Danny dialled his number. He put his ear to the phone, hoping to hear Holt’s familiar voice. Even leaving a message would be OK.
But the line beeped in a way Danny hadn’t heard it beep before and then a woman’s voice started babbling Russian at him. Danny listened, hoping for some miracle. But there was nothing.
Danny tried Holt again.
Silence.
Then he tried it with the UK dialling code. Maybe he needed to do that.
Nothing again.
Now Danny had only one option. To stay in the cathedral. There was no way he would dare go out on the street again.
It was getting dark. It looked like this was where he was going to spend the night.
WEDNESDAY
THE LONGEST NIGHT
It was dark and – if Danny was honest with himself – scary in the cathedral. He had hunkered down. No security guard had see him behind the tomb. He was definitely safe. So long as there weren’t any ghosts.
Danny frowned. He had enough to cope with – security guards, private armies, homicidal ex-football chairmen and spies – without imagining ghosts.
The cathedral was eerie. But Danny tried not to think about it. About the fact that he was alone in a centuries-old building. About the fact that he was lying metres away from the dead body in the tomb. About the men he believed would be out there, looking for him, maybe even waiting for him.
Knowing that he was here for the night, Danny got as comfortable as he could, using his rolled-up jacket for a pillow. It was still dark. Very dark. He was exhausted – and soon fell asleep.
Danny woke some hours later, his phone buzzing.
He had two texts. One from Charlotte. One from his sister.
He surprised himself by opening the one from his sister first.
Hey runt – how’s it going? Hope England win 2morrow. Not. Em xxx
Danny rested his head on his jacket and smiled. What was that all about? This was as close his sister could get to being nice. He paused before looking at Charlotte’s text. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling about his sister. But it was something like missing her.
Danny grimaced and opened Charlotte’s text:
D. Text me now. RU ok? Need to hear from U. C xxxxxx
Danny texted back immediately:
Am fine. Sleeping in a cathedral. V nice. Don’t worry. I’ll txt a.m. from stadium. D xxxxxx
Then Danny heard what he thought were footsteps. He opened his eyes and lifted his head very slightly above the rim of the tomb. Had he given himself away somehow by texting?
Nobody there.
It was 3 a.m. Who would be looking round the cathedral now? There was barely any light coming in through the entrance.
No one. Not even Jesus’s face gazing down at him.
He must be hearing things.
The guards had locked the doors at 5 p.m. All of them slamming like they were never going to be opened again. Leaving Danny in the cathedral alone, he was sure.
More footsteps. Danny looked again.
No one.
Danny was terrified. He was alone in a strange church in a strange city. He was possibly being hunted down by the private army of a billionaire with a reputation for murder and his only friend in the city was too busy to help him and oblivious to where he was. And now he was hearing things. And he was hungry. And thirsty.
He looked over the top of the tomb.
Nothing.
Nobody.
They can’t have been footsteps, he decided.
He settled back to rest – aware he’d probably not get any more sleep.
‘Daaaaa-nnyyyyy?’
Danny woke.
Where was he?
Then he remembered. Of course, how could he forget: behind a tomb in a cathedral in the middle of the night! He was confused. And scared.
Had he really heard someone call his name?
He waited. Nothing more. He must have dreamed it.
‘Daaaaa-nnyyyyyy.’
Danny stopped breathing. Utter terror. Was it whoever had been making the footsteps? Or was it the men in black? They were the only ones who might know his name. Or was it… Sir Richard? Come for revenge. And whoever it was, why were they doing it at four – was it? – in the morning?
Danny looked at his watch. It was eleven. Eleven a.m.! Where had the time gone? It wasn’t the middle of the night. Light was flooding the cathedral, with Jesus fully illuminated gazing down at him.
He kept his head low, but peeped over the side of the tomb.
He saw the figure of a man standing alone in the entrance, light streaming in through the door behind him.
The man put his hands to his mouth and called again. ‘Daaaaa-nny!’
It was Holt. Definitely Holt.
Danny paused for a second. How had Holt found him? Had someone seen him and told Holt? No. Who would do that? For a second the idea that Holt wasn’t all he seemed flashed into Danny’s mind. The idea that he was a double agent, that he was involved with the attacks on the players – and with Sir Richard. Could it be possible? Was that how he’d found him?
Danny shook his head. No way. That just wasn’t possible. His gut feeling was that he was an idiot to think such things. He was just being paranoid. He jumped up from behind the tomb just as Holt was making to leave.
‘Anton?’ Danny called.
Holt turned to him. Danny saw his face open out into a smile, a genuine pleased-to-see-you smile.
There was no way he was corrupt. How could he have thought that?
‘Come on,’ Holt said, grabbing Danny’s arm, leading him roughly out of the cathedral.
‘What?’
‘Out of here. I’ve got a car. A hire car. It’s round the back of the cathedral.’
Holt had broken into a quick walk.
Danny ran alongside him.
‘Don’t run,’ Holt hissed. ‘Don’t draw attention.’ Holt glanced up at the Kremlin. ‘Something’s going on.’
‘How do you know something’s going on?’ Danny said, breathless – and still stiff, after a night on a stone floor.
‘You disappeared. You’re nosy. I know you’re up to something. And you look
