Louise Voss & Mark Edwards 3-Book Thriller Collection: Catch Your Death, All Fall Down, Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards
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and Kate, a woman with whom, he realised, he was falling in love.
And who knew? If revenge needed to be taken for what happened to Stephen, at least he now had the means with which to take it.
Sampson held Kate’s discarded phone in his palm, stroking the screen with his thumb. He navigated to the phone’s photo album and flicked through the pictures. Most of them were of the brat, but among them was a photo of Kate, slightly blurry, probably taken by the kid. She was smiling and leaning forward towards the lens, revealing the shadow of her cleavage. He stared at the photo for ten seconds, running his tongue over his dry lips, then put it into his pocket.
The stillness around him was absolute, the dark spaces between the trees seemed to beckon to him. When all this was over, he decided, he was going to go fishing. Head up to somewhere remote, like the Highlands of Scotland, and camp out beside a loch. He had done it before, spending whole days watching the still, flat surface of the water, waiting for the fish to fall into his trap; then the one-sided fight. There was something elementally satisfying in watching the fish flap and gasp for breath on the shore, before finally lying still.
The most content he’d ever been was when he lived at the CRU, close to nature – even if many of the things going on in that place were far from natural. After the fire had destroyed it, he’d felt an unfamiliar emotion: an ache of regret. It soon faded, though, replaced by the familiar flatness of his emotional landscape.
Today there was a weird feeling beneath his skin, a crawling unease. He had done his job badly – but there was more to it than that. He’d felt it for several days, since he’d heard that she was back in the country, and seen her dash across a CCTV screen.
When he had aimed at Wilson, he’d hesitated a moment too long. Not because he’d had second thoughts about killing him. Oh no. It was because he’d wanted to savour it, like a wine enthusiast taking a moment after opening a vintage bottle. And by screwing up in this way – which was so unlike him; usually, he was like a machine, a Terminator – he’d given the old lady time to get in his way. He had done something he should never have done – let emotion influence his actions.
As soon as he got back in the car, his thoughts were interrupted by the rude chirrup of a mobile. He first glanced at Kate’s phone, but the ringing was coming from one of his other mobiles.
He picked up, to hear Gaunt’s familiar voice. ‘What the hell happened today? I’m getting reports that Jean Bainbridge is dead. Please don’t tell me that was anything to do with you.’
Sampson explained what had happened.
The doctor exhaled. ‘You fucked up.’
Sampson clenched his teeth until his jaw muscles trembled.
‘You’d better get out of the area, quickly.’
‘What the fuck do you think I’m doing?’
Gaunt’s voice dropped from cold to Arctic. ‘Don’t use that tone with me. Remember who you’re talking to.’
Sampson drew in a deep breath and held it, fighting the urge to tell the doctor what he thought of him, allowing himself a satisfying fantasy in which he snapped Gaunt’s scrawny neck: grip and twist, and let go. The image calmed him.
‘Call me when you’re somewhere safe and we’ll talk,’ the doctor said. ‘In the great scheme of things, the old woman’s death isn’t important. I just don’t want anything to get in our way at this critical moment.’
‘I know that.’
‘Good. Don’t forget it. I still need you to deal with Maddox and Wilson.’
Sampson drove on, north out of the forest towards Stoke-on-Trent, and on into Hanley, the city’s central shopping area. He parked outside a supermarket, went in and bought some sandwiches and cigarettes, then retreated to the haven of his car.
He ate the sandwiches and picked up Kate’s phone. It was a clamshell phone; he flicked it open and the screen sprang to life. She hadn’t personalised it with a photo or stupid piece of wallpaper. He liked that, because he despised childishness. He bet she wouldn’t have a musical ringtone either. Sampson had been forced to endure a train journey a year ago and by the end of the journey had heard every piece of shit in the Top Forty. There was this fuckwitted teenage boy sitting near him, one of only a few passengers in the carriage, who spent the entire journey fiddling with his phone, making it bleep and chirrup, ringing his mates and talking bollocks from beneath his hoodie. Sampson had leaned over and asked him to switch it off, to be quiet, and the boy had told him to fuck off.
A few minutes later the boy had got up to visit the toilet. Sampson followed him. First, he smashed the boy’s phone, then made him eat it, piece by piece, stuffing the plastic shards into his mouth and telling him to chew. The boy cried, snot poured from his nose, he wet his pants. Sampson pulled off the boy’s belt, wrapped it around his throat and tied him to the light fitting, getting off at the next station and walking calmly away. Boy hangs himself in train toilet. What a tragedy.
No, Kate wouldn’t have an irritating musical ringtone.
He flicked through the phone’s menu and discovered how to listen to Kate’s voicemail.
You have five new messages.
The first one was from an American man:
‘Kate? It’s me. Where the hell are you? I’ve been stood here like an idiot waiting for you and Jack and every other goddamn person has gotten off your flight, so what’s going on? If you’re held up, call me. Or maybe you’re trying to piss me off.’
Second message: ‘You bitch. You’re still in the UK, aren’t you. With my son. You think you can get away with it, huh? Huh? I’m coming to get you. I want my son back.’
In the third message, the man sounded a little more controlled.
‘Kate. I’m in England. Listen, I just want to talk to you, okay? We can sort things out, amicably. I know things have been difficult recently but surely this . . . what you’ve done is a little drastic, wouldn’t you say? Call me, please. I want to talk to you.’
In the fourth message, the anger was back. Sampson had to hold the phone away from his ear as the caller sprayed distorted threats about what he was going to do to her when he caught up with her.
‘. . . and once I’ve got him back I’ll do everything I can to make sure you never see Jack again.’
So, Sampson thought, this was the father of Kate’s boy, the boy he had seen on the hotel’s CCTV. And it was also pretty clear that Kate had snatched the boy. Naughty naughty. He admired her spirit as much as he hated hearing this Yank scream threats at her. What a loser. Just accept it, he thought. She’s better than you. And why make so much fuss over a kid, anyway? He ought to be pleased that Kate had taken the brat off his hands.
But where was the kid now? He definitely hadn’t been with Kate and Wilson when he had shot the old bat. He’d had a niggling feeling that something was missing at the time, and now he realised what it was.
Fifth message: ‘Hi sis, it’s me. I guess you must have your phone switched off. Are you and Paul taking advantage of the fact that I’ve taken Jack off your hands, eh? Lucky you. Anyway, I was only ringing to find out how everything’s going. I’m curious . . . Jack’s fine, having great fun – they’re all on the PlayStation at the moment. He said to tell you that Billy is missing you. Um . . . that’s it. Bye.’
Sampson felt a little thrill run through him. The kid was with Kate’s sister. He switched the phone into camera mode and flicked through the photos as he pondered what to do next. They were all of Jack, smiling at the camera, playing in the snow, sleeping, waving against the London backdrop.
Cute. Very cute.
After checking the caller logs, he programmed Miranda’s number into his own phone, then called