the decapitated head of a Lithuanian girl had been left in his car. Along with a note, signed ‘N’, which Brady desperately wanted to believe was representative of the Nietzschean Brotherhood – the Dabkunas brothers’ ring with the ‘N’ emblem was the most palatable explanation.
But what was haunting Brady was the glaring possibility that the ‘N’ could mean ‘Nick.’ After all, that was how he always signed any correspondence between them. Whether it was an email or a text, Nick always signed it with an ‘N’. Exactly as he had signed the handwritten note delivered to the desk sergeant, Turner.
He heard a car pull up and looked over at the Grand. Two black Mercedes were there with their engines idling, awaiting instruction. In between them was a black, ostentatious Russian limousine with diplomat’s plates. Brady had never seen its kind before, but he knew it would have a reserved power beneath its bonnet.
Brady watched as the front and rear doors of both the Mercedes opened with quiet precision and eight black-suited, ex-militia killers got out.
A second later, the driver of the limousine got out and looked around. With a single nod he dispersed the eight others into a well rehearsed, tried and tested octagon of protection. Another look around and the driver walked over and opened the rear door of the limousine to let out the Ambassador. Brady noted that he was speaking into a hidden microphone. The driver, sunglasses on, regardless of the dusk settling in, suddenly stopped talking. He gave the Ambassador a brief nod of assurance, and then stood back.
Brady could see the hint of a shoulder holster under the driver’s jacket as he stepped back from the limousine. Ex-military, assumed Brady. He had that look about him. The black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie didn’t disguise the fact that his main job was as a bodyguard; the chauffeuring was a front. Throw into the mix his muscular, taut, 6?4? build and the set jaw and determined, distrustful expression and there was proof enough. Without adding the bullet-hole scar on his cheek and the blonde, side-parted hair which revealed an earpiece. He was the central player and around him, strategically placed, were his team. No doubt his old comrades in war. It was clear he would have always been in charge; the highest ranking soldier. He wouldn’t trust anyone.
Brady watched as the Ambassador got out. Alert, lean, with short, well-groomed sandy hair. His dark blue, hand-tailored suit fitted his 5?10? frame perfectly. His moderately handsome face was tanned, accentuating his bright blue eyes. Overall he had the appearance of a man who had money – lots of it. Enough money not to have to worry about anything in life. Yet, Brady couldn’t help noticing that the Ambassador, for all his power and money, looked troubled. It was etched across his face. He merely nodded at his driver, distracted it seemed by what lay ahead. His bright blue eyes looked up at the elegant entrance of the Grand Hotel where Brady realised Mayor Macmillan was now standing, proud and arrogant, with other councillors, waiting to greet him. Brady noticed that Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was one of the official dignitaries, dressed in his braided uniform ready to welcome the Lithuanian Ambassador.
Brady waited. Expecting the Dabkunas brothers to get out of the limousine. Accompanied by Nick.
It didn’t happen.
The Ambassador, dignified and now composed, walked up the wide, sandstone steps towards his newfound business partner, Mayor Macmillan. Behind him, his driver shadowed his every move.
Brady watched them disappear into the hotel reception area.
Five minutes later he could see Mayor Macmillan standing at the window with the Lithuanian Ambassador by his side. Each had a tumbler in their hand as they seemingly discussed the view. But Brady knew better than that. It would be business they were discussing. Or at least the business front they would be using for their illegal imports.
Brady checked his phone. It was now 10:37pm.
He was expecting the Ambassador and his driver to be leaving soon. He could make out official-looking figures around in the bar. The dinner presumably over, the guests were now enjoying drinks. Claudia being one of them, mused Brady.
He lit the cigarette he had rolled, not wanting to count how many he had smoked while he had been sat waiting.
What for exactly, he was unclear of now. The Dabkunas brothers hadn’t showed. Neither had Nick. He presumed the Ambassador would be returning to his hotel, along with his heavily armed entourage.
Maybe Rubenfeld had got it wrong?
But he would have been surprised if he had: Rubenfeld’s contacts had never let him down. In as much as Rubenfeld had never let Brady down.
His phone suddenly rang.
Brady picked it up and answered it.
‘Yeah?’
He realised his heart was racing.
‘Jack?’ It was DS Tom Harvey’s voice.
Brady had assigned Harvey and his partner, DC Kodovesky, the job of stalking out the Hole. He needed Ronnie Macmillan’s every move monitored on the off-chance it would led them to Nicoletta.
‘What is it, Tom?’
‘Ronnie Macmillan’s on the move. Accompanied by his two suits. They returned about an hour ago to his club. Looked as if they went upstairs. Lights went on and what not. Then they left the club and got into a black Jag. Both suits in the front and Macmillan in the back.’
‘Anyone with him in the back?’ questioned Brady, thinking of Nicoletta.
He couldn’t rid himself of the image of what had happened to her friend, Edita. Her punishment for talking out of turn with a punter had been rape of the most sadistic kind, and then murder.
‘Nothing, boss,’ answered Harvey.
‘Shit!’ muttered Brady.
‘But a black Mercedes van pulled up when Macmillan and his men were inside. The driver made a call and then drove round the back of the club.’
‘Go on,’ instructed Brady when Harvey paused.
‘I got out and followed. But I was too late. I didn’t see what they were picking up. All I saw was two men throw some large black bundle into the back of the van. Then they jumped in and shut the doors. The van then sat with its engine idling. I walked back to the car and that’s when Macmillan came down with his men. He got in and as he did the Mercedes transit van came out from the back of the club and Macmillan’s Jaguar took off, tailing it.’
‘Did you see the driver of the van?’ asked Brady trying his best to keep his voice level.
‘Yeah, as he drove the van around front I saw him. Looked different from the two men who were in the back of the van. But still the type you wouldn’t want to mess with, if you get my drift.’
‘Describe the driver,’ ordered Brady as he clenched and unclenched his free hand.
‘Blondish, cropped hair. Ex-military-looking sort. Three-inch, deep scar down his left cheek. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. The two other men had short, cropped hair as well but they were dark. Dark hair, eyes, skin. You know, as if they were Eastern European. You know that look I’m talking about?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ muttered Brady.
He knew all too well.
‘The driver?’ Brady began. ‘Did you get a good enough look to be able to do a photofit?’ He was hoping the answer would be a simple no.
‘Not sure … maybe,’ answered Harvey.
Brady winced. Harvey’s words feeling like a punch to his gut.
‘What about the other two Eastern European men?’
‘Yeah, got a good look at them. I’d say they’re the same men caught in footage at Newcastle Airport with Melissa Ryecroft.’
‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady, wondering why Harvey hadn’t stated that crucial piece of information first. ‘Did you get their licence plates?’ he asked, trying to control the frustration in his voice.
‘Kodovesky did,’ answered Harvey. ‘We’ve already radioed them in to see what comes up.’
‘That’s something.’
He looked over at the Grand Hotel. It was aglow with soft lighting.
He couldn’t see the eight security guards anywhere. They were obviously doing their job, which was to
