Chapter Fifty
The cold and sleet of London was a far cry from the temperate climate of Capri, but Rex O’Neill was too excited to feel the slightest chill as he hurried from the taxi to the gate of his home in Belgrave Gardens, St John’s Wood. He carried his bags up the little footpath and paused at the front door to set down his luggage and rummage in his pocket for the key. He’d been smiling to himself all the way from Heathrow at the thought of seeing Megan again, and imagining her happiness at his unexpected return and the prospect of spending Christmas together.
‘You’re back so soon?’ she’d say, flying into his arms. ‘Why didn’t you call? I’d have prepared something special.’
‘I wanted to surprise you, darling,’ he’d chuckle as he held her and ran his fingers through her hair. And then he’d reveal his next surprise: that he wouldn’t be going away again to Europe, but would be staying right here in London from now on. Megan would be full of questions but knew not to probe too deeply into his work affairs. All he’d tell her was that he’d had enough of that job and had asked for a reassignment, which had been granted immediately, with permission to come straight home. He’d mention nothing of the situation he’d left behind.
He pictured the glow of delight in her eyes when he told her the news. He’d squeeze her tight and kiss her and swear that he’d never leave her on her own again. Then, if she was feeling all right and not too tired, he’d take her out for an expensive dinner at their favourite restaurant, a great little Armenian place in Soho.
O’Neill opened the front door and stepped into the hallway, elated to be home again. He dumped his luggage, took off his coat and hung it on the hook. ‘Megan! It’s me!’ There was no reply, but it was a large apartment and she probably hadn’t heard him. ‘Megan?’ he called again as he wandered through to the reception rooms. ‘Megan, darling? Guess what! I’m back!’
Silence in the apartment. Maybe she’d gone out, he thought as he pushed open the living room door.
She was sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room, looking up at him in horror.
‘Megan?’ he said, startled. His first thought was that something had happened, that she’d lost the baby, that there’d been a death in the family. ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ he said, stepping into the room.
‘Hello, Rex,’ said a voice that he’d never wanted to hear again. He wheeled round.
Penrose Lucas was standing behind the living room door. He was wearing a long tweed coat and shiny shoes. The Coonan pistol hung loosely from his hand.
O’Neill boggled at him, anger quickly gaining ground over the initial shock. ‘What are you doing in my home?’
‘You left Capri in such a tearing hurry,’ Penrose said. ‘I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Nice little place you have here, by the way. So pleased to meet your wife at last.’
O’Neill glanced at the gun. ‘I’ve been reassigned,’ he blurted. ‘It wasn’t my decision.’
Penrose reached into his left coat pocket and took out a tiny electronic device. ‘You see, Rex, I trust no-one. That way I’m never disappointed when they betray me.’
‘Betray you?’ O’Neill burst out. ‘What are you talking about?’
Penrose tutted and shook his head, then activated the electronic device. O’Neill closed his eyes and went cold as he heard the metallic playback of his own voice over the miniature speaker. It was the call he’d made to London just hours earlier, reporting his boss to the overlords at the Trimble Group. Words like ‘insane’ and ‘psychopathic’ rang out horribly loud and clear, shooting through O’Neill’s brain like bullets of ice.
Megan was rooted to the chair, terrified to move and glancing from the gun to her husband and back again. Her eyes were imploring and full of tears.
Penrose switched the machine off. He paced around the room, toying with the pistol. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment, Rex. I’ve known from the start that you disapproved of my plans. The simple fact of the matter is that you were unsuited to my team all along. And if you think this foolish attempt at denunciation will have the slightest effect, you’re sadly mistaken. The Trimble Group are behind me every step of the way. Nothing will change. My plans are destined to be realised, don’t you see?’
Any other time, O’Neill would have let out a scornful laugh at such crazy talk. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. He could barely breathe. His mind was filled with the fresh memory of what Penrose had done to the prostitute. He had to do something. He didn’t even care if he got shot. He had to stop this madman from harming Megan.
Penrose stopped pacing and peered at his former assistant with the look of a schoolmaster forced against his better nature to mete out punishment to a wayward pupil. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Rex, that I wouldn’t let anybody stand in my way? You should have listened.’
He snapped his fingers. Three more men walked into the room. Megan let out a whimper. O’Neill’s blood turned a degree colder as he recognised the men. Suggs, Doyle and Prosser, three of Steve Cutter’s brutes whom Penrose had adopted as his personal bodyguards, professional hardmen and bone breakers who never had a thought of their own and would do anything for another cash handout from their favourite employer.
‘I can call the Trimble Group again,’ O’Neill said. ‘I can tell them I made a mistake. Explain that there’s been some misunderstanding. We can work this out. Really, we can.’
‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ Penrose replied. ‘What matters is your betrayal. Treachery isn’t something you can undo, Rex. There is no going back.’
‘What are you going to do?’ O’Neill quavered.
At a nod from Penrose, the three bodyguards closed in a circle around O’Neill and Megan. Doyle took hold of her arm and wrenched her roughly to her feet. She let out a scream of fear. Suggs and Prosser grabbed O’Neill.
‘Leave her out of this,’ O’Neill implored. ‘Please. I beg you, Penrose. I’ll give you everything I have.’
‘Oh, I know you will,’ Penrose said, then waved to his men. ‘Take them into the dining room.’ The bodyguards obeyed instantly without a word, and began marching their captives towards a closed door. Megan twisted and struggled in Doyle’s grip. He lashed out with a muscular arm and backhanded her across the face. She sagged to the floor, moaning.
‘She’s pregnant!’ O’Neill cried out, fighting to get free so that he could run to his wife’s aid. ‘For God’s sake! Have pity!’
Penrose flinched at the word. ‘For God’s sake? You’d appeal to him, would you, Rex? You want to believe in him? You think he’s going to send down a miracle to save you now?’
‘Please, Penrose!’
Suggs kicked open the dining room door. O’Neill felt the air leave his body as he saw what lay beyond the doorway. The dining room was no longer the same room in which he and Megan had shared so many happy meals and had looked forward to sharing many more. The table was gone, and so were the chairs and the antique sideboard. The floor was covered with thick, black, shiny plastic sheeting. The walls, windows and ceiling were draped completely over with the same material, stapled firmly into place. A pair of portable tool chests sat in the corner by the door.
But what threatened to send Rex O’Neill’s mind over the edge was the sight of the crude wooden frame that had been erected in the middle of the room, rising almost to the ceiling. Its top beam was fitted with four steel rings, each one of which had a length of chain passed through it. The ends of the chains dangled midway above the black floor, each attached to an iron manacle.
‘No!’ O’Neill screamed, and fought with all his might against the powerful grip of Suggs and Prosser. They were much too strong for him, and he could do nothing to resist as they dragged him into the room. The plastic sheeting crackled underfoot. He collapsed to his knees and they dragged him towards the wooden frame. Megan wasn’t screaming any longer. She staggered behind Doyle as if in a trance, her eyes staring and her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
Penrose entered the room last, and leaned against the doorway. At his signal, Rex O’Neill and his wife were hauled up to the wooden frame and their wrists were tightly manacled above their heads. Prosser and Doyle each grabbed the free ends of a pair of chains and heaved downwards, hoisting their victims into the air, dangling from their wrists. Megan hung limply, virtually catatonic with dread. Her husband was thrashing and kicking like a captured animal. The ends of the chains were secured to bolts in the wooden frame, holding them in place. Prosser spat on his hands and rubbed his palms together.
