was already focused on the case. He had called the officer on site to request the pathologist he trusted and her team. Yvonne Butler might not be available but someone in her team would be. He stopped abruptly as they were approaching the canal from behind the Angel.

  “I am sorry – was I going too fast?” Pole’s face was hardly visible in the shadows of the night but Nancy could see the lines of his forehead gathered close together.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Jonathan. You’ll never be too fast for me.”

  Pole laughed softly and brushed a strand of jet-black hair away from Nancy’s cheek.

  “Are you ready for it? It won’t be pretty.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes but smiled. “Jonathan, I am not the squeamish type. I could not have done all those years at the Bar if I had been. And in any case we ate our dinner some hours ago.”

  Pole did not move, for a moment unconvinced by this show of bravado. But Nancy had seen her fair share of nastiness. She would somehow cope with whatever the canal was about to reveal.

  The musty smell of all but stagnant water told them they were near. Pole recognised the stairs that led from Colebrooke Row to the water’s edge. Already a couple of police cars were parked near the steps. A few passers-by had gathered, together with residents concerned or curious about the latest disturbance.

  Pole flashed his ID as he approached the uniformed police. “Good evening officer.”

  “Good evening Sir, PC Leonard, Sir,” the young woman said, glancing a suspicious eye towards Nancy.

  “Ms Wu is with me. She consults for the Met.”

  The young police constable moved sideways. She nodded towards the towpath.

  “Not a pretty sight, Sir.”

  Pole stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down on the scene. He hesitated.

  “How bad is it?” Nancy asked with an even voice.

  “He has been – beheaded.” The young woman shuddered.

  “Is it your first time at a crime scene, PC Leonard?” Pole asked kindly.

  “No, Sir, but I haven’t come across one of these before,” she said moving her head towards the canal. “And they left his wallet in his jacket pocket – nothing stolen.”

  “So not a robbery gone wrong then?”

  “Doesn’t look like it —” PC Leonard was interrupted by the static of her radio. “Yes, he has arrived, Sir.”

  Pole thanked her and turned towards Nancy.

  “I’ll be fine, really.” Nancy’s voice had lost a little of its assurance but she would not backtrack and let him down now. Pole nodded.

  The body had been covered up with a blanket. Pole walked towards it and, crouching, lifted its corner carefully. He pulled back slightly but forced himself to inspect the corpse thoroughly. He let the blanket fall back and stood up, his tall body towering over the dead man. He looked at Nancy standing only a few feet away and shook his head.

  “You don’t need to see that,” Pole said with kind determination.

  Nancy hesitated; the protest she had prepared stuck in her throat.

  “This is butchery – an execution.”

  “And the fact that whoever has done this has not bothered to hide it, is what? A warning?” Nancy offered, relieved she could direct the conversation away from the body itself.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Who is the victim? You said he was on the INTERPOL most wanted list. Strange to be found in the middle of Islington, non?”

  “Très bonne question, as ever.”

  “Good evening Guv. Good evening Ms Wu.” Pole was interrupted by a young man in thick glasses.

  “Nice to see you again, Andy.” Nancy extended her hand and DS Todd shook it awkwardly. The light was bad but she could have sworn she saw reddening cheeks.

  “Massimo Visconti, Italian from Venice, established a reputation as an inventive art thief, organised a number of high-profile heists, caught as the result of a tip-off and managed to escape before serving his sentence.” Andy was reading from his notebook. Pole cleared his throat. “Sorry Guv, I thought Nancy, I mean Ms Wu, would want to know the details.”

  “I do indeed but I think your boss is more interested in what you might know already about the murder – weapon used, witnesses, that kind of thing.”

  “Right, right,” Andy delved into his notebook again. “Got the name of the guy who found the body, he was walking
his dogs; actually, the dogs found the body. As for the weapon, we are still looking – we have a team doing a fingertip search of the area —”

  A series of calls interrupted Andy; something had been found.

  The three of them moved swiftly towards a part of the towpath covered by undergrowth and empty bottles discarded thoughtlessly. An officer was flashing his torch in the direction of a piece of metal that shone in the light, his long stick pulling back branches to keep it in sight.

  “It’s a large knife,” Andy said flashing his own light on it. “And there is a lot of blood on it.”

  Nancy moved closer but said nothing.

  “OK, well done: bag it, send it to the lab – you know the drill,” Pole said, moving away to look in the opposite direction. “Forensics have arrived – Yvonne.” Pole waved, relieved.

  Nancy moved closer to the bush and borrowed Andy’s torch. She ran the beam up and down the part of the weapon that was visible. Nancy gave Andy his torch back. “Is it a knife?”

  Pole joined her and for a moment the pronounced features of his face in the shadows looked grotesque. “Let’s see what forensics has to say. You remember Yvonne, don’t you?”

  Nancy smiled “Absolutely. No one would forget Yvonne.”

  “Come on, what’s on that great mind of yours?” Pole asked before they reached the team in white protective overalls waiting for them at the bottom of the canal steps.

  “It’s not a large knife, Jonathan. I think it’s a short sword, probably antique by the look of the decorations I saw on the hilt. And I think I have seen something very similar once before.”

  * * *

  The laptop was still open on his coffee table. Brett cast an eye towards the ornate XVII century French clock sitting on the fireplace mantelpiece – it was gone 1am. He had almost finished the report he was writing for his minder. MI6-Steve had been clear: a report every time he met The Sheik. Brett looked at his empty whisky glass, hesitated then shrugged. He only had a few words to add. A final glass of the amber liquid would do no harm. He stood up, walked to the small bar absent-mindedly swinging the elegant tumbler from the tip of his fingers. He ran his hand over a stylish bottle. His lips arched in the type of smile he had not had for a long while. The unexpected outcome of dealing with the requests of his latest client was the ridiculously large sums of money he was prepared to pay. Brett opened the bottle and poured a generous measure into the thick crystal glass, enough to appreciate it, but not enough to be called greedy. At £2,500 a bottle, this forty-year-old Highland Park had to be savoured.