Back with Vengeance Read online

  BACK WITH

  VENGEANCE

  C.J. CARVER

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ALSO BY C.J. CARVER

  More in the Jay McCaulay series:

  Gone Without Trace

  The Honest Assassin

  The India Kane series:

  Blood Junction

  Black Tide

  Standalones:

  Dead Heat

  Beneath The Snow

  One

  Jay McCaulay’s consciousness crawled awake. Her head was thick and her mouth tasted sour. Nausea rolled through her belly. She cracked open an eye to see she was lying on a hotel bed, fully dressed. The curtains were drawn. Where was she? She couldn’t remember this room. She couldn’t remember booking into a hotel, but her tote bag was on the suitcase rack at the bottom of her bed.

  She rolled her head to check the bedside table. She could see her passport, along with a hotel room key, a paperback, a tube of lip balm and her old army-issue watch. Everything appeared normal, aside from the fact that she hadn’t got undressed before she’d fallen asleep. Daylight seeped through a crack in the curtains, making her wonder what time it was.

  She took in the fact that she was incredibly thirsty. Her mouth felt as though it had been packed with sand and her head had started to ache.

  Why couldn’t she remember what hotel she was in?

  There had to be a logical explanation, like she’d had a reunion with her old regiment and drunk too much, or maybe someone had spiked her drink. It wouldn’t be the first time. Not only had she appeared to have lost half her brain cells but she also didn’t think she’d ever felt so dreadful.

  She struggled to get up, and the nausea rushed over her like a tidal wave. She only just made it to the bathroom in time, but barely brought up anything. Just a thin, mean trickle of saliva, but she couldn’t stop retching.

  After a while the sensation passed, and she sank on to the bathroom floor and wiped her mouth. Sweat prickled her forehead. Her hands were trembling, her skin cold. She hadn’t felt so bone-marrow ill since she was eight and had contracted chicken pox. Her parents had taken one look at her weeping outside their bedroom and had taken her into their bed to comfort her. The memory gave her a little strength and she got to her feet. She poured a glass of water, drank it, then poured another and drank that as well. She glanced at the toiletries in the little basket by the vanity mirror. She looked again, her skin crawling. She picked up the miniature bottle of shampoo and stared at the letters. They were Cyrillic.

  In a rush she crossed the hotel room and flung the curtains wide. For a moment, her mind went blank; it couldn’t process what it was seeing.

  Faceless, grey blocks stretched as far as her eye could see. There were wide grey roads with six lanes of rushing traffic and, just below, a quiet acre of park. She could see the Kafe Biskvit and the Smolenskaya Metro, and beyond that was a broad, grey river flowing in front of the Kremlin.

  She was in Moscow.

  And she had no idea how she’d got there.

  Two

  Jay turned back to the bedroom. Her breathing was tight. Keep calm, she told herself. You’ll remember, just give it time. You’ve had too much vodka or maybe something bad to eat, like a dumpling filled with rotten meat. At the thought of food, her stomach rebelled, and she bolted for the bathroom and threw up the water she’d just drunk.

  Shivering, she flushed the loo and dashed her face with cold water, rinsing out her mouth before returning to the room. She checked the hotel directory to see she was staying at the Hotel Oktyabrskaya II, which appeared to be one of the better hotels in Moscow – having five stars and prices to match. She had to be here on business. She couldn’t afford such an upmarket hotel and would normally have stayed in a two- or three-star Intourist hotel further from the centre. Closing her eyes, she pictured the office back in London – cramped, overflowing with paper and smelling of coffee and pastries – and tried to think why Nick might have sent her to Moscow. Nothing. Not even a whisper of a meeting or a mission in her memory.

  Panic rose.

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  Feeling dizzy, she returned to the bathroom and drank two glasses of water. She couldn’t seem to rehydrate and her head was now pounding. She wondered if she should call for a hotel doctor but decided against it for the moment. She needed time to fill in the blanks.

  First, Jay studied the hotel room. Aside from the crinkles of the bedcover where she’d lain, the hotel room appeared unused. The sanitary strip across the toilet bowl had been intact, the towels perfectly hung and the minibar’s security tab unbroken.

  She turned to look for her mobile phone – which she’d normally put on the bedside table – but it wasn’t there, nor was her recharger. Carefully, she checked her tote bag. Spare jeans, socks, washbag – she picked through everything. Eventually, she sank back on her heels. Everything was there, including her phone, but what troubled her was that they were in her tote bag. She always kept her phone and iPod in her handbag; she never packed them in her general luggage. It was a small thing – tiny compared to not remembering what she was doing in Moscow – but it felt important.

  She wanted to check her phone messages but the battery was flat, so she put it on to charge. Massaging her forehead, she tried to think. She needed help. Backup. Someone or something to kick-start her memory and jog everything into place. A single word might do it. She picked up the hotel phone, wondering who to call. She didn’t dare call her mother. What about Nick? Not a good idea either. Her boss always saw straight through her if she tried to fib, and if he thought anything was wrong he’d be on the next plane out, which was nice – at least she knew she didn’t have to be alone – but she decided to wait before she pressed that particular panic button. She frowned. Why could she remember Nick and her mother but not anything about her trip to Moscow?

  Her mind turned to her housemates, Angela and Denise, whom Nick had nicknamed the Girl Squad. Both women were tough ex-special-reconnaissance soldiers supporting 1 PARA, both of whom Jay had met on her tour in Kosovo. Like many soldiers, they’d bonded hard and fast after doing a dangerous op together, south of Pristina, and when Jay was invalided out of the army two months later she was delighted that the girls kept in touch. When the women had left the army the following year and had set up house in Fulham, they’d invited Jay to move in with them. Both Angela and Denise were no-nonsense, practical and trustworthy, and neither likely to overreact when she called.

  Her head was now pounding relentlessly so she swallowed two Panadol with another glass of water. While she waited for the painkillers to kick in, she turned on the TV – tuned into Channel 1, the main national channel – and laid everything from her tote
bag on to the bed, hoping something might jar her memory. She did the same with her handbag before checking her passport and air ticket to see she was here on nothing more than a flying visit; she’d flown in Friday the sixteenth of June and was due to fly out of Moscow Sunday late evening. A trickle of relief gave her a boost of energy, and she picked up the hotel directory and dialled British Airways.

  BA was an automated service, and Jay had to dial another number and wait for five minutes before she managed to get hold of one of their operatives, called Dmitry. Her Russian wasn’t bad, but unfortunately Dmitry had a thick accent, maybe from the east, which forced her to concentrate, making her headache worse.

  ‘I just want to check my flight departure.’ As Jay gave Dmitry her flight details, her stomach gave a swoop. She didn’t even know what day it was. As she reached for her mobile to check the date, she heard him tapping on his keyboard. He said, ‘Your flight was on Sunday. Do you need to book another?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your flight left at twenty-one fifteen on Sunday the eighteenth of June. Three days ago.’

  ‘Three days?’ Her voice was pitched several notes higher than usual. ‘Are you saying it’s Wednesday today?’

  ‘Yes. Wednesday, twenty-first of June.’

  Jay’s legs almost went from beneath her when she checked her mobile phone display to see he was right. She’d lost more than her memory. She’d lost five days of her life.

  ‘Hello?’ Dmitry said. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You’d like to rebook your flight?’

  ‘Yes.’ She started trembling again. She was overcome with an urge to see her mother, and allow her to fuss over her until everything was all right. ‘I’d like the next flight out of Moscow, please.’

  ‘The first seat I have available in business class is tomorrow evening.’

  Business class? Her mind reeled. She never flew business class. ‘Economy is fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ He sounded disapproving.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘I have one tonight, at the same time as shown on your ticket. Nine fifteen in the evening.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  After she’d hung up, Jay looked at her mobile to see she had a text from Nick, asking her when she was coming home, and two from her mother, asking the same. Both had left messages this morning. Jay dialled the hotel concierge. ‘I’d like to confirm when I checked in.’

  There was a brief pause, then he said, ‘Yesterday, at six p.m.’

  ‘Have I ordered any room service since I arrived?’ She knew it was an odd question, but she was sure the concierge had answered far more peculiar ones.

  A small pause while he checked his screen. ‘No, madam. You have not used room service. You also requested not to be disturbed by housekeeping for the duration of your visit.’

  ‘How long am I booked in for?’

  ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Did I give you my card details?’

  A small pause. ‘According to my records, the room was paid for in cash.’

  She mulled this over. ‘And you say none of your staff have entered my room since I arrived?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jay hung up. If she’d flown in on Friday, she must have stayed elsewhere for the past few days. Where?

  She checked her watch – just after twelve o’clock – which made it around nine in the morning in London. Ten hours until she got home. It was too long to wait. She needed answers now. Picking up the phone again, she dialled. Listened as the phone connected and began to ring. Outside it was cloudy and looked bleak and windy, but since people were wearing cotton trousers and sleeveless dresses, she assumed it was warmer than it appeared.

  Her heart sank when there was no reply.

  She was about to redial, in case Denise and Angela were having coffee in the garden, when she remembered they’d been on holiday in Cyprus. They’d asked her along, and although she had been tempted – she hadn’t had a holiday all year – she’d decided to save her time to go hill walking in Scotland later in the year. Were they still in Cyprus? Jay dialled Denise’s mobile.

  Denise picked up on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  ‘Hey, you! What’s happening? The house burned down yet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m in Moscow.’

  ‘Holy cow.What the hell are you doing there?’

  Jay took a gulp of water. ‘That’s what I want to know. Look, don’t freak out, but I seem to be missing part of my memory. I can remember pretty much everything – Nick and work, you and Angela, my family – but not what I’m doing here. I woke up in a hotel room I’d never been in before about half an hour ago and don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘Wow, some party.’ Denise sounded impressed.

  ‘But I can’t remember.’ Despite making an effort to remain calm, panic edged her voice. ‘I can’t remember flying in – apparently I flew business class, something I’m not likely to forget – nor checking into the hotel. I’ve been here for five days and can’t remember a single thing.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  There was a brief silence. Denise’s tone turned brisk. ‘OK. What’s the last thing you remember?’

  There was a flash of blonde hair, a brief glimpse of a woman laughing, but when she chased the vision a grey wall descended.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘OK, when did you last see Nick?’

  ‘At the airport.’ She was surprised at how easily the memory returned. ‘He drove me there. He was on his way to Reading and said he’d drop me off.’

  Her boss, Nick Morgan, an ex-marine in his late fifties, was as hard and rugged as an old tree stump, but his heart was as soft as sap.The image of him made something loosen inside, and, for the first time since she’d woken, she took a full breath. She hadn’t realised she’d been breathing fast and shallow for so long.

  ‘He dropped me outside the terminal. We weren’t in his car, but Gill’s. His was being serviced.’

  She could almost smell the jet fuel as she climbed out of Nick’s car, the memory was so vivid. He came round to open the boot – as was his custom before she left on a mission – before pecking her on the cheek and telling her to keep safe. As she pictured Nick, his pale eyes scanning the crowds – the marine in him always aware, on duty – the greyness in her mind abruptly dissolved and a name sliced hard and bright across her consciousness.

  ‘I know who I was supposed to be meeting here.’ Her voice came out excited. ‘They’re a reporter for a weekly paper, MoskovskieNovosti –Moscow News. Her name’s Anna Vorontsove.’

  ‘Hey, that’s great.’ Denise sounded relieved. ‘Maybe you can ring her, get her to fill in the blanks.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘What else can we do? You want us to fly out? You know it’s not a problem. We love Russian women.’

  The thought of having the girls with her was immensely tempting, but she hadn’t reached that stage yet. ‘I’ll ring Anna first, OK? When I’ve done that, I’ll let you know what’s happening.’

  ‘Good plan. Where are you staying?’

  Jay gave Denise the hotel’s name and phone number.

  ‘When are you back home?’

  ‘I get in tonight. My flight lands at ten fifteen.’

  ‘Look, you need to know we’re leaving Cyprus in a couple of hours. If our flight’s on time, we’ll pick you up, OK?’

  ‘Please don’t.’ No matter what was happening in her life, Jay hated putting people out. ‘Just having you back at the house will be great.’

  ‘OK. I reckon we’ll be there around six. I’ll leave the mobile on when I can, OK? And if you need us, we won’t hesitate. You know that.’

  ‘I do. And thanks.’

  ‘Look after yourself, babe, and keep safe.
’

  Jay took a breath and crossed her fingers. ‘See you tonight.’

  Hanging up, she fetched some more water, downing two more glasses. She couldn’t believe how thirsty she was. Her headache had receded a little but was still there, softly pulsing against her skull.

  She tried to remember if she’d seen Anna Vorontsove over the past five days, but the grey wall was impenetrable and there were no clues in her luggage or handbag. No diary showing an appointment or an address. She tried to picture Anna and for a second she got a flash of a gold earring, a wide mouth and an infectious laugh, but then the memory was gone, swallowed in grey. Carefully, she moved her thoughts sideways, keeping Anna at a distance, and suddenly her cousin Cora’s voice rang clear as a bell in her mind.

  I’d love a holiday in Moscow.

  For a second Jay was taken aback by the vision of Cora crowding her mind and almost pushed it away, but it was so bright and intense – a bundle of auburn curly hair, amber necklaces and flowing yellow and orange scarves – that she relented and opened herself to the memory. Cora was in the living room at Norridge Farm along with the family, all eleven of them, including the grandchildren. Even Fitz and Amelia were there, having driven down from Fife. They were standing in a semicircle, looking at her solemnly.

  ‘It’s not a holiday, Cora.’ Jay’s mother sounded cross as she walked into view, as short and round and homely as a cottage loaf. Jay’s Aunt Elizabeth, almost a foot taller, followed. Elizabeth’s normally pretty face was thin and drawn, her eyes circled with bruises from lack of sleep. She gave Jay a hug and kissed her on both cheeks. She said, ‘Thank you so much for doing this. Be careful, won’t you?’

  Jay couldn’t see her Uncle Duncan – Elizabeth’s husband – and, for some reason, this brought a sensation of anxiety into her chest. Opening her eyes, she searched the memory for Duncan several times, but he remained absent. After she’d allowed the memory to fade, she picked up the hotel phone, dialled, and asked for the MoskovskieNovosti.

  When she was put through, she asked for Anna Vorontsove. The Russian felt like fuzzy pebbles in her mouth. Each language she spoke reminded her of a different sensation and taste. French was like smooth butter, German reminiscent of gravel, and Italian warm treacle.