Kiss of Death. Paul Finch

could watch. ‘We couldn’t do any of this to you. Because just before dawn, you’ve got to go down to that bank you manage with your best suit on and your keys in your pocket as if everything is normal. A bit earlier than usual of course, but not so much … and not in any kind of state that’ll make anyone who sees you suspicious. But even so, we had to make it absolutely clear what you’ll be facing if you try to fuck us over. You see, my young pal, here … he’s going to tail you down to the bank. And he’s going to park across the road till you’ve gone inside. Now, up until that moment I reckon it’s safe to say we’ll have full control over you. But we’re under no illusions: once you’re in there, things are different. There’ll be nothing to stop you picking the nearest phone up and calling the filth. Except the knowledge that we’ve still got your missus. And that nasty little question that’ll be niggling away in the back of your head … if that was the way they treated her when I hadn’t given them any grief, what in Christ’s name will it be like if I try to double-cross them?’

      Kelso shuddered at the memory of those cold, reptilian eyes fixed on him from the two slits in the bright green balaclava. It was too easy to imagine that there was nothing human behind them.

      ‘So … you won’t try anything stupid, will you?’

      ‘I swear it,’ the captive had said. ‘Please … just don’t hurt her any more.’

      ‘You know … I actually think I trust you, Brian.’ This might have sounded more convincing had the older one’s pistol not been jammed so hard into Kelso’s right temple that his entire head was crooked painfully to the left. ‘Just don’t give me any fucking reason to regret that judgement, yeah? Because if you do, what happens after that will be un-fucking-imaginable.’

      By the time he was on Welton Road, it was past eight, and the veils of frozen fog were thinning and clearing. The two hoodlums would like that, because, as they’d continually reminded him, they’d be watching his progress and keeping a sharp lookout for any anomalies, like so-called members of the public displaying unusual interest in his activities or maybe a helicopter hovering in the near distance. Not that there was any possibility of this, because Kelso, though he’d been tempted on entering the bank, had eventually made no phone call. What would have been the point? In the short time available before the villains became suspicious, the police wouldn’t have been able to mount any kind of response other than sending uniformed officers scrambling to the house and the bank – which would have achieved nothing, because the older villain was unlikely to still be at the former location, and though the younger one had tailed Kelso down here, he’d vanished after that, presumably secreting himself somewhere nearby, to watch. Both of them would have been able to get away relatively easily, maybe taking Justine with them, which would have been the end for her.

      So, Kelso had complied.

      Naturally he’d complied.

      But he still had no idea what to expect next.

      As he approached the junction with Horncastle Lane, he saw the bus stop in question, though nobody was waiting there. Rush hour was now upon them, as indicated by the increasingly heavy traffic, but this was a rural area, and the few commuters living in the villages round here were more likely to travel by car.

      Before Kelso had set out that morning, they’d searched his vehicle for a tracker, and had even advised him that, when he got to the handover site, he’d be searched again, just in case he’d somehow managed to fit a wire and had been feeding covert info to the police all along. If that was the case, he’d never see his wife again, or anything in fact, because he’d be shot on the spot. The older one’s preferred method, or so he’d boasted, was a slug through the back of the neck.

      Kelso would have laughed had the predicament not been so critical. A tracker? A hidden wire? They clearly overestimated the facilities available to modern-day bank managers, but the implicit message was clear: they weren’t taking any chances and no untoward behaviour on his part would be tolerated even for a second.

      Trying not to think about that, he pulled into the layby opposite the bus stop, switched off his engine and sat waiting. As the seconds ticked by, he grew increasingly nervous.

      He wasn’t on a time clock here, but he’d assumed that they wouldn’t want this thing dragged out, and that the longer it took, the twitchier and more dangerous they’d become. But what was supposed to happen? Surely someone should have shown up by now? The younger one who’d followed him to the bank, maybe – though perhaps he now had another role to play in the scheme. With the engine off, the interior of the car was cooling fast. Kelso pulled on his leather driving-gloves and zipped his anorak over his dishevelled suit. He’d tried to dress the part this morning, but it had been impossible to do a proper job.

      Outside, a police traffic patrol eased past in the sluggish flow of vehicles. Kelso shrank down, only just resisting the urge to duck out of sight altogether, gabbling prayers that they wouldn’t swing around and park behind him to see what the trouble was. If one of the gang was observing and they spotted that, they’d never believe it a coincidence.

      Thankfully that didn’t happen, though the mere sight of the police Range Rover with its hi-vis blue and yellow chequerboard flanks had touched Kelso with a new sense of despair. He’d been a bank manager for fifteen years, but he had no clue how his actions would be viewed when this was all over. Surely people would understand that he’d acted under duress? But the fact would remain that he’d robbed his own bank of £200,000. And if the hoodlums got clean away, how would people know that he hadn’t been in cahoots with them? The brutalising of Justine wouldn’t disprove that on its own. So, he’d be a suspect at the very least.

      He sat up straight and pivoted around, to see if there was anything he ought to have responded to that he’d failed to notice.

      On his left there was a stile, and beyond that a farm field, which, now that the mist had cleared, lay flat and white. Across the road, behind the bus stop shelter, stood a clutch of trees, their leafless boughs feathered with frost.

      His eyes roved across the bus stop itself – and that was when he saw something.

      He’d registered it on first arriving here but had barely thought about it. From across the road, it was a simple sheet of paper inserted into a ragged plastic envelope and taped to the bus stop post. He’d assumed it a reference to some proposed development in the area, a request for viewpoints from the local community, or similar. But now he clambered from his car, and crossed the road, weaving through the slow-moving vehicles. When he reached the bus stop, he saw that the paper bore a message composed from snipped-out newspaper lettering:

       GO NORTH UP HORNCASTLE LANE

       THAT IS OPEN COUNTRY

       SO WE’LL BE WATCHING

       ANY SIGN YOU HAVE COMPANY

       YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS

       BRING THIS NOTE AND THE PLASTIC

      Kelso ripped the envelope down, and scampered back to his car, jumping in behind the wheel and, at the first opportunity, pulling into the traffic. He swerved onto Horncastle Lane and headed north. As directions went, these were vague, but he felt absurdly relieved, almost as if this whole tribulation had suddenly been resolved for him.

      As he’d been advised, and already knew, this was a big agricultural area, expansive acres of farmland rolling away to every horizon under their coat of winter white. The sun was now up and sitting low in the east, a pale, ash-grey orb, while the sky itself was clear of cloud, but, in that eerie way of raw January days, was bleached of all colour. Suddenly, Kelso felt as if he was away from the hubbub; there were few, if any, fellow road-users on this quieter route.

      The phone began to ring, and he slammed it to his ear.

      ‘This is Kelso.’

      ‘I know it’s you,’ that familiar, confident voice replied. ‘So far you’ve been a good boy. Looks like we’re really going to do business, doesn’t it?’

      ‘I