The only thing that could have put Alastair in a better mood that night was if Tina Boyd had also been killed in the shootout back in London, which he’d now found out had resulted in the death of that psychotic hitwoman The Wraith, thereby saving Alastair both money and grief. Even so, Boyd alone was no real problem and he’d definitely find a way to deal with her later. Subtly, of course. But he’d get her.
He got everyone in the end.
It had been a wonderful evening with the Buxton-Smythes, sitting out on the veranda overlooking the wine-dark Adriatic Sea dotted with tiny islands, so characteristic of this end of the Croatian coast, while the nannies dealt with the offspring. The food had been sublime, which is usually the way when money is no object, and Ginny Buxton-Smythe had looked especially ravishing in a simple but elegant white dress that showed off her tan, and four-inch black heels. More than once Alastair had caught her giving him sneaky glances out of the corner of her eye. Naughty bitch. Clearly Piers wasn’t giving her enough of the right attention.
But of course, Ginny was totally out of bounds. Alastair had a public reputation to keep up, and fucking his friend’s wife wasn’t going to do much to help it; and anyway, there was no way he’d be able to control himself with someone like Ginny. He would just have to be brutal. She needed a good, solid beating. She deserved it.
It had now been almost a year since he’d last given full vent to his urges. That had been in Bosnia when he and Cem had tortured, raped and killed a young hiker they’d bought to order from a local crime gang over the course of an entertaining three days. He felt a pang then when he thought of Cem. They’d had some fun together.
But life always has to move on, and move on Alastair already had. He’d been corresponding via email with a representative of the same gang they’d got the hiker from last year, about the possibility of procuring him another girl. Unlike Cem, who’d been able to take the edge off his urges simply through having rough sex with prostitutes, this had never worked for Alastair (although he’d obviously tried). He needed more. He needed, in truth, to kill. Because for him it was always about the power.
It was gone midnight now and he stood alone, hands resting on the veranda balustrade, looking out to sea. The Buxton-Smythes had left, and his wife and child were in bed, as was the nanny, a large Polish woman who was older than Alastair, whom Katherine had doubtless hired to make sure he avoided temptation. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warm breeze on his face, then felt the buzz of his unofficial phone – the one he religiously kept away from his wife – in the pocket of his Givenchy shorts.
Taking it out, he saw he had a WhatsApp message from an unidentified number. He knew exactly who it would be from though, and he was right.
We have something ready for you Friday. It does not need to be returned.
He smiled. Perfect.
The hunt was back on, and it would be held in honour of Cem Kalaman. It seemed a fitting tribute.
Part Six
54
I slept well that night, waking in my poky little hotel room at 8.15, feeling groggy but refreshed. The window was open and I’d kicked off the covers in the night but the room still felt hot.
It took me a couple of seconds to remember where I was and the situation I was in. Let’s face it, my future still wasn’t looking too bright, but at least I was free, and I was reminded of the words of an old army colleague of mine who’d lost a leg to an IED in Iraq, and then gone on to suffer two bouts of cancer afterwards, all by the age of forty-five. When I’d asked him once what was the best day of his life, he’d answered: ‘Today.’
Every day you’re above ground is a good day. I’d had that belief tested to extremes during my time in prison, and I hadn’t believed it. But I believed it now.
Having said that, my new day didn’t get off to a flying start. I had to remove a cockroach the size of a swollen thumb from the bath, and when I finally got the shower to work there was no hot water, and if the state of the shower head was anything to go by it was probably giving me Legionnaires’ disease as well.
Afterwards, I got dressed in my last spare set of clean clothes, then checked the email address Tina and I shared. As she’d promised, the drafts section contained details of when Alastair Sheridan would be in Sarajevo, what he was doing, and the location of the house a few miles outside, bought apparently through a shell company, where he’d be staying. He was arriving there on Friday and would be staying for the weekend before heading back to Dubrovnik by car, a drive of approximately four hours. This gave me plenty of time.
During his time in Bosnia he would have no official British police guard, but as a politician and businessman who’d invested heavily in the country both through his hedge fund and with his own money, he was well respected enough to have a police escort both ways. He was going alone, ostensibly to hike in the hills surrounding the city, but the house he was in was isolated and far from prying eyes, and Bosnia, I knew from my own experience in organized crime, was a haven for people smuggling. If you wanted something, whatever that something was, you could probably get it there. Tina also mentioned that a
