The road ahead curved to the left and as she reached the bend she saw a house ahead of her. She smiled thinly when she saw the lights were on. ‘Please be home,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Please, please, please.’
She could see a high brick wall through the trees. Beyond the wall the land sloped upwards and the house was at the top of the slope.
She walked down the road and reached a set of black wrought iron gates set between two ten-feet tall brick pillars. She tried to open the gates but there must have been an electronic mechanism and they wouldn’t budge. From where she was standing she couldn’t see the house. The driveway curved around to the right and there were lines of bushes either side. She looked around for a doorbell or intercom but there was nothing. There was a letterbox set into the brick pillar on the left, along with a brass plate that read ‘No Junk Mail’. She stood back and wondered if she had any alternative other than to climb over the gate. The walls were too high and there was nothing to hold on to, but at least the ornate wrought iron provided handholds and footholds. She sighed and took off her shoes, then pushed them through the gate, along with her bag. She hitched her skirt up around her waist and began to climb. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d imagined, though she had to be careful not to snag her dress as she went over the top. Once she reached the other side she smoothed down her dress, put her shoes back on, picked up her bag and headed up the driveway.
The house was a good hundred yards from the gate, it was modern, a two-storey white cube with lots of glass and a flat roof. Between the wall and the house was a gently-sloping lawn that was as flat and even as a carpet. To the right of the house was a double garage and in front of it were parked two cars, a black Bentley and a white Mercedes. The front door was on the right of the building, and to the left was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked into the main sitting room. She could see a man standing in the middle of the room and there was another man sprawled on a sofa. Carolyn smiled to herself. At least there was someone at home. Hopefully they’d call her a cab and she could get back to London.
She carried on walking up the drive, now with a spring in her step, her painful feet all but forgotten.
CHAPTER 12
‘Where’s my fucking money, Nicholas? You’re going to save yourself a whole world of hurt by telling me now.’ Nicholas Cohen put his hand up to his lip, then blinked at his fingers. They glistened with blood. His blood. Cohen was middle-aged with a receding hairline, heavy jowls and an expanding waistline, the body of a man who had spent most of his life sitting behind a desk. Cohen was on his knees, looking up at the man who’d hit him. Drops of blood splattered onto the thick white rug underneath him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Warwick Richards shook his head. Richards was sitting on one of the sofas, watching Cohen with hard eyes. ‘You see, lying like that isn’t going to help you. You’re an accountant, Nicholas. You’re my accountant. Money is your job. Looking after it, putting it where the Revenue won’t find it. That’s what I’ve been paying you for. So telling me you don’t know where it is just doesn’t wash.’ Richards was a big man, six foot two tall and broad-shouldered, but he wasn’t the one who’d hurt Cohen. It had been years since Richards had hit anybody. He’d reached the stage where he paid to have people hurt though, truth be told, he sometimes missed the adrenaline rush that came with dispensing retribution. Richards crossed his legs and straightened the creases of his Hugo Boss trousers. He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa as he waited for Cohen to reply.
‘I’m not lying, I don’t know where it is.’
‘Two million quid doesn’t just go walkabout on its own. The only two people who had signing rights were me and you and if I’d taken the money out I wouldn’t be asking you where it was, would I?’
‘I think he’s broken my bridge,’ said Cohen, gingerly touching his jaw.
‘What fucking bridge?’
‘My bridgework. Three of my teeth, they’re a bridge. He’s broken it.’ Cohen pointed at Mick Halpin, the man who did most of the hurting that Richards needed doing. Halpin was an inch or two shorter than Richards but much wider, with a square shaved head and the thick muscular neck and forearms that came from regular visits to the gym and equally regular purchases of illegal steroids. Halpin had a small gold earring in his left ear and a thick gold chain around his neck. He was wearing an open-necked shirt that was flecked with Cohen’s blood and, as he stared down at Cohen, he cracked his knuckles.
‘The only reason that Mick hit you is because you won’t tell me where my bloody money is. This is on your head, Nicholas. So don’t cry about your busted bridge because it’s all down to you. Now where’s my fucking money?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
Richards sighed and waved a languid hand at Halpin. Halpin stepped forward and backhanded Cohen across the face. The sound was as loud as a pistol shot and Cohen fell back onto the white rug. Halpin kicked him hard in the stomach and the accountant curled into a foetal ball.
‘Don’t lie to me, Nicholas,’ said Richards. He looked at his watch, a solid gold Rolex. ‘Stop messing me around. I’ve got to be at the club before it closes.’
CHAPTER 13
Carolyn stood rooted to the spot, her hand over her mouth. The man on the sofa, the good-looking one, was saying something to the man on the floor. The bald man kicked him again and Carolyn winced. She took her mobile phone out of her bag. Still no signal. She began to shake, partly because of the cold but more because of what she was witnessing. Her mind was in a whirl, and she had absolutely no idea what to do. She knew she should just turn and walk away, climb back over the gate and head off down the road, that nothing good could possibly come from her staying where she was. She knew the sensible thing to do was to get away from the house, but it was as if her legs had turned to stone. She stared at the men in the living room, her hand still clamped over her mouth.
CHAPTER 14
Cohen stayed on the floor, curled up with his knees against his chest. ‘Get the fuck up and stop being such a baby, Nicholas,’ said Richards. ‘You took my money. I found out. Now I want it back. You’re going to be eating hospital food for a few weeks, but if you don’t stop fucking around it’s going to be a lot worse than that.’ Cohen didn’t react other than to sniff loudly. ‘Get the fuck up, Nicholas, now!” screamed Richards.
Cohen sniffed again and pushed himself up onto his knees. ‘Warwick, mate, let me tell you what happened,’ he gasped.
Richards stood up and pointed a finger at the kneeling man. ‘You’re no fucking mate of mine, Nicholas. Not after this.’
‘Look, just listen will you. I moved the money, you know that, but I can’t get it back.’ He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm. You know I gamble, right?’
‘What?’
‘Oh come on, mate, we’ve been to the races together. Cheltenham. Goodwood. I took you to Ascot once. All on me, remember?’
‘What’s your point, Nicholas?’
‘Cohen coughed again and sat back on his heels. ‘I had a bad year. I lost more than I won. Hell, I lost a lot more than I won.’
‘How much, Nicholas?’
Cohen shrugged. ‘A few grand at first. So I remortgaged this place. That was easy enough. But I kept on losing. So I borrowed more against the house.’
‘So your bank’s got my money, is that what you’re saying? Then you’re going to have to sell your bloody house if that’s how I get my money back.’