Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

‘I don’t need your help. I’m a big boy, I’ve made plenty of enemies in my time. I can take care of myself.’

‘We’re doing you a favour, you thick bastard,’ Mallet hissed.

‘You won’t be safe in Monte Carlo,’ said the Voice. ‘The Russians have the run of the principality. They’ll hunt you down and kill you. We can protect you, David.’

Lang gave a derisive snort. ‘Don’t make me laugh. How many Russians have been killed in London over the years? You couldn’t stop them if you tried.’

‘We can do better than your own men,’ the Voice argued. ‘We can offer you a private jet back to the UK, a safe house, round-the-clock protection for you and your family. If you cooperate.’

‘I’ve earned some protection already, haven’t I? All the work I’ve done for you in the past, I must have some credit left in the bank.’

A sharp jolt shot up Bowman’s spine and tingled on the back of his neck. ‘You’ve been working for Six?’

‘’Course I fucking have.’ Lang’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘I’ve been supplying you people with information on the president for years. The people in Ken’s inner circle, his business dealings, his meetings with foreign leaders. Ken hasn’t taken a dump in the last decade without your mates knowing about it.’

Bowman glanced over at Mallet, but the older man showed no hint of surprise. Did he already know about Lang’s involvement with Vauxhall? Bowman wondered. What else isn’t he telling me?

The Voice said, ‘We’re not interested in the past. We’re interested in the future. Start talking, and we’ll get you and your family into a safe house.’

Lang’s face hardened. ‘Nah. I’m grateful for the warning and all. But you can untie me now.’

‘You’re making a serious mistake,’ the Voice warned.

‘Don’t you people have anything better to do?’ Lang jutted out his chin. ‘Here I am, a respectable businessman, enjoying a nice weekend with an old friend, doing nothing wrong, and you come barging in here with your guns and your threats. It’s fucking outrageous. I should sue.’

Mallet leaned back in his chair, rubbing his lightly stubbled jaw. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Play it that way if you want. But you can forget about getting that OBE you’ve been after.’

The Voice cut in: ‘We know you’ve been paying a private lobbying firm to help you get on the Honours List. They’ve been pressing your claim hard, emphasising your charitable ventures in Karatandu. We have the power to make sure it doesn’t happen.’

Lang snorted loudly. ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

‘We’re serious.’

‘You can’t do nothing. I’m a good boy. I pay my taxes. If you had anything on me, you would have used it by now.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Mallet asked.

He leaned across the dining table and smiled coldly. Lang shifted awkwardly in his seat.

‘We know about the secret parties. The ones you’ve been hosting at your mansion in Essex.’ He wagged a finger. ‘The ones with the kids.’

Lang went pale. The arrogant look dropped from his face so hard and fast Bowman almost heard it thud against the parquet flooring.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice was small and quiet.

‘Yes, you do.’ Mallet sat back with folded arms and said, ‘What would your business partners and lieutenants think, if they found out you’ve been smuggling in underage kids for you and your Establishment mates? What would your wife say, come to think of it?’

Hatred flickered behind Lang’s eyes. The look on his face suggested he wanted to reach across the table and strangle Mallet.

‘You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t fucking dare,’ he stammered.

‘Want to bet on it?’

‘You can’t prove a thing.’

Bowman said, ‘What about Beth McKee?’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She was twelve years old when she went missing.’ Bowman bristled with anger. ‘I was in the Met at the time. We looked everywhere for that kid. Her mother was heartbroken.’

‘Terrible. But what has that got to do with me?’

‘You hid the body, didn’t you, Mr Lang?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I know for a fact that she was last seen at your mansion. Beth was the favourite of one of the lords, wasn’t she? You lured that kid inside and let some rich old bastard abuse her. And when the lord went too far, when he throttled that poor girl to death, you buried her to cover it up. That’s what happened.’

Lang’s face gave nothing away. But the narrowed eyes were filled with the threat of violence, the veins on his neck bunched tight with rage.

Mallet said, ‘Maybe we’ll get the diggers round to your place in Billericay. Start tearing up the grounds. See what we find.’

‘You can’t . . . you don’t have no proof.’

‘We don’t need any,’ the Voice said. ‘All we have to do is create a fuss, and the public will make up their own minds. We’ll seed stories in the national newspapers. We’ll populate chat rooms and social media with discussions about your sexual orientation. Our contacts will spread rumours among your friends and family. Our friends at Scotland Yard will begin an official investigation. Even if they can’t find anything, it won’t matter. By the time we’re finished, your reputation will have been dragged through the mud. No one will want to go anywhere near you, not even with a barge pole. That’ll have a ruinous effect on your businesses, of course.’

‘Your own life might be at risk, too,’ said Mallet. ‘They don’t tolerate kiddie fiddlers in your line of work. When your mob friends find out, they’ll be arguing over who gets to cut your balls off.’

A pained expression formed on Lang’s face. He swallowed hard and looked out of the window, as if searching for a sign from God. He took a deep breath.

‘Before I talk, I want certain assurances,’ he said.

‘You’re in no position to bargain,’ Mallet replied.

Lang pretended to ignore him and continued to speak directly to the laptop. To the unseen voice in Vauxhall.

‘If I tell you what I know, I want your word that you’ll protect me and my family