The same piece of waste ground—a calculated risk. Even if Bullimer had reported the crime, no way the cops had the resources for a stakeout. Time had passed, the crime unit would have moved on.
Even so, Peppard drove past, just to be sure. Then he did a three-point turn and parked at almost exactly the same spot as before. You could hear the motorway and see that glow in the sky that was Greater London. But there were no buildings and no hiding places. He wondered where Bullimer was. Probably back home, vowing never to travel anywhere again.
“Out,” Jarman ordered.
Peppard opened the boot and hauled out the case. It was big enough for a few days’ stay in a new country. Metallic casing, probably the same make as the briefcase. Vollers knew what was expected of him. He laid the case flat, unlocked it, and flipped it open.
“There’s a little clock radio,” he said, reaching beneath the neatly folded clothes for it. “It’s digital—tells the time in different countries. You might be able to sell it.”
He stood up, handing it to Peppard while Jarman crouched down and started sifting.
“And here’s the cash,” he added. Peppard held the cash in one hand while studying the black plastic box, wondering how to switch it on.
Vollers turned his attention to Jarman, leaning over him. “Please try not to crumple the shirts.”
Next thing, Jarman was clutching at his neck, and liquid was spouting over the contents of the case. Peppard’s mouth dropped open and he took a step back. Vollers was pointing the knife at him. It was an incredibly thin strip of shining blade. Jarman had collapsed, head falling onto the clothes, the lid closing over him, his knees and feet spasming.
“My money, please,” Vollers said.
Peppard handed it over.
“And the clock.”
Peppard almost dropped it, his fingers were shaking so much. The man tucked it into his pocket. Then he took out a cheap mobile phone and tapped in a number, his eyes never leaving Peppard.
“There was a problem,” he said. “But I’m fixing it. I might be a little late, however.” He listened for a moment. “The job isn’t compromised,” he assured the person at the other end. “The job goes ahead.”
Peppard glanced towards the back seat of the car, the photograph there, a head and shoulders shot of a man in an open-necked shirt.
Vollers had ended the call. He tucked the phone back into his pocket.
“Everything goes in the trunk,” he said. “Including your friend.”
“Then what?”
“You’re my driver, aren’t you?” Vollers offered a thin smile. “You’ll drive me.”
“And after?”
“Your friend is the one who made the mistake—and that’s been dealt with. You already told me you’re not an amateur. I’m not either, and that means I only do what’s necessary. Can I take it you agree with that?”
“One hundred percent, Mr. Vollers.”
“Then let’s drive,” Vollers said.