Текст книги "The Driver"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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The new thriller in the Amazon #1 rated series. John Milton has started to hope that he might have a future. He has a job driving a taxi around the streets of San Francisco. He has his anonymity and his solitude. Being invisible has become a comfortable habit. He doesn't want to be found. But when a girl he drives to a party goes missing, Milton is worried. Especially when two dead bodies are discovered and the police start treating him as their prime suspect. Milton is a fugitive from the British Secret Service and a man in his position needs extra attention like he needs a hole in the head. As unpleasant secrets leak out, and the body count rises, one thing is for sure: Milton might just be the right guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Driver is a taut, nail-biting adventure which once again stars Mark Dawson's irresistible hero, the maverick ex-MI6 assassin John Milton.

Mark Dawson

#1

PART ONE

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PART TWO

#2

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PART THREE

#3

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PART FOUR

#4

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PART FIVE

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EPILOGUE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Mark Dawson

The Driver

We stood at the turning point. Half-measures availed us nothing. – The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous

“Each man’s death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind,

Therefore, send not to know,

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.” – ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ John Donne

#1

TABITHA BETTY WILSON

Tabby Wilson updated her Craigslist profile on the night she was murdered. She tweaked her personal information a little and added a new selfie that she had taken that same afternoon. It was a good likeness of her: she was wearing wispy red lingerie, her skin was smooth and blemish-free and she was wearing a crazy blonde wig that made her look a little like Lana del Rey. She looked fine, she thought. Her expression was sultry and provocative, almost daring men to contact her. She was slender and had big eyes, androgynous with that alien look that was so popular on the blogs that she bookmarked and the magazines she thumbed through in Wal-Mart or when she was waiting at the laundromat.

It was important that she looked her best. The Craigslist ad was her shop window and, as she touched up the blemishes in Photoshop, she was pleased with the results. She had porcelain skin, a short bob of dark hair, and those big eyes were green and expressive. She was twenty-one and had left school when she was seventeen to have a baby. She never went back. She had two children now, each with a different father, although she never saw either man. Her mom helped to bring up the kids. Until recently, she had worked in telemarketing. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Vallejo funded by the alimony that her son’s father had been ordered to pay. Apart from the fact that cold-calling saps to sell them new windows wasn’t what she had in mind for her career, the alimony and her wages didn’t cover all of her expenses. Things got worse when she was fired for missing her sales targets. Delivering pizza or running the register at Wal-Mart were not what she had in mind as her career, either, and those jobs ended just as soon as they had started.

Tabby liked to think that she was a positive person and so she concentrated on her ambitions. She had always wanted to be a model. There was money in that, lots of money, and she was sure that she was pretty enough and had a good enough figure to make a go of it. She created Pinterest and Instagram pages that she filled with photographs: selfies with the camera held as far away from her face as possible, others showing her in the full-length bedroom mirror, a selection that she had culled from the shoot that a photographer friend had conducted in exchange for a night with her. She knew that she needed to do something to get her career moving in the right direction. She spent a lot of time working on her page and it wasn’t long before she noticed the ads for modelling. She clicked on a site called ModelBehavior.com which offered free hosting for the portfolios that girls sent in. She set up an account and uploaded the best photos from the shoot. She started to see enquiries right away. She was hoping for offers from catalogues and magazines but they were all from agencies that said that they could book her for those kinds of jobs but, when she clicked onto their sites, it was obvious that what they were really looking for were hookers and escorts.

She started to take the offers more seriously when she saw how much money she could earn. Escorting was like webcam stripping, only in person, with no sex involved. And it wasn’t hard to be tempted by the money she could make if she did have sex. But she couldn’t see the point of signing up for a service and giving them half of the money she made.

She could do it all herself.

That was when she had started advertising on Craigslist.

* * *

That night’s job had been booked on the phone. The john had emailed her to say that he was interested and she had done what she always did: gave him the number of her work phone so that she could talk with him and lay out the prices and what he could expect to get in return. Insisting on a call also gave her the chance to screen the guys who had never booked her before. There were always weirdos and she’d been knocked around by a couple. Talking to someone was better than reading an email to get an idea of what they were like. She had refused bookings with several men who had just sounded wrong on the phone. Tabby liked to say that she was a good judge of character. She was careful, too.

This guy, though? He sounded alright. A southern accent, a bit of a hillbilly twang going on, but he’d been polite and well spoken. He’d explained to her that he was a police officer, in town for a law enforcement conference, and said that he wanted a little bit of fun. He had no problem with her charges and so she had arranged to meet him.

She was on the corner of Franklin and Turk at eight, just as they had arranged, smoking a cigarette and watching the traffic go by. She was thinking about her kids and about how she had made enough money already this week to pay the rent, pay for the groceries and maybe even take them to Six Flags for a treat. There was one at Vallejo. She was thinking about that as the Cadillac slowed to a stop beside her. Her old man had been a mechanic and she had been big into cars when she was younger so that she could impress him; she recognised it as an Eldorado, probably twenty years old. It wasn’t in the best condition. The front-right wing was dinged, the registration plate was barely attached to the chassis and the engine backfired as the driver reached over and opened the passenger side door for her.

He called out her name in the same redneck accent that she remembered from the phone call.

She picked up her bag and stepped into the car.

She was never seen again.

PART ONE

Regular John

1

The grey September mist had rolled in off the Bay two days earlier and it hadn’t lifted yet. It softened the edges of objects within easy sight but, out beyond ten or fifteen feet, it fell across everything like a damp, cold veil. June was often the time when it was at its worst – they called it June Gloom for a reason – but the fog was always there, seeping down over the city at any time, without warning, and often staying for hours. The twin foghorns – one at either end of the Golden Gate Bridge – sounded out their long, mournful, muffled ululations. John Milton had been in town for six months and he still found it haunting.

It was nine in the evening, the streetlamps glowing with fuzzy coronas in the damp mist. Milton was in the Mission District, a once-blighted area that was being given new life by the artists and students who swarmed in now that crime had been halted and rents were still low. It was self-consciously hip now, the harlequinade of youth much in evidence: long-haired young men in vintage suits and fur-trimmed Afghans and girls in short dresses. The streets looked run-down and shabby. The girl Milton had come to pick up was sitting on a bench on the corner. He saw her through the fog, difficult to distinguish until he was a little closer. He indicated right, filtered out of the late evening traffic and pulled up against the kerb.

He rolled the passenger-side window down. The damp air drifted into the car.

“Madison?” he called, using the name that he had been given.

The girl, who was young and pretty, took a piece of gum out of her mouth and stuck it to the back of the bench upon which she was sitting. She reached down for a rucksack, slung it over her shoulder, picked up a garment bag and crossed the pavement to the Explorer. Milton unlocked the door for her and she got in.

“Hi,” she said in a lazy drawl.

“Hi.”

“Thanks for being so quick. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“You know the McDonalds in Balboa Park?”

He thought for a moment. Six months driving around San Francisco had given him a decent grasp of local geography. “I know it.”

“That’s where we’re headed.”

“Okay then.”

Milton changed into first and pulled back out into the sparse traffic. The rush hour had dissipated. He settled back into his seat and nudged the car up to a steady forty-five. He looked in the mirror at his passenger: Madison had opened her rucksack and taken out a book. It looked thick and substantial; a text-book, he thought. The dispatcher had told him to look for a blonde when she had relayed the booking although her skin was a very dark brown, almost black. Her hair was light and straightened and Milton wondered whether it might be a wig. She was curvaceous and small and dressed in jeans and a chunky sweater. Definitely very pretty. She read her book in silence. Milton flicked his eyes away again and concentrated on the road.

They passed through Mission Bay, Potrero Hill and into Balboa Park. The McDonalds, a large drive-thru, was in the grid of streets south of Ocean Avenue. There were advertisements for three-for-two on steak burritos and cups of premium roast coffee for a dollar.

“Here you go,” he said.

“Thanks. Is it okay to wait?”

“What for?”

“A call. We’re just stopping here.”

“Fine – but I’ll have to keep the clock running.”

“That’s okay. I got to wait until the call comes and then we’ll be going someplace else. Is that okay with you?”

“As long as you can pay, we can stay here all night.”

“I can pay,” she said with a broad smile. “How much do I owe you?”

Milton looked down at the meter. “Twenty so far.”

“Twenty’s no problem.” She took a purse out of her bag, opened it and took out a note. She reached forward and handed it to him. It was a hundred.

He started to feel a little uncomfortable.

“That should cover it for a couple of hours, right?”

Milton folded it and wedged it beneath the meter. “I’ll leave it here,” he said. “I’ll give you change.”

“Whatever.” She nodded at the restaurant, bright light spilling out of the window onto the line of cars parked tight up against it. “I’d kill for a Big Mac,” she said. “You want anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“I ate earlier.”

“Alright.”

She got out. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He rolled the window down.

“Actually,” he said, “could you get me a coffee? Here.”

He reached in his pocket for a dollar bill.

She waved him off. “Forget it. My treat.”

Milton watched as she crossed the car park and went into the restaurant. There was a queue and, as she slotted into it to await her turn, Milton undid his seat belt and turned around so that he could reach into the back. She had left her bag on the seat. He checked that she was facing away and quickly unzipped it, going through the contents: there was a clutch bag, two books, a mobile phone, a bottle of vodka, a box of Trojans and a change of clothes. He zipped the bag and put it back. He leant back against the headrest and scrubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.

He had been very, very stupid.

The girl returned with a bagged up Happy Meal, a tall soda and a large coffee. She passed the Styrofoam cup through the open window, slid into the back seat, took the bottle of Stolichnaya from her bag, flipped the plastic lid from the soda and poured in a large measure.

“Want a drop in your coffee?”

“No thanks,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

“Not at all?”

“Never.”

“Wow. What is that, like a lifestyle choice?”

He wasn’t about to get into that with her. “Something like that,” he said vaguely.

“Suit yourself.”

She put the straw to her mouth and drew down a long draught.

“Madison,” Milton said. “I need you to be honest with me.”

She looked up at him warily. “Yeah?”

“There’s no delicate way to put this.”

She stiffened, anticipating what was coming next. “Spit it out.”

“Are you a prostitute?”

“You’re a real charmer,” she said.

“Please, Madison – no attitude. Just answer the question.”

“I prefer ‘escort.’”

“Are you an escort?”

“Yes. You got a problem with it?”

“Of course I do. If we get pulled over I could get charged with promoting prostitution. That’s a felony.”

“If that happens, which it won’t, then you just tell them that I’m your friend. How they gonna say otherwise?”

“You make it sound like it’s happened to you before.”

“Hardly ever, and, whenever it has, it’s never been a big deal.”

“No,” Milton said. “I’m sorry. It’s a big deal for me.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t need a criminal record. You’re going to have to get out. You can call another cab from here.”

“Please, John,” she said. He wondered for a moment how she knew his name and then he remembered that his picture and details were displayed on the laminated card that he had fixed to the back of his seat. “I can’t afford this right now.”

“And I can’t take the risk.”

“Please,” she said again. He looked up into the mirror. She was staring straight at him. “Come on, man. If you leave me here I’ll never get a ride before they call me. I’ll miss the party and these guys, man, this agency I work for, they’ve got a zero tolerance policy when the girls no-show. They’ll fire me for sure and I can’t afford that right now.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not my problem.”

“Look, man, I’m begging you. I’ve got a little kid. Eliza. She’s just two years old – you’ve got no idea how cute she is. If I get fired tonight then there’s no way I’m going to be able to pay the rent. Social services will try to take her away from me again and that just can’t happen.”

Milton stared out at the queued traffic on Ocean Avenue, the glow of a hundred brake lights blooming on and off in the soupy fog as they waited for the junction to go to green. He drummed his fingers on the wheel as he turned the prospect over in his mind, aware that the girl was looking at him in the mirror with big, soulful, hopeful eyes.

He knew he was going to regret this.

“On one condition: no drugs.”

“Sure thing. No drugs.”

“You’re not carrying anything?”

“No, man. Nothing, I swear.”

“No cocaine. No pills. No weed.”

“I swear it, on my daughter’s life, I haven’t got a thing. I’m already on probation. I got to pee in a cup twice a week, man. If I get caught with anything in my system, they take her away from me just like that. People say a lot of things about me, John, but one thing they don’t say is that I’m stupid. It’s not worth the risk.”

He watched her answer very carefully. She was emphatic and convincing and he was as satisfied as he could be that she was telling the truth.

“This is against my better judgment,” he said, “but, alright.”

“Thanks, John. You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”

He was about to answer when her cellphone buzzed. She fumbled for it in her bag and put it to her ear. Her tone became deferential and compliant. He didn’t catch any names but it was obviously about where they were headed next. The conversation was short. She put the phone back into her bag.

“You know Belvedere?”

“Don’t get up there very often.”

“Full of rich folks.”

“I know that. That’s where we’re headed?”

“Please.”

“You got an address?”

She gave it to him and he entered it into the sat nav slotted into a holder that was suction-cupped to the windshield. The little unit calculated and displayed the best route.

“The 101 up to the bridge,” he said, reading off the screen. “It’s going to take forty minutes. That alright?”

“Perfect.”

“You going to tell me what’s out there?”

“Like I say, rich folks throwing a mad party. That’s where it’s at.”

2

Madison was talkative as they drove north through Sunset, Richmond and Presidio, hanging a left at Crissy Field and joining the 101 as it became the Golden Gate Bridge. She explained how the business worked as they drove north. She met her driver at a prearranged spot every night. She said he was called Aaron and that he was twitchy but, generally, a stand-up kind of guy. He had let her down badly tonight. They were supposed to have met at eight at Nob Hill but he hadn’t showed and, when she finally got through to him on his cell he said that he was unwell and that he wouldn’t be able to come out. There was a number for a taxi firm on the back of the bench she had been sitting on. She called it. It was one of the firms that sent jobs Milton’s way. The dispatcher had called him with her details and he had taken the job.

She wasn’t shy about her work. She explained how she got jobs through an agency with the rest coming from online ads she posted on Craigslist. The agency gigs were the easiest: they made the booking and all she had to do was just show up, do whatever it was that needed to be done, collect the cash and then go. The money was split three ways: the driver got twenty percent and the rest was split equally between the agency and the girl. Milton asked how much she made and she was a little evasive, saying that she did okay but skimping on the detail. There was a moment’s silence as he thought of the flippant way that she had given him the hundred. He concluded that she was probably earning rather a lot and then he chastised himself for his credulity. The story about the struggle to find the rent suddenly seemed a little less likely. He wondered whether there even was a little girl. Probably not. He chuckled a little as he realised that he had been well and truly suckered.

The Bridge was lit up rusty gold as they passed across it, the tops of the tall struts lost in the darkness and the sterling-grey fog.

He heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened. He looked into the mirror and saw her taking a black dress from the garment bag.

“I need to get changed,” she said. “No peeking, John, alright?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t be a pervert.”

He concentrated on the gentle curve as the bridge stretched out across the Bay but he couldn’t resist a quick glance up at the mirror. She had removed her jumper and now she was struggling to slip out of her jeans. She looked up into the mirror and Milton immediately cast his eyes back down onto the road ahead; she said nothing but when he flicked his eyes back up again there was a playful smile on her lips.

They crossed over into Sausalito and then Marin City.

“Done,” she said. “You can look now.”

He did. Milton knew very little about women’s clothes but the simple black cocktail dress she was wearing had obviously been purchased in an expensive boutique. It was sleeveless, with a plain design and a deep collar that exposed her décolletage.

“You look very pretty,” he said, a little uncomfortably.

“Thank you, John.”

It was coming up to ten when Milton took the ramp off the interstate at Strawberry and negotiated the traffic circle around the tall brick spire that marked the turning onto Tiburon Boulevard. It was a long, narrow stretch of road that cut north to south right along the coast. White picket fences marked the boundaries of vast paddocks where million-dollar horses grazed. The lights from big houses that commanded impressive estates glowed from the crowns of the darkened headland to the left. They reached Belvedere proper and turned up into the hills. The fog was dense here and as they drove on the vegetation closed in on both sides, the beams of the headlights playing off the trunks and briefly lighting the deep darkness within. Milton could only see fifty feet ahead of them. The flora grew a little wilder and less tended. To the left and right were thickets of bayberry and heather, a thick jumble of branches that tumbled right up to the margins of the road. There was poison ivy, as tall as two men and thick as the branches of a tree. There was shining sumac and Virginia creeper and salt hay and bramble. Light reflected sharp and quick in the eyes of deer and rabbits. The road was separate from the houses that sat at the end of their driveways and, that night, the darkness and the fog enveloping the car like a bubble, Milton knew that they were alone.

“You know where we’re going?” he asked.

“Turn onto West Shore Road. There’s a private road at the end.”

He looked into the mirror. Madison had switched on the courtesy light and was applying fresh lipstick with the aid of a small mirror. She certainly was pretty, with nice skin and delicate bones and eyes that glittered when she smiled, which was often. She was young: Milton would have guessed that she was in her early twenties. She was small, too, couldn’t have been more than five-three and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked vulnerable.

The whole thing didn’t sit right with him.

“So,” he said. “You’ve been here before?”

“A few times.”

“What’s it like?”

“Alright.”

“What kind of people?”

“I told you – rich ones.”

“Anyone else you know going to be there?”

“Couple of the guys,” she said. Was she a little wistful when she said it?

“Who are they?”

She looked into the mirror, into his eyes. “No-one you’d know,” she said, and then he knew that she was lying.

He thought she looked a little anxious. They drove on in silence for another half a mile. He had been in the area a couple of times before. It was a beautiful location, remote and untroubled by too many visitors, full of wildlife and invigorating air. He had hiked all the way down from Paradise Beach to Tiburon Uplands and then turned and walked back again. Five miles, all told, a fresh autumnal afternoon spent tracking fresh prints into the long grass and then following them back again in the opposite direction. He hadn’t seen another soul.

He looked in the mirror again.

“You mind me asking – how long have you been doing this?”

“A year,” she said, suddenly a little defensive. “Why?”

“No reason. Just making conversation.”

Her temper flickered up. “As long as you don’t try and tell me I should find something else to do, okay? If you’re gonna start up with that then I’d rather you just kept quiet and drove.”

“What you do is up to you. I’m not in any place to tell you anything.”

“Fucking A.”

“I’m just thinking practically.”

“Like?”

“Like how are you getting back?”

“I’ll call another cab.”

“Back to the city?”

“Sure.”

“That’s if you can find someone who’ll come out this late at night. The fog as bad as this, and supposed to get worse? I know I wouldn’t.”

“Lucky I’m not calling you then.”

He spoke carefully. He didn’t want to come over like some concerned father figure. He guessed that would put her on the defensive right away. “You got no-one to look out for you while you’re here?”

She hesitated, looking out into the gloom. “My guy usually waits and then drives me back again. Keeps an eye on things, too, makes sure I’m alright.”

“I can’t do that for you.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“I’ve got a day job. I need to get back to sleep.”

“I told you – I wasn’t asking. Jesus, man! This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I’ll be alright. The men are okay. Respectable types. Bankers and shit. A frat party, maybe I’m a little concerned to be out on my own. But here? With guys like that? Nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine.”

The GPS said the turn was up ahead. Milton dabbed the brakes and slowed to twenty, searching for the turnoff in the mist. He found it; it was unlit, narrow and lonely, and the sign on the turnoff read PINE ESTATE. He indicated even though there was no-one on the road ahead or behind him and then slowed a little more.

He looked at the clock in the dash: the glowing digits said that it was half-ten.

The road ran parallel to West Shore Road for half a mile or so and then Milton saw lights glowing through the trees. It turned sharply to the left and then was interrupted by a eight-foot brick wall and, in the midst of that, a majestic wrought iron gate that looked like it belonged on a southern plantation. A white gatehouse was immediately ahead. Beyond the gate, on the right hand side of the road, a blue wooden sign had been driven into the verge. The sign said PINE ESTATE ASSOCIATION in golden letters that sloped right to left. There was a model lighthouse atop the gate. Milton considered it: a private community, prime real estate, close enough to the city and Silicon Valley not too far away. It all smelt of money.

Lots and lots of money.

“Through there,” she said.

“How many houses in here?”

“Don’t know for sure. I’ve only ever been to this one. Twenty? Thirty?”

“How do we get in?”

“They texted me the code.” The glow of her cell phone lit up her face as she searched for the information she needed. “2-0-1-1.”

He nudged the car forwards and lowered his window. The low rumble of the tyres on the rough road surface blended with the muffled chirping of the cicadas outside. He reached out to the keypad and punched in the code. The gate opened and they passed along a long driveway enclosed on both sides by mature oaks. Large and perfectly tended gardens reached down to the road. There were tree allées, expansive lawns, follies, knot gardens, boxwood parterres.

They reached the first house. It was a large modern building set out mostly on one level with a two storey addition at one end. It spread out across a wide parcel of land. There were two separate wings, each with floor to ceiling windows that cast oblongs of golden light that blended away into the grey shroud that had fallen all around. A series of antique lamps cast abbreviated, fuzzy triangles of illumination out across the immaculate front lawn. There was a motor court verged by espalier fruit trees. Milton reversed parked in a space; there was a Ferrari on one side and the new Tesla convertible on the other. Two hundred thousand dollars of peerless design and engineering. His Explorer was old and battered and inadequate in comparison.

Milton switched off the engine. “You weren’t kidding,” he said.

“About what?”

“There’s money here.”

“Told you.” She unclipped her safety belt, put her hand on the handle but then paused for a moment, as if unwilling to open the door.

“Are you alright?”

“Sure. It’s just—”

“You’re nervous? I could take you back if you want.”

She shook her head. “I’m not nervous.”

“Then what?”

“I’m here to meet someone except I haven’t seen him for a while and he doesn’t know I’m coming. The last time I saw him it – well, let’s say it didn’t go so well, didn’t end well for either of us. There’s probably a very good chance he tells me to get the fuck out as soon as he sees me.”

“I’m going back into the city. It’s not a problem.”

“No. I don’t have any choice. I want to see him.”

“It’d be no trouble. No charge.”

“I’m fine. Really. It’s completely cool. I’m just being stupid.”

She opened the door and got out, reaching back inside for her coat and bag.

She shut the door.

She paused.

She turned back to him. “Thanks for driving me,” she said into the open window. She smiled shyly and suddenly looked very young indeed. The chic dress and stratospheric heels looked out of place, like a schoolgirl playing dress-up. She turned towards the house. The door opened and Milton noticed a male face watching them through the gloom.

Milton wondered, again, how old she was. Nineteen? Twenty?

Too young for this.

Her footsteps crunched through the gravel.

Dammit, Milton thought.

“Madison,” he called through the window. “Hang on.”

She paused and turned back to him. “What?”

“I’ll wait.”

She took a step closer to the car. “You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I do. You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”

She liked to keep her face impassive, he could see that, but she couldn’t stop the sudden flicker of relief that broke over it. “Are you sure you’re okay with that? I could be a couple hours – maybe longer if it goes well.”

“I’ve got some music and a book. If you need me, I’ll be right here.”

“I’ll pay extra.”

“We’ll sort that out later. You can leave your bag if you want.”

She came back to the car and took a smaller clutch bag from the rucksack. She put the condoms inside and took a final swig from the bottle of vodka. “Thanks. It’s kind of you.”

“Just – well, you know, just be careful, alright?”

“I’m always careful.”