They drove west through the City in heavy traffic and were on the M40 by mid-afternoon.
“Where are we goin’?” she’d asked him as they’d pulled out of the underground car park.
“My place.”
“Is that wise?”
“I’m sick of hotels and I could do with a change of clothes. I very much doubt Maguire’s goons are still there watching. They’ve made contact, now it’s up to me to respond.”
“I’m sorry. What a feckin’ mess.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t blame you if that’s what you’re thinking. You were right. I didn’t know what I was dealing with, but I don’t regret it. I’m glad I met you and I’m going to do everything in my power to put things right.”
She cast him a sly glance. “You said I was hot.”
He turned his head and saw her coquettish grin. “I also said you were a feisty bitch.”
“You did and all. That’s a bit harsh so it is.”
“All part of the act.”
“Yours or mine?” The grin was still there, but only for a moment. “Do you know what? I have no idea whether there is any money in that account. I only know what Eamonn told me. What if it’s all gone?”
“As soon as we get back to Milton, we’ll see if we can log on and find out. I assume Reinhardt Baer are not so stuck in the fifteenth century they don’t offer online banking.”
“Assumin’ the money’s there. Then what?”
“Then I’ll be taking you back to Ireland.”
“I’m not sure I want to go.”
“Trust me.” The speakers chirped and the centre console screen flashed a telephone icon with an unknown number. He pressed a button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”
“Jack, it’s Gavin.”
“Gavin?” He flashed a look at Caitlín, raising his eyebrows. “Gavin! How are you?”
“Fine. Do you know where Charlie is?” He sounded agitated and tense.
“Not at this precise moment.”
“I’m at your house. She said she was coming over here this morning. Her car’s here but she isn’t and she’s not answering my calls. I’ve left a dozen voicemails and texts.”
“She’s gone away for a few days.”
“Gone away? Where?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean gone away?”
“Look, I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. She’s fine. I’m going to pick her up and bring her home.”
“You spoke to her? Why won’t she speak to me? I’m worried about her!” It wasn’t the reaction he expected. He didn’t know Gavin very well, but on the rare occasions they’d met, the guy had never made a positive impression, being surly and uncommunicative. He actually sounded like he had a personality, a sensitive side, and he felt sorry for him. But there was no way he could tell him the truth.
“I don’t know Gavin, but I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon.”
“What are not telling me?”
“Nothing!”
“I know you don’t like me Jack, but that’s too bad. If you’re trying to turn her against me, it won’t work.” Gavin was full of surprises.
“I’m doing nothing of the sort. Charlie wants to be with you and that’s fine by me. I wish you all the best. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be helping you buy this house, would I?” The pause alone signalled a distant alarm bell.
“What house?” The surprise sounded genuine and Jack knew straight away it was about to get complicated. He guessed what was coming but pressed on.
“The house you and Charlie are buying together.”
“What house?” he repeated although this time his voice had risen in pitch. “We’re not buying a house. We can’t afford to buy a house. I told her. My job’s not secure and she’s about to leave hers without having another one to go to. We wouldn’t get a mortgage on a garden shed never mind a house. It’s not that one in Henley is it?”
“Yes, six-fifty.”
“Jesus!” Quite unexpectedly, he’d found something in common with Gavin; exasperation at Charlie’s behaviour. Welcome to the club mate. “Jack, this has nothing to do with me. Charlie has got it into her head we should buy her fantasy house in Henley. I tried to tell her there’s no way we can afford it and she told me you’d cover it, but I don’t want that. It’s very kind of you but if we’re going to live together, we have to stand on our own two feet. I don’t need any help from her rich daddy. Sorry.”
“Then you don’t want a home cinema system either?”
“Oh, don’t tell me…” He heard the despair. The lad had suddenly grown in his estimation. Maybe he had misjudged him. “I love Charlie even if she is a pain in the arse sometimes. And I am worried about her.”
“Don’t be Gavin. When she’s back we’ll all go out to dinner and have a chat about it. Okay?”
“Okay. Ask her to call me please? Tell her I love her.”
“Will do.” He cancelled the call and took a deep breath.
“So that was Gavin,” said Caitlín. “Didn’t sound like a git to me.” She was being provocative again and he liked it.
“I may have misjudged him.”
“That’s because you don’t know him. I’ve only known you for about ten days.”
“And what’s your judgment?”
“Pretty favourable so far. But I’m prepared to be wrong about that.”
***
They stopped at a superstore outside Oxford and while he picked up some basic provisions, she plucked some underwear and a selection of casual clothes off the racks.
It was early evening when he pulled the Ranger Rover into the drive and saw Charlie’s Mini. It was a poignant reminder, as if he needed it, that his daughter had been kidnapped by a criminal gang and was, at this very moment, somewhere in Ireland.
He thought through the chronology of events. He’d spoken to her only twenty-four hours ago, when she’d got over her panic about Gavin’s imaginary infidelity and he’d left her in buoyant frame of mind. Gavin said he’d expected her to be here and came looking when she failed to answer his calls, which means she’d been taken some time this morning. But she’d called him around one o’clock, so if she was in Ireland it had taken only three or four hours to get there, which meant, in turn, a private plane. She’d mentioned a helicopter. It was academic but it focused his mind and made him think again about summoning help.
Kidnapping was an offence the police would take extremely seriously, but if she’d been taken to Ireland, the lines of communication would be long and tortuous, and he didn’t trust the plod to handle it sensitively. He was nervous about rocking the boat when it seemed, at least for the moment, he had some sort of understanding with Maguire. In addition, Caitlín seemed resigned to handing back the funds, so that wasn’t an argument he needed to have. He had promised to get back to Maguire within twenty-four hours, so to stall much longer would just make him suspicious. He had only two objectives; get Charlie back safely and get Maguire off Caitlín’s back for good. It would also help if none of them got hurt in the process.
He dumped his bags in the kitchen and gave her a quick tour. Upstairs, he showed her into Charlie’s room. “She hasn’t slept here for months. I’m in the spare room opposite.”
“What’s in there?” she said, pointing to a set of double doors at the end of the landing.
“That’s the master bedroom. I haven’t used it since Natalie died. I’ll get on with dinner,” he said, not wishing to elaborate. “Take your time, have a shower if you want. Make yourself at home.”
He opened a bottle and busied himself in the kitchen preparing dinner, periodically checking emails on the laptop, but one from Henry about Charlie’s house and another from Clive about his, had no relevance in the circumstances. He couldn’t get Charlie out of his mind and didn’t want to. Gavin was right. She was a pain in the arse most of the time, but her father could do better as well. The parallels with Natalie were alarming, yet understandable. He needed to get his head out of the sand and wake up to the signs.
Caitlín reappeared quicker than expected, clutching the padded envelope she’d retrieved from the safe deposit box. Her hair was still wet, but she’d showered, changed and looked beautiful, even in her modest supermarket-bought attire. She perched herself on one of the barstools around the kitchen island and he handed her a glass of wine.
“Slainte.”
“Have you always been a cook?”
“On and off, but never had much time for it. Natalie hated it, so we had lots of takeaways and freezer ready meals, unless we had time to go out.” She glowed and he had to tear his eyes away; she was just too irresistible, and he felt particularly unkempt. “I’m going to shower. My laptop’s there. Why don’t you try and get online to the bank and see what you can find out?”
He was as quick as he could be, having a good scrub in the shower, shaving carefully and overdosing on the deodorant. He retrieved a bottle of cologne from the back of the bathroom cupboard, checked to see it hadn’t gone off and self-consciously dabbed a little on his chest, instantly regretting his adolescent instincts. He took time picking the right shirt and chinos, as if choosing something to wear had ever been difficult or challenging. He hadn’t felt like this for years and it gave him a frisson of pleasure that helped keep his mind occupied and stop him worrying about Charlie.
He found Caitlín in the same position he’d left her, hunched over his laptop, the electronic device and leather-bound book by its side. “Any luck?” he asked checking the pans on the hob and refilling their wine glasses. She swung the laptop round to face him, and he studied it carefully. The screen was headed up with the name “Reinhardt Baer”, “Account Summary”, “RBM Cayman Capital Ltd”. There were fewer than a dozen transactions. A deposit of twenty million pounds dated over a year ago from “RBM BVI Ltd”, subsequent payments of various sums between ten thousand and one million, the last one being seven months ago, and an interest credit of a few thousand. The payment of ten thousand bore the caption “Sisters SMV Charity”, the larger ones were identical apart from a unique numerical suffix; “St Patrick’s Charitable Fund”. The final transfer six months ago of twenty thousand was to “C. McConnell”. The balance on the account stood at a little over fifteen million pounds. She took a sip of her wine, looking pensive. “Wow!” he said, “seeing it in black and white somehow makes it all the more chilling.”
“I suppose I had my own doubts there would be anythin’ there. But it’s just as Eamonn described it.”
“I see he gave you a chunk.”
“He said it was expenses. He said I might have to lay low for a while if and when Maguire found out. He was right about that.”
“But he also said in his letter you could do what you like with the rest.”
“He was past carin’, so he was. Although I’m pretty sure that didn’t include givin’ it all to the Church, or back to Maguire.” Jack had his own misgivings about handing money back to a villain like Maguire, especially as its original source was probably dirty, but there was a new consideration. It wasn’t just about Caitlín’s safety; it was about Charlie’s too. It was true that in the last resort, he could repay Maguire himself, but he knew there had to be a better way. “I don’t want it that’s for sure, but I feel Eamonn deserves better than to let it go.”
“I’m guessing the BVI company has a few other RBM entities behind it, with all roads leading back to the parent in Ireland. The Italian bank must have already called in the original loan, otherwise Maguire would still be blissfully unaware he was sitting on a ticking time bomb. But he must believe the cash is out there somewhere.”
“He’ll have had his lawyers and accountants on the case, unravellin’ the structure. Eamonn must have had some help settin’ it up in the first place. I bet if you set up multiple companies in the Cayman or British Virgin Islands or the Netherlands Antilles you need local agents and lawyers and some of them will spill the beans if you pay them enough.”
“So Maguire knows one of his obscure subsidiaries has a bundle of cash in a Swiss bank but he can’t get his hands on it because he doesn’t know which one and you’re the sole signatory on the mandate. I’m surprised he can’t get a court order or something to unlock it.”
“Probably why Eamonn chose a Swiss bank. It may be doable, but they’re notorious for their secrecy. He probably doesn’t have time before the Banco della Sorellanza calls in the receivers. Anyway, we don’t have time either. If it was just you and me, we could go and live in the Bahamas until Maguire is wiped out, maybe even stay there?”
“That’s a nice thought.” He felt something stirring, a glow of contentment and optimism, but realised he had to dispel the notion she was offering some sort of commitment; that they could run away together. It wasn’t her way. All she meant was that they now had Charlie to think of too.
“We have to get Charlie back safe and sound,” she continued, as if reading his mind. “I just don’t know how we do it. We can’t trust a guy like Maguire.”
“You don’t trust anyone.” It was pointed. It reflected frustration his feelings for her had not been reciprocated; not even to the extent she could rely on him. The alcohol was kicking in. She gave him a considered look, then closed the laptop. “Is that ready? I’m starvin’.”
***
The conversation over dinner was muted, reduced to polite banalities. She praised him for his culinary skills.
“Wish I could cook like that, so I do.”
“It’s just pasta.”
“Aye, even so. I’d eat that every night so I would.”
“You’d be sixteen stone before you knew it.”
“And you wouldn’t like that?” He bit his tongue. Deliberately or not, she was playing with his emotions, evoking thoughts of some imaginary future in which they were still together, and the nightmare they currently shared had long since gone away. It confused and frustrated him; their circumstances would have been unimaginable to him as little as two weeks ago, but the facts were undeniable. They had been brought together by chance and were now, for all the wrong reasons, inextricably linked. He wouldn’t accept there was a future without her but at the same time couldn’t see or accept one without trust. He cleared away the plates and refilled their glasses.
“You trust my cooking then?”
She raised her glass as a toast to the chef. “Certainly do.”
“But that’s all.”
She put the glass down and sighed. “Don’t take it personally.”
“But I do.”
“Well, that’s up to you. I’m sorry, but I’ve only known you for ten days. That’s not long enough. No matter how you feel when you first meet someone, it takes time to build trust. I know. I learned the hard way. People I trusted without thinkin’, the ones I thought I could trust the most, were the ones who let me down. You learn from your mistakes.”
“So, what can I say to help you.”
“You can’t say anythin’. It’s what you do that matters.”
“And I haven’t done enough.”
She took time to consider what he’d said. She made him wait, as always.
“Let me tell you a wee story shall I? I meet a stranger on a beach. I take an instant like to him and I’m feelin’ a bit sorry for mysel’ so I ask him in for coffee and a chat and he seems like a really nice guy. The next thing he’s askin’ me out to dinner, and much against my better judgment, I agree to go even though he’s wearin’ a ring. He’s got an explanation, but it doesn’t matter either way, because I like him and I’ll probably never see him again afterwards, because I know I have to keep movin’ on.
“So, I have dinner with this guy, and I ask him all about himsel’ because I want to know who he really is, but he keeps tryin’ to find out about me and for all sorts of reasons, I don’t want to go there so I’m a bit evasive and difficult. Then after we’ve had a fair amount to drink, he tells me a terrible story about how he lost his wife and I’m cut up, so I am, because I know someone who I loved, did pretty much the same thing, but for different reasons.
“I’m ready to jump into bed with this guy there and then. I want to, badly; but you see, I’ve learned to be a bit wary, especially of men, especially men who are nice to me, so I control mysel’ and chuck him out, expectin’ he’ll give up. But no, he asks the feisty bitch out again and I decide to give him a second chance, just in case he really is a nice guy.
“Then I get a warnin’ from someone I barely know and it rings an alarm bell and I know somethin’s up and I think maybe this guy is not who he says he is. I cut off all communications and I get the hell out of there and scurry back to my wee hidey-hole thinkin’ I had a narrow escape and that in future, I’d be better off not talkin’ to strangers.
“Next thing is, this guy’s sent me a new phone with a gushy feckin’ romantic message about wantin’ to help and then he’s outside my feckin’ house and to be honest I’ve gone weak at the knees and for a tiny wee moment I’ve forgotten who I am. All I want to do is cling on to him and never let go. And then, you never guess what?”
He was entranced, reliving the previous week moment by moment, the impassioned conversation about life and death, so intoxicated by her enigmatic personality he couldn’t get her out his mind and so besotted, she could say or do anything to hurt him, physically or psychologically and he would still come back for more. But he didn’t know where this was going and it sounded ominous.
“No, tell me.”
“He brings his UVF pals with him.”
He assumed it must be a joke, but he couldn’t see the humour and she wasn’t laughing. “What?”
“Two feckers with guns suddenly come out of nowhere and threaten to kill me if I don’t tell them what they want to hear.”
“They threatened to kill me too remember.”
“Aye. And I called their bluff because I thought you might be in on it.”
“No! What the hell are you talking about?” The conversation had careered down a dangerous path and he didn’t know how to stop it. But she was in full flight.
“So I thought I’ve got nothin’ to lose here so I might as well take them all on so I whack one with a poker and I have a bit of luck when he shoots his pal by accident.”
“I know all that, but I’m on your side!”
“Oh really?”
“Yes! What’s the point of me showing up and playing mister nice guy when those bastards already know where you are?”
“They knew where I was because you brought them.”
“So why do I turn up as well? Job’s done, let them get on with pulling out your fingernails.”
“Because that was all part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“They know what they want but they don’t know how to get it. They know I don’t have twenty million in used tenners stuffed in the feckin’ mattress. They need me to unlock the account and release the money back to them. They can’t kill me or torture me to make me do that, they have to ask nicely.”
“And?”
“That’s where you come in. Feckin’ knight in shinin’ armour. You rescue the poor maiden from the clutches of the bad guys, put your arm around her, mop her fevered brow and tell her you’ll always be there for her, no matter what, let her lead you all the way to where the money is and one way or another, persuade her to hand it over.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Oh, am I? Then you go through this charade with a missin’ daughter.”
“Charade?”
“Aye. You take a call from Maguire, or whoever, and you and him have rehearsed this conversation where you pretend he’s kidnapped your daughter and you’ll give him twenty million just to get her back and I’m supposed to think what a great guy you are.”
“It wasn’t rehearsed.” He was seething. She had already gone too far but she wasn’t finished.
“And the next thing is you take me over to Ireland, deliver me up to those bastards and get whatever it is they’re payin’ you in commission, and maybe before you do that, you’ll be able to get yer hole as well!”
“Stop.”
“You might as well. She’s used to it, so she is. The feisty bitch is so fecked up she probably won’t even notice. All that shite about Catholics and Protestants and nuns and priests and convents. She probably thinks she deserves twenty million for all the feckin’ aggro she’s had to put up with. She’s totally fecked in the head so she is. It was so feckin’ easy wasn’t it?”
“Stop!”
The ensuing silence was a welcome relief; the diatribe suspended at least for the moment. He was burning inside, burning with pain and resentment and dismay. Her fanciful story told in her inimitably vituperative language portrayed someone on the edge of sanity; someone about to lose control, start throwing things, attack him physically like she had before and scream at him until he admitted his crimes as charged. Yet she held back. Caitlín McConnell had full use of her intellect, and full control of her thoughts and emotions. All he had to do was stay in control of his.
“There’s a fatal flaw in your story.”
“Oh, aye?”
“You didn’t ‘meet’ me on the beach. You hit me with a tennis ball from fifty yards. I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t bump into you. You bumped into me.”
“Really?” She stabbed a finger at him. “You were waitin’ for me to catch up. Your pals were probably on the cliff watchin’ through binoculars, given’ you a runnin’ commentary. The tennis ball was pure luck on your part. You would have asked me about the coffee shop regardless.”
“Okay. So when you whacked that guy in the cottage with a poker and then went for his gun. Why didn’t you take it?”
“I should have done. You told me to leave it. You didn’t want me with any form of protection. And you knew they’d clear up their own mess, because you called them later and told them. At the time I wasn’t really sure you were one of them. It was only afterwards I got to thinkin’.”
“What got you thinking?”
“This guy’s too good to be true.” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms, unrepentant and defiant. He watched her but there was nothing to suggest it was an act; no relaxation in the aggressive manner which might signal irony or black humour and no flicker of emotion that might betray the card player’s hand. He realised he was breathing heavily. His heart rate had soared with the suppression of rage; rage at the injustice she’d levelled at him. He stared into those emerald-green eyes and all he saw was the fearless, unyielding self-reliance that had kept her going all these years.
“Well, then let me tell you a story.”
“Can’t wait,” she said. It sounded truculent and sarcastic.
“It’s a story about a feisty bitch who, at some management conference, bumps into a ginger guy called Eamonn; Catholic turned Protestant, not sure if that’s important but the fact is, he’s pissed off with his life. He’s in a bad marriage and a bad job working for a father-in-law who doesn’t like him or recognise his talents and as soon as he meets this ginger bombshell, who happens to be another bean-counter by the way, they get it on…”
“Get it on?”
“They jump into bed and then hatch a plan to embezzle twenty million quid from a perfectly legitimate and successful business and run away together. They pull it off and it’s such a brilliant wheeze they decide they’ll do it again with some hapless fool called Jack, so they stalk him for a while and launch the sting when he’s on holiday and feeling vulnerable. You see, she and Eamonn and their gang have read about Jack in the newspapers. He’s a prime target; successful businessman, loads of money, tragic loss etc. So the plan is to fleece him for some or all of his dosh.
“So there’s Jack, taken himself off for a week’s break, trying to get his head together; trying to come to terms with the guilt, misplaced or otherwise over his wife’s suicide when he’s accosted by a strange, beautiful Irish woman who, inexplicably, invites him, a strange man, into her house for coffee. He’s immediately struck by her enigmatic personality and attracted to her physically. She comes across as friendly but detached and fiercely independent, which only adds to her appeal, such that on the spur of the moment, he asks her out because he’s smitten and desperately wants to continue the conversation. She avoids all his questions about her but manages to extract a full confession from him, reducing him to tears at one point, so keen is he to offload the guilt and so fragile are his emotions. Trouble is, she lets slip she knows exactly what happened to his wife, before he even tells her. Perspicacious or what? The thing is of course, she already knows all about him.”
“The honey trap. That’s really good!”
“Then she fakes her disappearance and two of her Irish pals confront poor Jack, act in a threatening manner and pretend they’re looking for her. They know his tongue’s hanging out because they refer to him as ’loverboy’ but they aren’t carrying guns because that would be a bit overkill in a residential street on the Isle of Wight, and they just want to wind him up for now, so they just play the Ulster hardman routine. Unfortunately for them, Jack is big enough and strong enough and mad enough to give them a good slap and send them on their way, but at least they know now he’s on the hook.
“And before you ask about the phone. That was quite clever. For all I know Mr and Mrs Angry are in on it too, giving Jack the number, knowing the first thing he’s going to do is call her and hear it ringing in the bin. Even if he doesn’t, she and the boys would find some way of leading Jack to where she is.
“Scotland was clever too. It’s remote so it adds to the impression she’s in hiding and the boys who’ve been following him stage this fake attack, this time with guns, just so Jack the hero can fight them off and rescue her, but it all goes horribly wrong when she hits one of them too hard and his gun goes off.
“She then plays the victim to perfection, concocting this tragic story about abuse and nuns and convents, leading the poor bastard along without ever dropping her knickers and when required, she’s even able to demonstrate proof of the money they stole from Flynn’s family. Then guess what?” He had not once taken his eyes off her and she’d watched him like a hawk, free of any expression or reaction, but the emerald eyes were filling up.
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Jack gets a call from a guy calling himself Maguire but he’s really a guy called Eamonn Flynn, and yes, he really has kidnapped Jack’s daughter. He tells Jack to persuade his new girlfriend to give back the fake twenty million, or else. But you see, Jack’s so head over heels in love with the feisty bitch, he’s on the verge of handing over twenty million of his own money just to hold on to her and get his daughter back.”
A runaway tear spilled down her cheek and she wiped it away with her napkin. He leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand, rubbing the smooth, freshly shaved skin. Retaliation was often tempting but afterwards rarely felt good, and this was no exception.
She nodded in satisfaction. “You just proved my point, so you did.”
“What was your point, exactly?”
“We never really know the truth. We’re presented with the so-called facts and unless we have good reason, our first instinct is to accept them as true until proven otherwise. We want them to be true especially when they fit with what we want to believe. Any doubts we might have come down to trust.”
“I never doubted you.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. You didn’t think up that story on the spur of the moment, just to hit back at me. Some of those things you said were because the thought had already crossed your mind. You had doubts but you got over them through trust.”
“So why can’t you do the same?”
“Because I’m damned, so I am. And so was Eamonn. The difference is he couldn’t live with it.”
“And you can?”
“I’ve had more practice.”
“So you don’t really believe that story you told me?”
“Course not. I wouldn’t still be here.” The twinkle returned to her eyes and even though he was still bristling, he was also relieved. “Head over heels, eh?”