No Time to Die

Prologue

The hammering on the front door of the house finally brought a response as the door was opened quickly. He stood there, blood running from his face where he’d been slashed several times. His beard was stained red, and he was soaking wet from head to foot. The poor light from the overhead bulb threw shadows that distorted his features. He looked at the figure standing in front of him but was unable to see her face.

‘What the... Who the hell are you?’

He was trembling, mouth open, one arm holding the door and the other hanging limply by his side. In the darkness he failed to recognise her, and as he flung the question at her she launched herself at him.

‘I’m your worst nightmare, you bastard.’ She still had the rock in her hand, and she drove her fist at him, hitting him full in the face.

He reeled back and staggered, then fell backwards on to the floor. She went for him, meaning to stove his head in, but he put up a defensive arm and knocked her to one side. With agility driven by fear, he scrambled to his feet as she took another swing at him, the rock still in her hand. He fended her off, and as he swung his arm, it caught her on the side of her face, sending her sprawling on to a glass top coffee table. The glass shattered under her weight and the rock dropped from her hand.

He saw his chance and reached down, grabbing a handful of her flimsy shirt. As he pulled her violently to her feet, her shirt ripped and fell away from her shoulder. In that moment, he saw the distinctive birthmark there and froze.

She was unaware of the reason for his hesitation and pulled away from him, then stumbled across the room, her anger now changing to fear as she realised he would be too powerful for her. She grabbed a standard lamp and swung it round in an arc like a club, aiming for his head as he came scrambling towards her. He ducked and the heavy lamp sailed over the top of his head.

She let the lamp go and turned, making a dash for the door on the far side of the room, but in the gloom she crashed into the edge of an armchair and went sprawling.

Once again he was on her, but she spun and kicked him in the balls. He yelled out in pain and made another grab for her, but she crabbed backwards away from him and stumbled through an open doorway. At that moment her hand touched something cold. She glanced down and saw the paper knife. In a moment it was in her hand, and she was up on her feet. He was oblivious to the threat as he rushed at her. She drove the knife in hard, feeling the point slip between his ribs and directly into his heart.

He stiffened instantly as his breath stopped in his throat. A look of complete surprise and astonishment clouded his face and he collapsed to the floor. His mouth opened and closed rapidly as he tried to draw breath, but then his body went into a spasm and he died.

She stood over him, her legs spread-eagled, her arms flung out, breathing rapidly. She stayed like that for a while until it finally registered that he was no longer a threat: her search for revenge was over.

She stepped over the body and winced as a pain stabbed into her ribcage. She ignored it and walked into the room. Whatever he had there, and she had no reason to know what he kept in the house, she needed a fix and was convinced she’d find something.

She began opening drawers and flinging the contents on to the floor. Her mind was only focussed on one thing and that was finding a wrap or a syringe; anything that would bring her down and restore her fragile sanity.

She found the cocaine in a kitchen drawer, plus a pipe, a small bowl, a syringe, and a lighter. It was all she needed. She warmed the powder, sucked it up and plunged the needle into her arm. Then she took off round the house flinging everything she could lay her hands on into a pile on the floor. She laughed as she shook the expensive cocaine powder all over the place like she was dusting a cake. It was fun. She felt free.

When the final thought came to her, she slumped on to the edge of an upturned armchair and suddenly became subdued. There was to be no more laughter; she knew it would have to end, but she wanted to end it all on her terms. And she knew where it had to be.

She found the car keys and knew what she had to do. She hadn’t driven a car in a long while, but now she needed to do it. For her it was the only way it could end.

She picked up a bag she’d found in the bedroom, threw a couple of wraps and the paraphernalia into the bag, picked up a notepad she’d seen on the floor with a pen, and walked out of the house.

Chapter 1

Marcus Blake lifted his head from the newspaper he was reading as the dimpled glass pane on the office door rattled noisily. His secretary, Vereen, edged the door open with her backside while carrying a folder in one hand and a tray with two mugs in the other. She placed the folder on the desk and then lowered the tray as Marcus watched.

‘You have an appointment, don’t forget.’ She put the tray on his desk and lifted one cup from it and placed it in front of him. ‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Who with?’

‘Leonard Buck.’ She reached over the desk and took hold of Marcus’s wrist. She turned it and made a show of looking at his watch. ‘In about an hour,’ she said, and let go of his wrist.

Marcus frowned. ‘Anyone we know?’

Vereen dropped the slim file in front of him. ‘That was all I could dig up. I found more than one Leonard Buck. There was a Sir Leonard Buck QC, but not your kind of client I would have thought,’ she said as an aside, ‘and an MP by that name.’ She flipped the folder open. ‘So I picked the least likely of those I found on Google, and there isn’t much on him.’ She spun the file round.

He sighed heavily, folded the newspaper and dropped it into a metal waste bin beside his desk. Then he flipped open the folder and picked up his tea.

‘Thank you, Vereen.’

She let him get on with the file and took her coffee across to her own desk, which had a little more paperwork on it than on his.

Marcus Blake ran a security agency, which was more of a nod to self-employment rather than a desire to make a great deal of money. He had plenty of that although his father could never understand how Marcus became so independent that he never found a need to want full employment. Marcus’ father had been a career diplomat and always assumed that Marcus would follow him into that profession. It was a deep disappointment to him when Marcus dropped out of university and set about leading his own life, thanks to a generous legacy from his grandmother. Marcus and Vereen were the only two employees in the agency. He liked it that way and never felt the need to expand or develop the business.

He began scanning the first page of the folder. It was a short passage about a man who was a lifelong criminal, had served several prison sentences, and had a reputation as something of a psychopath. Marcus hoped Vereen had got it wrong, and that Sir Leonard Buck QC was the real client.

He turned the page and looked through the few names Vereen had added as family members, but as far as a family tree went, it was thin indeed. He continued reading and sipping his tea, dropping into a world of criminality, a world where violence was a byword for a pastime. He was still separated from the reality of his office and the noise of London filtering through the window when he heard the sound of the front door downstairs opening.

‘That’ll be him,’ Vereen said confidently, and got up from her desk.

Marcus closed the file, listening to the usual creak of each step when someone climbed the stairs. Vereen pulled the door open and stood back.

The client stopped in the doorway for a moment and stood quite still, a little breathless from the stairs. His ruddy complexion contrasted sharply with the white stubble of his beard. He was a broad-shouldered man, slightly squat in the neck. He was wearing a suit that had the sheen of woven silk. It looked expensive. His arms hung akimbo, with hands garlanded in gold rings. He stepped across the office floor and held a calloused hand out to Marcus.

‘Lennie Buck.’

Marcus slid the closed file to one side, stood up and shook Buck’s outstretched hand. He pointed to the visitor’s chair.

‘Morning, Mister Buck. Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee?’

Buck moved the chair back and settled his overweight frame into it. ‘Lennie — call me Lennie.’ His voice was low and gravelly, almost monotone, but with a strong Cockney accent. ‘Cup of tea would be nice. Milk, no sugar.’

Marcus looked over at Vereen who nodded and went out to make Buck a cup of tea. He sat down.

‘So, how can I help you?’

Buck put his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph. ‘My daughter. Her name’s Jessica,’ he said, and handed it to Marcus.

Marcus took the photograph and studied it. The girl looked about twenty years of age, maybe more. She had posed coyly, showing innocence that was a popular theme for young girls who wanted to appear kittenish but were probably man-eaters. He couldn’t make up his mind whether she had red hair or not; there was a hint of blonde, but also the appearance of dark roots. Her eyes were almond shaped, which Marcus guessed were carefully profiled that way in a beauty salon. The angle of the shot was from above her shoulder, which meant she was leaning back a little, revealing just a hint of her breasts: enough to suggest she would happily show more. He could see a heart-shaped mark on her upper arm, just below the shoulder.  There was little else: nothing to guess how tall she was, or what kind of figure she had. He handed the photograph back to Buck.

‘Lovely girl.’

Buck picked up the photograph and held on to it for a moment before dropping it on the desk in front of Marcus. ‘You’ll need that,’ he said levelly.

‘Oh, why?’

Buck’s eyes moved and fixed Marcus with a hard stare. ‘She’s gone missing. I want you to find her.’

Marcus put his finger on the photograph and moved it round slowly so that he was looking down at the girl again. ‘Missing?’

Buck’s head bobbed up and down. ‘That’s what I said: she’s missing.’

Marcus sniffed. ‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-one, twenty-two.’ He shrugged. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

Marcus was surprised that Buck wasn’t too sure about his daughter’s age but chose to ignore that for now. ‘She’s an adult. May not be missing; she might have left home of her own accord.’

Buck leaned forward a little as if he wanted to emphasise a point. ‘Look, she ain’t where she’s supposed to be, so she’s missing.’

Marcus picked up the photograph and began tapping it gently on its edge. ‘Well, let’s not get into the definition, let’s just say she has left home. I presume that’s what you mean?’

Vereen came in with Buck’s tea, which she placed in front of him. He thanked her. Vereen then went back to her desk and picked up a notepad. She looked over at Marcus.

Buck picked up his tea, took a mouthful and looked over the top of the cup. ‘The reason why she’s left isn’t important. I want her found and I want her brought back.’

‘Would she want to be brought back?’ Marcus put to him. ‘She’s old enough to know her own mind,’ he argued. ‘Have you been to the police?’

Buck nodded. ‘They’re on it. She’s down as a missing person. Not that I think they’ll do much.’

‘What makes you think I’ll have a better chance than the police? They have far more resources than I do.’

‘You people operate on the edge of the law: you don’t mind bending the rules.’

Marcus thought that was rich coming from a man with Buck’s record. Buck lifted the cup to his lips.

‘It’s what you people do, right?’ He took a sip of tea but kept his eyes on Marcus. ‘And I’ll pay well,’ he said as he put his cup down.

‘We try not to break the law though, Mr. Buck. Remember that. And I would still need to know a little more: when you last saw her; her hangouts; friends; where she worked — anything that might help.’

Buck’s face cracked into a wry smile. He shoved a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small photograph. He laid it flat and pushed it across the desk.

Marcus picked it up. It was of a young girl, about ten or eleven years of age. She was wearing a school uniform and was smiling at the camera. A boy stood beside her. Marcus frowned and looked up at Buck.

‘What’s this?’

‘That’s my daughter. I took the picture at a funeral years ago. I was allowed out of prison for it.’ He held the photograph so that it faced Marcus.

‘I don’t know anything about her friends or where she hangs out.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘That was the last I ever saw of her.’

Chapter 2

The young police officer looked down at the bundle tucked beneath the overhang of a shop window and nudged it with his foot. The other officer with him stood disconsolately as the bundle stirred and came to life. They’d been here before, and this was nothing new for them. There was nothing clean about the place she’d chosen to sleep. Pieces of paper, plastic cups and other rubbish missed by the street cleaners had piled up against her tired and dirty looking sleeping bag. A head poked clear of the bundle, hair a mess of matted, uncombed dreadlocks. The skin on the woman’s face was marked with tell-tale blotches of sallow health and ravages of drug addiction. She blinked and pulled a hand from beneath the sleeping bag to shield her eyes.

‘Come on sweetheart; time to move.’

Her name was Natasha, but the officers preferred one name, one size fits all, so it was sweetheart. Not that Natasha cared what they called her.

Although it was barely dawn and the sun would not be seen that day, it fell to the police officers to clear the alleyways and park benches, the bus-stops and underpasses of all the human detritus that gathered there to sleep the spaced-out sleep of the near dead. This was drug-land: a picture painted in every major city and town across the United Kingdom, and never likely to go away despite the best efforts of the authorities. The city of Portsmouth was no different, but it was necessary that the authorities tried to present the best picture possible for the daily lives of those who had no need to populate the back alleys and the homeless shelters. They were the lucky ones.

‘Five minutes, copper,’ she pleaded, the sound of sleep still there in her voice. ‘Give a girl some room.’

The young police officer smiled and nudged her again with the toe of his boot, a gentle touch into the soft flesh of her thin, emaciated body. ‘We’ll be back in five minutes then, sweetheart. Make sure you look your best.’

His companion laughed with him. Sorrow for these poor creatures wasn’t a luxury they could afford; theirs was to do what was asked of them and let the social workers, the aid agencies, the Christian support workers and other concerned groups distress themselves with the welfare of these unfortunate people.

Natasha struggled up into a sitting position and leaned back against the shop wall, too tired almost to summon up the will or the effort to move. Then she pulled the sleeping bag up around her shoulders and closed her eyes, thinking about the dream. As always the dream would fade, but it was the same nightmare from which there was no release. She knew it so well she knew there never would be the release she craved despite the drugs and the feeling of peace when the heroin or crack cocaine soothed her. The nightmare was always there.

And his smell: it was fish. She would never forget it.

She put the thought to the back of her mind and got to her feet. She rolled up the sleeping bag, tied it with a cord and then lifted her shabby backpack over her shoulder. Now the routine began again. She would make her way down to the Gun Wharf shopping Mall by the docks, sit somewhere around the Mall or the dock gates and beg. With luck she would make enough for a wrap of cocaine. Ten pounds would do it. She pulled some change from her pocket and squinted at the coins. Two quid. Barely enough even for a cup of tea. She sniffed and put the money back in her pocket. She knew she would probably make enough to buy a wrap, the essentials of life like tea and bread could be stolen; it was something she often did from the smaller shops rather than the supermarkets. And if she stole anything she couldn’t eat, she could barter it for cash or the drugs. It was easy. With luck she would get enough to help her forget her life and the nightmare.

It took three hours to get the ten pounds. Three hours of slow torture as she contemplated the awful prospect of not getting enough for her fix and being forced to sell herself. It happened; not every day was a good day. The punters knew when the girls were desperate and could get a shag quite cheap. They knew the price of a wrap too. Natasha considered herself lucky if she got through the week with enough to buy her daily fix. But when she was being pushed hard up against a wall in some alley somewhere while