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  ‘And then eliminating the threat,’ I added. ‘Usually with a round in the middle of the forehead.’

  ‘Sure, boss, but I don’t think we can do that here. Only guys like DI Dylan are allowed to go around tooled up these days. So guys like me, other than on very special occasions, have to adopt a more cautious approach than we might have in the past. That’s why I’m suggesting that it would be safer if you isolated yourself as far as possible.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Primavera, quietly. ‘But we’re a partnership in every sense of the word. If I’m in danger through being around Oz, then so be it. It won’t be the first time, anyway. We’re not as soft as you may think we look, Mark. If anyone does have a pop at us, God help him.’

  We did our best to put thoughts of our uncertain future out of our minds for the rest of the weekend. I had thought of going up to Perthshire to visit SuperDave, but Prim felt that if we turned up there complete with bodyguard, it could only worry her mother. Instead Mark and I decided that we would catch the last Sunday shuttle back to Heathrow rather than leave at sparrow-fart next morning.

  I was heading for the door when the phone rang. ‘You take that, love,’ I said to Prim. I waited, just a touch impatiently, while she dealt with the caller.

  When she rejoined me in the hall, she wore a surprised look. ‘You’ll never guess who that was.’

  ‘Saddam Hussein?’

  ‘Susie might say so,’ she retorted. ‘It was Joe Donn. He wants to see me tomorrow; says he’s got something for me that might be important. So I said that I’d go out to Motherwell for ten o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Just you be careful,’ I warned her, jokingly. ‘That old sod fancies you.’

  Chapter 45

  Aside from the fact that I didn’t like being apart from Primavera, I enjoyed being back in my Surrey cocoon. It offered an escape from my problems in the real world, and of course there was the work.

  Miles began with a refresher on the new scenes which we had rehearsed the previous Friday. Then, once he was satisfied that we were all together and ready to shoot, he moved us on to the movie’s final dramatic scenes.

  These belonged entirely to Dawn and me; apart from the inert presences of Miles himself, and Nelson Reed, both by now playing the parts of stiffs. The storyline gave us ten minutes to get clear of the platform on the Jet Ranger, before an assault force of Royal Marines came in low over the sea on troop-carrying choppers, and abseiled down on to the deck, ready to mop up if necessary. Oh yes, I forgot; according to the script, I could fly a helicopter.

  The plan was that I was to carry the two ‘bodies’ up to the deck, weight them down with chains and toss them over the side, then Dawn and I would make our escape. Then came the final twist; I was to take the money and jump into the Jet Ranger alone, leaving Dawn on the deck. ‘You can’t trust anyone these days, can you sister? So long.’ Not a difficult line, you’ll agree. All I had to master was that sardonic grin again, and I was getting good at them.

  Game set and match to Oz? Not quite. As the chopper rose into the air, Dawn would spot an emergency pack on the deck, complete with loaded flare gun. Her one wild shot would get lucky and smash into the cabin. Goodbye me, in a huge fireball, courtesy of the special effects team.

  Given recent events, I might have been forgiven if the ending had given me the creeps, but within my bubble of unreality, the vision of Susie’s blazing car didn’t enter my head, not once.

  We rehearsed those sequences all day, not that I really had to take off in the Jet Ranger; the second unit had shot that a few days earlier on the real rig, using the stunt team. No, the hardest part for me was carrying the two guys up two flights of stairs. I could have had a standin if I had insisted, but Miles was keen that I should do it myself if possible, so that I could be seen in close-up.

  I managed okay, thanks to Mark Kravitz; he showed me the best way to pick up a dead weight, and how to balance while I was carrying it. I didn’t ask him where he learned the techniques; I had a feeling that I’d rather not know.

  Fortunately neither of the two ‘bodies’ were giants. Miles is well built, but a bit smaller than me; as for Nelson Reed. If you’ve ever seen any of his movies you wouldn’t believe how small he is; he’s Alan Ladd-sized, honest. It’s amazing what a good cameraman can do to disguise vertical deprivation.

  I must have lugged those guys up those stairs at least half a dozen times before we moved on to the scenes in the studio deck. That wasn’t too easy either, because those chains weren’t the pretend sort, like the chairs they use in the GWA to bash each other over the head. They were the real thing, and heavy enough to weigh down a couple of bodies for burial at sea.

  For most of the day Dawn’s role was largely inactive, so when her big moment came, she was determined to get it right. She fired three or four dummy flares before she declared herself satisfied.

  ‘Okay,’ said Miles, finally, having returned from the dead. ‘That’s it. Tomorrow we shoot for real, and after all this rehearsal, I’ll be looking for first-take wraps, every time.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Honey, you and Geraldine take Nelson back to the mansion. I’ve got plans for Oz and Mark.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked. After all that heavy lifting, I fancied nothing more than a long, hot bath.

  ‘I fancy a game of squash, mate. I’ve been sat on my arse all day, and I need to loosen off.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Too right. I’ve booked a court in Farnham, and Gerrie’s been out to buy us gear, so no excuses.’

  I’m no great shakes as a squash player, but on my worst day, I can still beat Miles Grayson. He’s ten years older than me, and although he’s pretty fit for his age, his hand-eye co-ordination is lousy. I believe him when he says that as a cricketer, he couldn’t bat for toffee. I suspect that the guys he plays with in LA let him win most of the time. However, Mac the Dentist only taught me to play one way.

  The big problem Miles has is that he doesn’t know that he’s crap. He’s Aussie-born, and he was raised playing games where the basic requirement is a willingness to run through walls. Fortunately for his acting career, a dislocated shoulder finished him for rugby when he was only seventeen, otherwise he wouldn’t have grown up nearly so good-looking. Sadly for his squash game, he brings his field sports tactics on to court, where there really are walls and they don’t give.

  He’s keen though; he never gives up. If his persistence wore his opponents down it wouldn’t be so bad, but it doesn’t. It’s always him who ends up as an oil slick on the floor after an hour or so; and that’s how it finished that evening in Farnham. Mark Kravitz watched us through the glass back wall. Miles offered him a game too, but he refused, insisting that he had to keep his mind on the job. I was quite pleased by that; he did look as if he could handle a racquet.

  On the way home, Miles insisted on stopping at a roadside pub to top up his fluid level, so it was past eight o’clock when we made it back to the mansion. We headed straight for the drawing room for the ritual of pre-dinner drinks. Scott, Weir, Nelson and Gerrie were waiting for us, three Tio Pepes and one Lagavulin in hand.

  ‘Well?’ Reed asked. ‘Who won the battle?’

  ‘Youth had its day,’ Miles drawled. ‘Where’s Dawn?’

  ‘She hasn’t come down yet,’ Geraldine told him. ‘Want me to go and fetch her?’

  He grinned and shook his head. ‘Nah. She’ll be playing with her hair. I’ll go get her when dinner’s served.’

  ‘That could be a while yet,’ Gerrie warned. ‘The chef held everything back until he was sure that you three had arrived back.’

  ‘No matter. If Dawn’s passing up on a gin and tonic, she must have a good reason.’ He reached for two Budweisers from an ice-bucket on the sideboard, uncapped them and handed one to me.

  We had killed two more when Mr Jones, the butler, arrived to call us through to the dining room; still there was no sign of Dawn. ‘I guess I’d better fetch her,’ said Miles, at last.

&n
bsp; ‘That’s all right,’ said his assistant. ‘I’ll go.’

  We followed the butler through for dinner, and took our usual places. The starters - calçots; which I recognised as a Catalan delicacy - were set out for us, but no one made a move to begin before Geraldine and Dawn joined us.

  Yet when Gerrie did come into the dining room, she was alone. ‘Miles,’ she began, hesitantly, ‘did Dawn say anything to you about going out tonight?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, frowning. ‘Ain’t she there?’

  ‘No, there’s not a sign of her in your room.’

  ‘She’s probably gone for a walk. It’s a nice evening.’

  I felt a cold hand gripping the pit of my stomach. ‘Still,’ I said, pushing my chair back and rising from the table. I walked out of the room in search of the butler.

  I found him in the kitchen. ‘Mr Jones,’ I called to him. ‘Did you see Mrs Grayson leave the house?’

  ‘No sir,’ he replied. He turned to the chef and the under-waiter, with an enquiring look, but they shook their heads.

  ‘Did she say anything about going out? For a walk, maybe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  I almost asked him if he was sure, but stopped myself. Mr Jones looked the type who was always sure. Instead, I marched back towards the dining room.

  Mark Kravitz was waiting for me in the hall. ‘Something up, boss?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Could be. Come on.’ As we took the stairs two at a time, I was vaguely aware that Miles was following us. As Geraldine had said, the master bedroom was empty. We looked around; there were no discarded clothes or shoes to be seen, but Dawn’s handbag lay on the bed. Mark walked across, picked it up, and took a look inside.

  ‘Her purse is still here,’ he announced, ‘and her cellphone.’

  ‘Fuck it!’ My anxiety was now shared by Miles. He stepped into the bathroom. ‘She’s had a shower,’ he called out to us. ‘And all the clothes she was wearing today are in the laundry basket.’

  ‘What’s missing?’ Mark asked.

  Miles looked around the room. He pointed to the dressing table. ‘Her make-up case is still there.’ As he spoke he walked to the wardrobes which ran along one wall, threw them open and looked inside. ‘I reckon there’s a pair of denims gone, and a cream sweater. And a new pair of shoes: I don’t see them either.’

  ‘What type of shoes?’

  ‘Clark’s. Trainers, sort of.’

  Kravitz crossed to the window and checked their catches. ‘These are all secure. Come on.’ We followed him out of the room. Naturally, he knew the layout of the house like the back of his hand; he led us along a corridor then turned left, until we stood before a half-glazed double door that I had never seen before.

  ‘This is a fire escape . . .’ he said. Reaching out, he took hold of the crash bar which stretched across it, and pushed lightly. The door swung open. ‘. . . and very recently, someone’s used it, then closed it after them as best they could - you can’t close these things properly from the outside.’

  ‘Why the hell would Dawn leave by the fire escape?’ Miles asked, sounding rattled and bewildered.

  ‘She wouldn’t, unless she didn’t want anyone to see her . . . or unless someone else didn’t.’

  There was a long, deadly silence, as Miles faced up to the truth which had come to me downstairs. ‘This could be your man, Oz, couldn’t it?’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I acknowledged. ‘He’s just picked a softer target this time. I’m sorry, man.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No,’ said Mark, grimly. ‘If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I should have put someone on Dawn as well. But hold on; before we jump to conclusions let’s search the grounds. We’ll look like right Charlies if we push the panic button then find her asleep in a garden seat. Let’s search out there before we do anything else. Come on, down this fire escape.’

  We followed him down the steel staircase; it was almost dark outside, but as we stepped into the garden, movement sensors triggered a series of bright halogen lamps set along the back wall of the mansion. The grounds, two acres in all were set most in lawn, with four benches dotted around in various places. They were all empty.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Kravitz exclaimed, then walked briskly across to the far corner of the property, where a path led through the shrubs to a gate in the back wall. It swung on its hinges. ‘Fuck!’ he swore quietly. ‘This was secure when I rechecked it this morning. It’s been jemmied.’ He stepped through the open doorway and took a quick look outside. ‘There’s a narrow road out there,’ he said as he rejoined us. ‘And there are fresh tyre marks on the verge. From the size of them I’d say they could have been made by a van.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miles. I’d say for sure that someone’s taken her.’

  I’ve seen Miles Grayson happy, serious, drunk, sober, you name it; until then I’d never seen him frightened.

  ‘How the hell could they have got in?’ he protested.

  ‘Probably the same way they got out,’ Mark guessed.

  ‘But you can’t open those doors from the outside either.’

  ‘Sure you can, if you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Call the police, for starters,’ said the bodyguard. ‘But first; let’s have another look at the bedroom.’ As we made our way back to the house, I saw Gerrie, Scott, and the others staring at us through the dining room window. I ignored them and ran back up the fire escape, on Mark’s heels.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ I asked as we stepped back into the bedroom.

  ‘Something that wasn’t here before,’ he answered. ‘Miles, does Dawn have any jewellery with her?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s a safe behind the mirror in the bathroom.’

  ‘Open it, please.’

  We watched as the actor did as he was told, spinning the dial, clockwise, clockwise again, then anti-clockwise, before pulling the small door open and peering inside. ‘The stuff’s still there,’ he growled. ‘But . . .’ He reached into the safe and drew out a long brown envelope. ‘What the fuck’s this?’

  Okay, I know that there are millions of brown envelopes in use in Britain, some offering junk mail bargains, some containing bills, some in politicians’ pockets. But when I saw the one which Miles held in his hand, I was back in the Horseshoe Bar, watching Mike Dylan reach into the pocket of his Hugo Boss jacket.

  ‘I’ll bet you that what’s inside is unsigned, was written on a word processor, then run off on an ink-jet printer, and that it’s virtually untraceable.’

  Miles and Mark looked at me. ‘You’d better handle it carefully,’ I said, ‘just in case, but there’ll be no prints on it, other than yours.’

  It wasn’t sealed. Miles slid two fingers inside and drew out a single sheet of white A4, folded twice. ‘No police,’ he read aloud, ‘or your wife is dead. Neither the locals, nor Mr Dylan in Glasgow. Involve them, and I’ll know. You will be contacted again and given instructions on how to secure the return of Mrs Grayson. This is not a movie, this is for real; do as you’re told or you’ll be looking for a new co-star.’

  He held it up for us to see. It looked just like Susie Gantry’s love-letters; I shuddered as I thought of her car, exploding in flames.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Miles growled. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set in a tight line. The fear had gone; suddenly he looked very dangerous.

  ‘I think you should take it very seriously,’ I said.

  ‘Oh I will, Oz, I will. Finding this bastard and getting Dawn back is my life’s work for now; and when I do that, I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘Like he says, Miles,’ Kravitz interrupted, quietly, ‘this is not a movie. You have to control your anger in these situations; you can’t allow yourself to focus on side issues like getting even. Recovering Dawn, that’s the only objective.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Miles snapped, sounding as if he meant not a word. ‘Where do we start?’

>   ‘With the police, I’d say.’

  ‘No fucking way! You heard what he said.’

  ‘Every kidnapper says that; almost invariably it’s a bluff.’

  ‘I don’t like “almost”. I will not take the slightest risk with Dawn’s life.’ He looked at me. ‘Oz, this is the same guy? You certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. The letter is identical to the ones Susie received. Plus, he knows about Dylan.’

  ‘So how do we play this?’

  ‘We’ll need to keep it close for a start, among ourselves. Dawn’s a celebrity; if she doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, it’ll be public knowledge damn soon. So we shouldn’t even tell the people downstairs the truth about what’s happened.’

  Miles nodded. ‘I’ll deal with that. Afterwards?’

  ‘We do some serious thinking . . . while we’re waiting for the next contact from the guy.’

  ‘What does he want, d’you think?’

  ‘One of two things,’ Mark answered. ‘He wants money, or he wants Oz . . . or maybe he wants both. This is the end of the game, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It is for him,’ Miles snarled. The anger seemed to crackle from him in sparks. He held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ he went on. ‘I’ll try to keep a lid on it, I promise. It’s just so fucking difficult. You got any thoughts about this so far?’

  ‘I’m a minder, Miles, not a detective. But I know this. We’re dealing with someone close.’

  ‘Close to what?’

  ‘Close to Oz, close to everything. With luck we should be able to put a name to him.’

  ‘Miles . . .’ Gerrie Baker’s voice floated through from somewhere outside the bedroom.

  ‘Let’s get this started,’ the Australian muttered. ‘Okay, Geraldine,’ he called out. ‘We’re coming; we’ll see you back in the dining room in a minute.’

  He turned to us. ‘I know how we’re going to play this, to begin with at least. When we get down there, you guys follow my lead. Whatever I say, you back it up. Come on.’