The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Read online

  Conversationally he said, ‘Tomorrow you are moving to a different city.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked dully.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered, it’s a different country.’ He smiled at her. ‘A nice country.’

  She took this into her drugged mind and then asked anxiously, ‘Will you be coming with me?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, my job is done now.’

  Anxiety registered in her mind. She pointed at the syringe. ‘What about that?’

  He smiled again. ‘Don’t worry about that. Someone will be there to give it to you.’

  She tried to think through the haze of her brain. ‘Will I have to do those things before they give it to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘But as time passes you won’t mind so much.’

  She turned away, knowing that she was now a slave.

  A. J. Quinnell is the pseudonym of the author of ten novels including Man on Fire which was made twice into Hollywood Films - most recently directed by Tony Scott for Twentieth Century Fox in 2004, starring Denzel Washington, Christopher Walken and Dakota Fanning. The book sold more than eight million copies in paperback and was translated around the world.

  Full list of titles:

  Man on Fire

  The Mahdi

  Snap Shot

  Blood Ties

  Siege of Silence

  In the Name of the Father

  The Perfect Kill

  The Blue Ring

  Message from Hell

  Black Horn

  THE BLUE RING

  A. J. Quinnell

  First published in Great Britain by Chapman Publishers (Orion) in 1993

  Copyright © A. J. Quinnell 1993

  Published by CLLA

  The right of A. J. Quinnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-1-908426-10-9

  For Agnes Kwok Sheung Wah who helped restart my brain

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  EPILOGUE

  Prologue

  Hanne Andersen opened her eyes not knowing where she was. Very quickly she became aware of things: the dull ache in the centre of her head, the dry sour taste in her mouth, the fact that she could not move her arms or legs, the cracked, dirty ceiling above her. Painfully she turned her head, first to one side, then to the other. She was in a small box-like room with no windows, just a grey heavy metal door. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of the bed. She was clad in the same flame-red dress that she had put on the night before. Cold terror paralysed her as she tried to remember what had happened.

  She recalled Philippe picking her up from her hotel, the noisy restaurant and the myriad drinks, starting with wine and moving on to tequila-slams. It became vague after that, a couple of bars and then a very sleazy nightclub in the Rue Saint Sans. She remembered laughing a lot and Philippe also laughing as they watched the sex-show which both nauseated her and aroused her. After that everything was a blank.

  An hour passed before she heard the turning of the lock in the metal door. Philippe came in and stood by the bed, looking down at her. He was dressed in the same dark blue suit, white silk shirt and maroon tie that he had worn the night before, but the suit was rumpled and the knot of the tie pulled down. His sharply handsome face was covered in black stubble.

  Her voice came out as a croak. ‘Where am I, Philippe? What happened?’

  His eyes no longer held the spark of laughter, his smile no longer lit his face; it was a sneer. His gaze travelled down her body and he reached down and pulled up the red dress. She wore the wispiest of white lace knickers. He looked at them, muttered something in French and although she had only been learning the language for two months she understood the words.

  ‘A pity . . . a great pity . . . but orders are orders.’ He sneered again. ‘But a little something will not hurt.’

  He reached down and slid a hand under the waistband of her knickers and onto her crotch. She tried to close her legs but they were bound tightly apart. She screamed.

  He said, ‘Make all the noise you want. No one can hear you.’

  As he tried to push a finger inside her she gave an involuntary spasm and her bladder gave out. With an expression of disgust he pulled his hand away, straightened up and left the room. He returned in five minutes carrying a small metal tray. On it was a syringe, some cotton wool and a bottle containing a colourless liquid. He put the tray down beside her head and sat down next to her. Quickly he pulled up the sleeve of her dress, opened the bottle and put some of the liquid onto the cotton wool. He rubbed the cotton wool vigorously against the inside of her arm, then he held up the syringe.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said in a coarse whisper. ‘This is your friend. It will make you feel good . . . very good. It will take away your
fear and your headache. Your friend will visit you many times in the coming days.’

  Her body jerked as the needle entered her vein. She screamed again. He sneered again. Within minutes her body and mind began to glow. Her headache and her fear disappeared. She heard his voice as if it was floating near the ceiling.

  ‘Soon a woman will come and clean you up. She will bring you some hot soup. Later I will come again . . . with your friend.’

  Jens Jensen’s office was also very small, without windows, and in need of a coat of paint. As a young detective in the Missing Persons Bureau of the Copenhagen police force he did not merit anything grander. Short, florid of face and somewhat plump, he looked more like a banker than a policeman. He was dressed in a conservative grey suit, a cream shirt and blue tie and black alligator-skin shoes. He sighed in exasperation as he finished reading the report which had arrived that morning from the Marseille police. Then a wave of anger swept over him. He closed the folder, stood up, went out of his office and marched down the corridor.

  Chief Superintendent Lars Pedersen’s office was spacious, carpeted, and had wonderful views over the Tivoli Gardens. He was thin with grey hair, sharp-faced and looked very much like a policeman. He looked up as Jens Jensen swept into the room and noted the expression on his subordinate’s face.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  Without a word, Jensen laid the folder in front of him and then walked away and gazed out over the view.

  Pedersen had recently taken a course in speed-reading and it only took him four minutes to get the guts of the detailed report, ‘So?’ he asked.

  Jensen turned to face him. Harshly he said, ‘So she’s the fourth this year. Two in Spain, one on the French Riviera and one in Rome. And it’s still only mid-May. The Swedes have lost three and the Norwegians two . . . all in southern Mediterranean holiday countries . . . not one found.’ His voice was tight with anger, it follows the same pattern: single Scandinavian girls, either on holiday or studying in those countries.’ He pointed at the folder. ‘Hanne Andersen, nineteen years old, very attractive, studying French at a private institute in Marseille. Last seen leaving her small hotel at ten p.m. on the fourth of September and getting into a black Renault driven by a young man who looked French, whatever that means. That’s all we know.’

  Pedersen mused. ‘And all the others were attractive or beautiful, including the Swedes and Norwegians?’

  ‘They were,’ Jensen affirmed. ‘You’ve seen my report and the photographs . . . and you’ve also read my recommendations.’

  Pedersen sighed and pushed the folder away from him as if to dismiss it, ‘Yes, yes. You want to set up a special unit. You have this theory of an organised ring engaged in a modern white slave trade.’

  Jens Jensen was thirty-five years old. Were it not for the short fuse of his temper and his inability to show unbridled respect to his seniors he might well have progressed further in the force. He consoled himself with the love of exotic beers and a fascination for sea ferries. But now his anger erupted.

  ‘Theory!’ he snarled. ‘I’ve spent four years in Missing Persons. I’ve liaised with Stockholm and Oslo. I’ve travelled to Paris, Rome and Madrid on a lousy fucking expense account.’ He moved around in front of the Chief Superintendent’s desk as his anger mounted. ‘I’m the poor bastard who has to tell the parents of these girls that there’s fuck all we can do.’ He slammed the side of his hand onto the folder, ‘This afternoon Mr and Mrs Andersen are coming to my lousy little office to sit in front of my lousy, fifty-year-old desk and listen to me tell them that their daughter has disappeared and by now is probably a forced junkie and selling her body for the benefit of some spic pimps.’

  Pedersen sighed again, and in a patient voice said, ‘Jens, you know the problem. It comes right down to money. We have over four hundred missing persons reports a year in Copenhagen alone. Our budget is limited and gets more limited year by year. The special unit that you want to set up has been costed out as something over ten million kroner a year. The finance committee will not approve. It’s just not cost-effective. Not just for a dozen girls a year . . . forget it.’

  Jens Jensen turned and headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘So I’ll send Mr and Mrs Andersen to see the finance committee.’ At the door he turned and looked at his boss. ‘Perhaps they can explain to them about budgets . . . and about “The Blue Ring”.’

  Chapter 1

  It was a hot late September evening on the small Mediterranean island of Gozo when Father Manuel Zerafa drove his old battered Ford to the house on the ridge. It was a very old, converted farmhouse which commanded superb views over the island and across the sea to the tiny island of Comino and the big island of Malta. He was sweating slightly as he pulled the old metal bell-handle set into a vast stone wall. After a minute the door opened. A big man stood there. He had close-cropped grey hair above a well-travelled square face; a long scar down one cheek, another on the chin, another on the right side of his forehead. The man was dressed only in a swimsuit. His body was large and tight and deeply tanned. It also bore scars; one from the right knee almost to the groin, another from the right shoulder to the waist. Father Zerafa knew the man well; knew that on his back were other scars. The little finger of his left hand was missing. Father Zerafa knew how the man had come by some of those scars. Mentally, Father Zerafa crossed himself.

  He said, ‘Hello, Creasy. It’s bloody hot and I need a cold beer.’

  The man stood back and gestured a welcome.

  They sat under a bamboo canopy covered by vines and mimosa, the swimming pool was in front of them, looking blue, cool and inviting. Beyond it was the panoramic view. Father Zerafa decided that if he sat there for a hundred years he would never tire of that view.

  The big man brought two ice-cold beers and then looked a question at the priest. They were very old friends and, although the priest often dropped by for a cold beer on a hot day, the man knew that this visit was not just a courtesy call.

  ‘It’s about Michael,’ the priest started.

  ‘What about Michael?’

  The priest took a sip of beer and said, ‘It’s Thursday and I know he’s in Malta today with George Zammit. What time will he be back?’

  Creasy looked at his watch. “He should have caught the seven o’clock ferry, so he’ll be back in half an hour. What is it?’

  ‘It’s about his mother.’

  Creasy looked astonished. ‘His mother!’

  The priest sighed and then said firmly, ‘Yes, his mother. She’s in St Luke’s hospital, dying of cancer. Apparently she only has a few days to live.’

  ‘So what?’

  In an even firmer voice the priest replied, ‘So she wants to see Michael before she dies.’

  ‘Why?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘I got a call from Father Galea who ministers to the sick and dying at St Luke’s. She asked him about her son. She asked him if he was still in the orphanage. She told him she wanted to see his face before she died.’

  Creasy’s voice was as cold as a glacier. ‘She hardly saw his face when he was born. She abandoned him . . . You know how she did that. You told me.’

  ‘Yes, I told you.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  The priest sighed.

  ‘Tell me again, Father!’

  The priest looked at him and said, ‘The doorbell rang at night at the orphanage of the Augustine sisters in Malta. One of the sisters opened it. There was a basket on the doorstep covered with a cloth. A car was pulling away. In the car the sister saw the face of a woman and the face of a man . . . obviously the face of Michael’s natural mother and the face of her pimp.’

  There was a long silence while the two men gazed out over the view, then the priest said quietly, ‘Understand, Creasy. I have to tell Michael that she wants to see him. That’s my duty.’

  Harshly, Creasy replied, ‘Your duty is to Michael. You raised him in the orphanage until I adopted him. He never knew his mother b
ut you and I both know that he hated the thought of her. His mother was a whore, more interested in making money than in her own flesh and blood. You also know that Michael has been through hell. Why make it worse?’

  Another silence. The priest’s glass was empty. He looked up at the man and said, ‘Go and get me another cold beer. When you come back I’ll tell you.’

  He spoke in a tone of voice that few people would ever use, or dare to use, to Creasy. For a long time Creasy looked at him through narrowed, slate-grey eyes. Then he shrugged, stood up and went into the kitchen.

  With a fresh beer in front of him the priest talked quietly. He reminded Creasy of the time two years before when they had sat together on the church steps and watched a game of football between the orphanage and the village of Sannat, Michael had been seventeen then and was the most talented and co-ordinated player on the field. Father Zerafa ran the orphanage and coached the football team. Creasy had watched the game intently and enquired about Michael. Enquired in detail. The priest had explained that Michael’s mother had been a prostitute in the Maltese red-light district of Gzira. Michael had been fathered by one of her clients, almost certainly an Arab, which gave Michael his dark looks. She had abandoned the child at birth and he had been raised at the orphanage in Gozo. Two adoption attempts had failed, then Creasy had watched him play football. Father Zerafa had been astonished at the adoption, for Creasy’s wife and four-year-old daughter had been killed only a few months previously, on the terrorist bombing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie.

  Creasy was a retired, legendary mercenary. The priest knew that his adoption of Michael had been a cynical arrangement to bind a young man to him and train him in his own image. To do so he had to enter into a contract of marriage with a failed English actress, who had been subsequently killed by terrorists. He and Michael had gone on to exact their own personal vengeance and in doing so had forged a bond as close as two human beings could ever accomplish.

  The priest reminded Creasy of all this and of his own complicity in arranging the adoption, knowing what was behind it. He had watched Michael as Creasy had turned him into a finely tuned killing machine; waited while they went to the Middle East and exacted their vengeance. He had seen them return to Gozo and noted the extraordinary bond between them.