The Increment Page 4

  'You're not thinking straight, Matt.' Abbott nodded towards the window. 'It's not just about some money in an account. With just one phone call I can have you charged with murder. Oh, and that pretty little fiancee of yours. Gill. I reckon she must be an accessory to murder as well. At least.'

  Matt stepped forward, the veins in his face bulging. 'I risked my life for my country on that job,' he said, his voice low, determined. 'I should have got a bloody medal. But I just wanted to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life.'

  Abbott nodded, a smile creasing up his lips. 'Should have asked for the medal, old fruit,' he replied. 'Medals we can do. Glory and honour? That can all be arranged. We might even run up a statue if you ask nicely enough. But leaving people alone?' He shook his head. 'No, we can't do that.'

  A fresh cigarette jabbed into his mouth, Abbott moved towards the open door. He pulled the collar of his linen jacket up around his neck to protect him from the rain, then looked back at Matt. 'So here's the deal. You be a good boy and do what we ask you to do. Then we'll unfreeze your accounts, and we'll make sure you get a pardon for any connection you might have had with any unpleasantness. Then again, you can turn me down. You're a free man, and I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. But your money will remain frozen, you'll be a penniless bankrupt, and you and Gill will be charged with murder.' He stepped out into the rain. 'Think it over, and let me know tomorrow.'

  Matt turned round, sitting back down at the desk. Taking the mouse in his right hand, he clicked open his account again. Still zero. He clicked on to the other accounts. Zero.

  It doesn't matter how many times you look at it. The number's always the same.

  His fist smashed down on the side of the desk. The computer shuddered as the force of the blow ricocheted through the machine, and a pair of folders fell to the floor. He wanted to run after Abbott, and beat some respect back into him. Abbott talked tough, but his flesh looked weak and flabby: a few hard blows would level up the score.

  Get a grip, Matt commanded himself. Sure, you could probably kill the jerk with a pair of well-placed bare-knuckle jabs just below the temple. He'd seen it done, and he'd have no qualms about taking Abbott down. But it would make no difference. One Abbott would be followed by another, then another. The Firm had an endless supply of them.

  No. If I'm going to fight my way out of this comer, I have to do it with my mind, not just my knuckles.

  He stood up, and walked out of the office. Somewhere near the bar he could hear Gill calling for him, but he ignored her. Kicking away his shoes, he took the shirt from his back. Dressed only in his shorts, he jumped down the small, rocky pathway that led down from the restaurant to the sea.

  The rain was beating fast against the beach as Matt climbed down. He could feel the tepid water seeping into his skin. Maybe the storm will come down hard, and blow that bastard away.

  TWO

  Matram placed the binoculars back in the glove compartment of his Lexus RX300. A slow smile drifted across his face as he put the windows back up and turned on the air conditioning. So far the mission was playing out perfectly.

  The murder was as beautifully engineered as the car he was sitting in.

  It was just after six and the streets on the estate were empty. He had just watched Barry Legg walk out of his house and turn down the quiet road that stretched down past the local pub. It was a hot, steamy night – they were all hot and steamy this summer – and Legg looked slightly ridiculous wearing just shorts, dock shoes and a Liverpool FC football shirt: Steven Gerrard's, unless Matram was mistaken. Legg was alone, and apart from nodding to one man on the other side of the street, nobody seemed to have passed him on the way.

  Matram checked his watch. Ten past six. Legg would be a few minutes early to watch his son.

  Except he wasn't ever going to arrive.

  'Target approaching,' he said into the hands-free mouthpiece he had hooked around his neck. 'Ready?'

  'Affirmative,' replied Clipper.

  The line was kept open. Matram watched as Legg rounded the corner. His pace was quickening as he stepped down from the main road on to the track that led towards the football pitches. Trench and Clipper started walking alongside him, Trench walking slightly ahead. As Matram watched them turn into the field, he took the car forward, turning the corner so he could keep them in sight. Both men were just ten yards away, out of sight of the houses.

  'We're looking for the Fox & Hare,' he heard Trench say. 'Do you know which way?'

  His tone was firm, noted Matram. Enough to stop a man and distract his attention, but not loud enough to provoke any suspicion. Good training.

  'You've passed it,' said Legg. 'A hundred yards back down the lane. Turn right. You can't miss it.'

  Matram rolled up his binoculars towards his eyes, and adjusted the focus. Legg was speaking to Trench, but his eyes were looking up towards Clipper. The man was standing with his legs a yard apart. His shoulders were rock steady, and his right arm twisted slightly forwards.

  Legg's a military man, reflected Matram. Even a couple of years out of the army, he still recognised the position a man took up when he was about to shoot somebody.

  'I've seen you before . . .' said Legg.

  'Stand still,' barked Trench, pulling the Smith & Wesson Magnum Hunter pistol free from his jacket.

  The Hunter had a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel, much longer than any normal pistol, giving the bullet extra velocity and impact: perfect for a job like this where speed and accuracy were a lot more important than trying to conceal a bulky weapon.

  '. . . across the water,' said Legg.

  Clipper also pulled his gun from his jacket. He fired first, then Trench, both men delivering two rounds of fire. Four bullets ripped into Legg's body, two blasting through his brain, two severing open his heart. He crumpled to the ground, dead.

  Through his binoculars now, Marram watched the small trickle of blood seep out into pathway.

  Trench walked towards the corpse. From his pocket, he took a packet of Pampers baby wipes, and cleaned the traces of blood away from the grass. He stowed the wipe back in his pocket, hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, then walked back towards the car. Matram was waiting for them, the engine already running, and the body was laid in the back of the vehicle.

  Matram gunned up the Lexus, and pulled away. By nightfall, the body would have been safely disposed of. His wife would have called the local police in a panic, but it would be a couple of days at least before they showed any interest in what had happened to him. Guys disappeared all the time, and usually they turned up a few days later with a terrible hangover; if the police started chasing all of them they wouldn't have any time to fill in forms.

  Matram smiled to himself. By then, all traces of the execution would have been eliminated. The operation was a perfect ten.

  One more off the list.

  'What's got into you?' asked Gill.

  The sentence was delivered in the same tone Matt had heard Gill use at the Dandelion nursery school in Puerto Banus where she worked every morning. Strict, insistent and determined: it worked on the three-year-olds, and it worked on Matt as well.

  'You've been skulking in your kennel all day.'

  A glass of Nestlé iced tea was sitting in front of him on the terrace of the Last Trumpet, but Matt had hardly touched it. The heatwave that had covered northern Europe over the past two weeks seemed finally to have hit southern Spain. The storms of the night had now blown through to the African coastline, leaving the skies completely clear. It was now almost noon, and the sun was starting to hit its peak. Sweat was forming on his brow, but it wasn't the weather that was responsible.

  'I'm in trouble.'

  He watched as her eyes sank. He'd seen that look before. A sudden resignation came over her, followed by a flash of anger. 'What is it?'

  She sat down opposite him, her hands folded together, and her right index finger playing nervously with the single diamond placed at the centre of her
gold engagement ring.

  'What is it, Matt?' she repeated, her tone more insistent now.

  'It's the Firm,' Matt answered. 'They want me to do a job.'

  'No, Matt. You're through with all of that. We agreed.'

  Matt paused. How should I tell her? He turned the question over in his mind, remaining silent, examining it from every angle. She's entitled to know the truth: he'd never believed in keeping any secrets from Gill, and anyway she'd always seen through him. But Abbott had threatened her with arrest. And there was no doubting his retaliation would be swift and vicious. The Firm didn't like being turned down.

  I can't burden her with that. And whatever happens, my first duty is to protect her.

  'It was that man in the bar last night,' persisted Gill. 'The one in the white suit.'

  'His name's Guy Abbott. He's an officer with the Firm.'

  'What does he want with you?'

  'There's a job that needs doing. They reckon I'm the right man for it.'

  'You're through with that, Matt,' repeated Gill. 'We agreed. No more missions. We're getting married, maybe having kids.' She paused, a trace of moisture already visible in her eyes. 'Making a life together.'

  She's not going to like this.

  'I know,' Matt started, his voice steely and grave. 'But there are debts, and now they're getting called in. One job, then he says the slate will be clean.'

  Gill shook her head. 'No. We have plenty of money. We don't need them. Tell them to go screw themselves.'

  'I already did.' Matt reached out to take Gill's hand. She drew it away. 'They've frozen all my accounts. We're broke.'

  'They can't do that,' snapped Gill.

  'They can, and they have.'

  Gill turned away. 'We don't need the money. We're making money on the restaurant, I have my salary from Dandelion. We don't need to finish the house, it doesn't matter.' She turned to look at him again. The moisture in her eyes had turned into a tear now. 'We can sleep on the beach. So long as we have each other, that's what counts.'

  I have to tell her, Matt decided. There's no way she'll accept anything but the truth.

  'It's not just the money. That's the carrot. I do the job and I get our money back.'

  'What's the stick?'

  'They'll press charges,' said Matt. 'For murder.'

  Gill paused. With her left hand she reached up to wipe away the tear trickling down the side of her cheek. 'It wasn't murder. Fight it. You have to prove your innocence.' She leant forward. 'We can't live like this. There'll be this job, then another one, and another one. You'll be working for the bloody SAS for ever. Until they slam the lid down on your coffin, drape a Union Jack over it, and give me a medal to pin up on the wall. I won't do it, Matt. We fight them here and now.'

  'Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Matt. He could feel the temper rising within him, a snarling knot of anger that started in his stomach and worked its way up to his throat. 'It's not just about me. They'll arrest both of us. Don't you understand, they'll break us.' He stood up. 'Just one job. I'll go to London, see what it is, and I'll get guarantees that it's just this once. If it's too dangerous, I'll tell them to get stuffed.'

  Gill turned away. Her cheeks were reddening, and she pushed her hair out of her face. 'I tell you, you go to London, and it's over between us.'

  'Christ, Gill,' shouted Matt. 'Do you have any idea what they'll do to us? They'll throw us in jail, then arrange one of those convenient accidents so we never get out again. Let's play them along, and see if we can get out of this mess with our freedom, and our money still in the bank.'

  Gill took two steps back, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. 'You haven't changed, Matt,' she said softly. 'I thought I could settle you down, but I see now that I can't. There's always another job, another mission, another adventure. I thought you cared enough for me to give all of that up, but I was wrong. I don't think you can ever have a proper relationship, Matt. Because you'll never know how to put someone else first.'

  She turned round, and started walking towards the house. 'I wanted to be your wife, Matt, not your widow. Now I don't want to be either.'

  'So what do you serve the gangster boys for lunch around here, old fruit?' Abbott sat down at the table, glancing through the menu. Matt sat down opposite him, his expression sullen.

  'I was hoping for a slice of the old horse's head.' Abbott laughed to himself, and started taking off his jacket. 'But I suppose I'll have to settle for the club sandwich, and a glass of rosé. Don't think I can face the sausage and mash in this heat. But good to see you have all the local specialities.'

  'We serve what our customers want,' said Matt irritably.

  Abbott wiped his brow with his handkerchief. It looked as if the back of his neck, the only bit of skin he left exposed to the sun, was starting to burn. 'So, you want your money back?'

  'Tell me the job, and I'll tell you the answer.'

  Abbott took a single sheet of paper from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and handed it across to Matt. 'I've booked you on to the five past ten BA flight back to London tomorrow morning. You can meet me for lunch at my club the day afterwards. I'll tell you then.'

  Matt nodded. 'Which club?'

  'The Oxford & Cambridge, on the Mall,' said Abbott, taking a sip from the glass of rose that had just been placed on his table. 'I'm sure you know it.'

  THREE

  The note felt flimsy in Matt's hands. A single sheet of blue writing paper, covered in a few lines of her familiar, rounded handwriting. Matt read it once, and was about to toss it towards the bin when he paused and read it again.

  Dear Matt,

  Go to London if you want to. I know you are doing what you think is right, but I also have to do what I think is right. I refuse to spend the rest of my life lying in bed alone at night terrified of what dangers you might be facing. If I'm going to lose you, I'd rather lose you now than later.

  I'm breaking off the engagement, for the last and final time. Don't try to contact me.

  Good luck.

  Love, Gill.

  Matt looked over the apartment. It was the same bachelor pad he'd had on leaving the SAS three years ago. Although he had hardly noticed it happening, the place had been girled up: some small beige cushions seemed to be arranged across the sofa; on top of the TV there were pictures of Gill and him together; the bathroom had acquired a new mat; and the hi-fi seemed to have been pushed back into a corner where you could hardly find it.

  He put the letter into the magazine rack – something else that seemed to have turned up that Matt couldn't recall buying – and stepped outside. He still had an hour or so, before he had to be at the airport, and he wanted to check into the bar first. Maybe Gill would be there.

  Even though it was just after eight in the morning, the sun was already rising in a smooth arc across the clear blue skies. Matt started walking the five hundred yards from the apartment block to the bar. He was carrying a small case with the few items of clothing he planned to take to London.

  She'll be back, he told himself. We've argued before, split up before, and patched things up before. She flares up like a sergeant major, but it blows over soon enough. With any luck, the Firm will have a nice simple job, and we'll be back together in a couple of weeks.

  Give her a few days and she'll cool off.

  'Seen Gill?' he said to Janey as he stepped into the bar.