‘Hello, Martin,’ says a calm voice with a familiar American twang. ‘And yes. It’s a gun.’
Fear fetches up from somewhere deep inside and flows through him, like ice water injected into his bloodstream. ‘Hello,’ he says, trying to sound in control, knowing he controls nothing. He looks at Titus. A deep vertical crease has carved itself into the other man’s forehead, making him appear more concerned than scared as he watches the man with the gun.
‘I’m not going to shoot you, Martin. Not unless I have to.’ The gun barrel leaves his neck, moves to his back. Judging by the shifting of Titus’s gaze, the assailant has stepped back and to one side. ‘Now, Martin, very slowly and very deliberately, please take out your phone and place it on the floor.’
Martin does as he is told.
‘Stamp on it. Smash it.’
‘Why?’
An explosion sounds in Martin’s ear—the gun firing. Plaster falls from Sir Talbot’s no longer pristine ceiling. ‘Now.’
Martin does what he’s told, moving slowly and deliberately off the rug, placing the phone on the oiled floorboards and stomping it into oblivion. He wonders if Yev’s tracking app is restricted to real time or if it records past movements, so that at some point the computer technician will be able to work out his location.
‘Good. Now, please take a seat. There, next to Torbett junior.’
There is a chair next to Titus, another carver, waiting for him. Titus nods to him, urging compliance. Martin keeps his hands aloft, a sign of acquiescence, and walks to the chair, turns around and sits down. He looks up at the man with the gun: Harry Sweetwater. The aviation glasses are gone; there are laugh lines around the soft brown eyes, setting off a face shaped by conviviality. Now the eyes speak of intelligence, purpose and violence.
‘Hello, Harry,’ says Martin, unsure if this pleasant face could really belong to a mobster and killer.
The armed man turns to the judge, who is steadying himself against the doorjamb. ‘Now, Sir Talbot, do the honours once more, will you, please? Tie his arms to the chair. Nice and tight. I’ll be checking.’
The judge shuffles forward, straps Martin’s wrists to the wooden chair arms with thin plastic cable ties.
‘And his ankles. To the chair legs.’
It takes time. The judge is old. He lowers himself to his hands and knees, is forced to crawl to Martin, to wind the cable ties around his ankles and the chair legs.
‘Sorry,’ says Martin.
‘Not as sorry as I am, son,’ says the former judge. By the time he’s finished and levered himself back upright, he’s wheezing.
‘Thank you, Sir Talbot. You can sit down now. There. In your chair,’ says Sweetwater, waving his gun. ‘I’m not going to restrain you, but if you try to stand, I will hit you with my gun. Very hard. If you persist, I will shoot you. Understood?’
The old man nods, his eyes flaring with indignation and contempt, but the ramrod mind is not about to slip. He’ll do nothing to provoke the gunman.
Sweetwater has moved across in front of the fireplace opposite the bay window, through which he can see the front drive and anyone approaching the house. The gunman has Titus and Martin to his left: Titus closer to him, Martin closer to the window. To Sweetwater’s right is Sir Talbot, glaring defiantly from his armchair. The mobster makes sure everything is to his liking before he addresses Martin. ‘Now you are here, we can start. We play this right and we all leave alive. I have no wish to hurt anyone, let alone kill them. But that depends on you. Or, more precisely, it relies on Mr Torbett here.’ He gestures towards Titus.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ asks Titus, an attempt at assertiveness that fails to disguise the underlying fear and trepidation in his voice.
‘I am going to disappear,’ says Sweetwater. ‘You will never see me again, never hear from me. Nor will anyone else. But before I go, I’m going to set the record straight. That’s your job, Martin. For some reason, you have become the note taker of this cluster-fuck, the journalist of record. You and that suckhole Defoe. This is for your benefit and that of your readers. So you hear it, you remember it, later you write it.’
‘If you untie one of my hands, I can take shorthand,’ says Martin.
‘And if I untie Titus’s legs, he can dance the light fandango.’ Sweetwater shakes his head, as if he’s being forced to work with amateurs. ‘Here’s how it works. I’m going to ask questions. Titus is going to answer them. Once I am done, perhaps you can ask him some yourself. Then, when we’re finished, I’m going to leave. By the time the judge unties you and phones the police, I’ll be gone. Agreed?’
Martin frowns. ‘I guess so,’ he says, uncertainty in his voice.
‘There is one catch, however,’ says Sweetwater. He’s smiling, and for a moment Martin catches something in the gunman’s eyes, something malicious; he’s enjoying their distress. Too late he remembers his hostile environment training, the instruction not to make eye contact during a hostage situation. Easy for them to say. Sweetwater continues. ‘Each time Titus here answers a question untruthfully, I am going to slice his father.’ He reaches into his coat pocket with his free hand and withdraws a flick knife. He activates its trigger and with a threatening snap a ten-centimetre blade flashes forth from the handle, catching
