Free Terror's Reach by Tom Bale Page B

absence.
The last of the five homes belonged to Valentin Nasenko. Another
modernist design, it had been the most original and imposing construction
on the island until Dreamscape had trumped it. To Liam it looked
like an electric sandwich-toaster, its open jaws facing the sea. While
nowhere near the top tier of oligarchs, Valentin was nonetheless said
to be worth several hundred million.
Officially the robbery was expected to net around three million
pounds. That was what the knuckle draggers had been told. The true
figure was likely to be a lot higher – how much higher, Liam tried
not to speculate, but he reckoned his share alone should see him
through to old age in comfort.
All in all, it marked a spectacular journey for a working-class kid
from Donegal. In his teens Liam had been excluded from school and
was continually in trouble with the police for vandalism and minor
thefts. He’d fled to England at the age of fifteen, stayed for a couple
of years with an aunt and uncle in Southport, then straightened himself
out and sweet-talked himself onto a college course.
At nineteen he moved to London and got a lowly administrative job
with the investment arm of a large merchant bank. He soon discovered
he had a gift more precious than any number of letters after his name.
He had charm. He could make people like him. He could take them
where they didn’t really want to go, whether it was a business deal or
a side bet or a fast and brutal fuck at the end of a boozy night.
Some of it was down to good old Irish blarney, of course, but Liam
was careful not to overdo that aspect. Just as vital was his instinct for
assessing merit and good judgement in others. Soon he was moving
up the hierarchy, generating lots of profit but seeing too much of it
go to other people. He decided to alter the equation in his own favour
and – perhaps inevitably – he over-reached, falling into a trap laid for
him by the firm’s compliance officers.
He was offered a choice: hand back what you’ve stolen and leave
quietly, or take your chances with the police. Sensing that his bosses
were keen to avoid bad publicity, let alone the regulatory attention
that would accompany any criminal investigation, Liam managed to
negotiate a partial repayment.
Even so, he was virtually broke when he walked out. And with
recession looming, his chances of further employment in the financial
services industry were non-existent. He had to sell his Audi A5
and his apartment in Canary Wharf, and ditch his high-maintenance
girlfriend.
He was renting a one-bedroom flat in Forest Gate when he received
a mysterious approach on behalf of a trusted former client, sounding
him out about a new and very challenging role. A role, he was promised,
that would utilise all his considerable talents.
    Twelve
    The traffic slowed to a crawl as they reached the outskirts of
Chichester. The A27 snaked around the southern perimeter, crossing
a series of busy feeder roads running in and out of the city. After clearing
the intersection with the A286, which led to a pair of coastal villages
known as the Witterings, the Shogun came to a complete stop.
There was a footbridge just ahead: a little gang of schoolgirls using
it to cross the road. They were maybe thirteen, fourteen years old, on
the impatient cusp of adulthood. You could see that from the jewellery
and the make-up, and the way their uniforms had been tucked and
rolled and unbuttoned in the name of fashion.
Joe sighed. Looked away. But Cassie had spotted them too.
'Do they remind you of your girls?’
Joe shrugged. The truth was that he didn’t know. Amy would be
almost ten now, and Hannah was eight. A few years away from these
adolescent tricks, or perhaps not. Everyone seemed to agree that kids
grew up faster nowadays. Perhaps they had already changed beyond
recognition.
No. He had to cling to the belief that he would always know his
own daughters. To think otherwise was an invitation to give up hope.
He felt Cassie’s gaze still