If Kalinski had been Pinocchio, he’d have had my fucking eye out. This bloke could bullshit for England.
I got up from the table. ‘I’d better give Krysy boy something to eat.’
Kalinski glared at me. ‘Fuck that, let him starve.’
‘I tried him this morning,’ said Joe, ‘and he told me to fuck off. So I did. We’re releasing him Sunday morning. If he wants to lose weight in the meantime, let him. He’s had some water so he won’t die.’
‘He’s been here nearly two days and he hasn’t touched a thing. I’ll just check on him.’
‘You just want a chance to give him another kicking,’ said Joe, with something close to a smile.
Which was partly true, I did. Krys, like Johnny, had been a pain in the arse from the start. When we’d dragged him out of the van and into the farmhouse on the first night, he’d gone absolutely apeshit, kicking like a donkey and screaming all sorts of uncalled-for insults. Me and Kalinski had been forced to give him the beating of his life, just rewards for past wrongs, Kalinski taking particular pleasure in stamping repeatedly on his bollocks until Joe pulled us both off, fearful we’d kill him. When I’d tried to feed him the following morning, he’d spat in my face and told me I was a dead man, which had been a pretty fucking stupid move on his part and had cost him a broken nose, but he still resisted any effort at co-operation and in those increasingly rare moments when his gag was removed he was full of bluster and threats. In the end, I had no choice but to award him a grudging respect. He was a champion arsehole and about as pleasant as a skidmark, but he was no coward. It made me think, too, that this was a much better way of dealing with him than shooting him outright. This way we broke him down, humiliated him, but we didn’t kill him in cold blood. I’m not a bad lad, to be honest with you, and I don’t think I’m capable of just executing someone outright without them having a chance to fight back. Plus, this way we made money out of it, so it seemed to me to be a pretty decent sort of revenge all round, really.
‘At the moment, Joe, he’s the most valuable thing we’ve got and it’s in all our interests to keep him that way. At least if we give him back alive, one day the Holtzes’ll forget about what happened. If he turns up dead, we’ll have them on our backs for ever.’ I picked up a couple of pieces of bread from the kitchen top. ‘Look, I’m not exactly giving him the lavish stuff.’
I went out of the room, through the hallway, and over to the door under the stairs that led down to the cellar. I unlocked it, switched on the light, and walked slowly down the wooden steps.
Krys was strapped to a chair which was in turn secured to the bare brick wall. He was wearing a shirt and piss-stained trousers with nothing on his feet. He had a black blindfold round his eyes and masking tape securing his mouth, and his face was covered in bruises. Dried blood had formed a crusty trail running from his nostrils, where I’d delivered the nose-breaking blow, down to his neck. Another badly healed cut wound its way across his forehead. Basically, he looked a mess.
His head turned as he heard my approach. I stopped and picked up a jug of water, filled a dirty cup, then leant over and pulled the masking tape away from his mouth. Usually this was the cue for a burst of swearing, but instead he just coughed and cleared his throat. ‘I think some of my ribs are broken,’ he said quietly, ‘and I need to change these trousers.’
‘If you’re looking for sympathy, you’ve come to the wrong place,’ I told him. ‘Now, open your mouth, I’m going to feed you some bread.’
Krys did as he was told and I ripped off bitesized pieces and placed them in his mouth. He chewed hungrily and finished off both slices quickly. ‘Have you got any more?’
‘That’s your lot. Now, I’m going to give you some water.’ I put the cup to his mouth and held it there. He gulped it down, drinking about half of it before turning his head away.
I put the cup back down by the jug and thought that I could almost feel sorry for Krys Holtz, tied up and stewing in his own urine. But then I thought of what he’d done to Elaine, and to Kalinski’s brother, and that soon put a stop to it. What he was going through now was certainly no less than he deserved, and far more temporary.
‘I’ve got money,’ said Krys. ‘Plenty of it. If you help me get out of here, I’ll make it more than worth your while. How much do you want?’
‘Sorry, Krys, no can do.’
‘A hundred grand, hundred and fifty. I could get that for you. Honest.’ His voice had suddenly taken on a whining quality which didn’t improve my opinion of him.
‘We’re going to be picking up a lot more off your old man tomorrow.’
‘He’ll kill you, you know.’ This time his voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. He believed what he was saying. ‘It doesn’t matter where you hide. He’ll find you and he’ll kill you.’ I started to replace the masking tape and Krys’s tone immediately changed. ‘Please change these trousers. Please.’
I ignored his request and finished what I was doing. Krys struggled violently in the seat for a few moments until his strength deserted him. ‘In the morning,’ I told him. ‘We’ll change them in the morning.’
Then, wondering if I really was being too sadistic, I turned and walked back up the steps, switching off the light when I reached the top.
Yesterday
Iversson
I got the call at 6.26 p.m. ‘He’s here,’ growled Kalinski into the phone. ‘Just pulled in now. Driving a matt- black Merc.’
‘Does it look like he’s alone?’
‘I can’t see anyone else.’
‘No one’s pulled in behind him or anything?’
‘No one. He’s definitely on his own.’
‘All right. I’ll talk to you shortly.’
I rang off and pulled the cap down over my head. It was raining hard again, and you had to think the gods were smiling on us as far as the weather was concerned. Usually there were plenty of walkers in Epping Forest, the only serious stretch of woodland this close to London, but tonight I had the feeling that most would be staying away. Tugger and I had taken up position at the edge of the treeline looking down across a slightly inclined grass clearing about a hundred yards long and fifty wide. It led down to more woodland from which Stefan Holtz would emerge, once we guided him to the spot. There was no one else in the vicinity that we’d seen, and I was confident the transaction could be made without fuss.
Tugger sat on a thick branch, his feet resting on a log, an M-16 in his hands. Purely precautionary, but always worth keeping, just in case. ‘He’s there, then?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s there.’ I pressed the button to dial Holtz’s mobile and waited while it rang.
He answered with an angry grunt.
‘Mr Holtz, I’m glad you made it.’
‘Where’s my son?’
‘He’s safe and he’s well.’
‘How do I know that?’
‘Listen to this.’
I flicked on the short tape we’d got Krys to make that morning in exchange for changing his trousers and allowing him to use the toilet in privacy. It was short and to the point: he gave the date and the time, and said that he was OK and was being treated well. He hadn’t wanted to add this last bit but I’d suggested that he ought to unless he wanted Kalinski to stamp on his bollocks again. Krys might have been no coward but he was no fool either, and had done what he’d been told.
I switched off the tape. ‘Satisfied?’
‘He’d fucking better be all right.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Holtz,’ I told him coldly. ‘You really haven’t got much of a bargaining position. Now, have you got the money?’ Holtz grunted that he had. ‘Good. Now, when we finish this conversation, drive out of the car park and turn right, crossing the M25.’ I then gave him a short set of further instructions, about where he should turn off the main road and how he should proceed from there. ‘When you get to the sign that says “No Tipping”, stop and park up the car on the bank. That whole journey should take you fifteen minutes. I’ll call you then. Let me
