Capital Punishment Read Free Page A

side of the house, checked the street. Empty. He tapped on the garage, opened the rear of the transit. They lifted the bodies into the back, closed the doors, went back for the girl.
    The cabbie had opened the window in the room and the stink was leaving, but slowly, because of the thickness of the blinds.
    ‘Shouldn’t have done that ’n’ all,’ said Skin. ‘You’re not paying attention to the fucking instructions.’
    ‘Yes, well, I didn’t know that was on the cards, did I?’ said the cabbie. ‘You got my money?’
    Skin handed him a fat envelope. They went into the bedroom. Alyshia’s skirt and blouse were on the floor, streaked with vomit and topped by a brown blur of tights. She looked up from the bed in bra and knickers, the fear streaming out of her.
    ‘You got the alarm code to her flat?’ asked Dan.
    The cabbie shook his head, counting the money. Skin and Dan looked to Alyshia. She gave them the code. Skin made a call, gave the number, hung up.
    ‘Get us a plastic bag for her things,’ said Dan.
    The cabbie went to the kitchen, came back with a bag, put Alyshia’s discarded clothes in it. Dan removed a small black box from his pocket, took out a capped syringe filled with a clear liquid. Alyshia pressed herself against the wall and whimpered as he flicked the air out of it, eased off the cap.
    ‘You done this before?’ asked the cabbie, looking over Dan’s shoulder.
    ‘First time,’ said Dan, rolling his eyes.
    ‘I’ll be quiet,’ said Alyshia. ‘Just don’t...’
    ‘This’ll keep you nice and relaxed,’ said Dan, and then to the cabbie, who was now looking at him intently: ‘You fancy a vodkatini ’n’ all?’
    ‘Who’s going to clean this shit up?’
    ‘There wouldn’t have been any shit to clear up,’ said Skin, hooded face up close to the cabbie’s, ‘if you’d done what you was fucking told.’

 
2
     
    11.45 P.M., FRIDAY 9TH MARCH 2012
    Hotel Olissipo, Parque das Nações, Lisbon
     
    ‘Business or pleasure?’ asked the receptionist from behind the black granite counter, unable to wrench herself away from Charles Boxer’s light green eyes, which she’d only ever seen before on gypsies. He looked foreign in his black leather jacket, faded jeans and black boots; not the usual business client.
    A flicker of irritation as he relived being stood up at Heathrow airport. No pleasure and no business here for a freelance kidnap consultant, although he’d arranged to meet an old client later that evening.
    ‘Leisure,’ he said, smiling as he handed over his passport.
    She filled in the form on screen, saw that he wasn’t far off his fortieth birthday.
    ‘You have a reservation for two people with breakfast included,’ she said.
    ‘Sorry, it’s just going to be me now,’ he said.
    ‘No problem,’ she said, smiling, and he liked her for that.
    Some minutes later, Boxer was lying on one of the twin beds in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, going over the phone call he’d had at the airport with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Amy.
    ‘I’m not coming,’ she said. ‘Didn’t Mum tell you?’
    ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? Jesus Christ, Amy. We’ve planned this since Christmas and
now
you back out,’ he said. ‘And no, Mercy didn’t tell me. I haven’t spoken to her since Wednesday.’
    ‘She was probably too busy getting ready for that course she’s on this weekend. She told me to call you.’
    ‘And you left it to the last minute.’
    He could feel her shrugging at the other end of the line, knew her timing had been critical. He wasn’t about to go back into town and drag her out, kicking and screaming. This was the usual Amy
fait accompli.
    ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ve got to revise for my exams.’
    ‘At Karen’s house?’ he said, easing back on the sarcasm.
    ‘No, I’m just sleeping here. I’m working in my room at Mum’s. Call her. She’ll tell you. We had it all agreed before she left.’
    ‘But