The Lethal Target

The Lethal Target

Jim Eldridge


Chapter 1



Jake was worried; very worried. He walked around the supermarket, filling up his trolley with his week’s supplies, moving on automatic pilot. All he could think of was Lauren. It had been five days since he’d last spoken to her, and that had been by phone, not even Skype, so he hadn’t had the chance to see how she looked. She’d sounded odd. Nervous. He knew she couldn’t say why, their conversations were monitored by the intelligence services, but usually they found a way to drop a hint if something was worrying one of them, so they could read between the lines, put together the clues in texts and phone calls. But this last time, no hint, just an awareness in Jake that something was troubling Lauren. And since that last phone call, nothing. No texts, no emails, no phone calls, no letters.

It was at times like this he felt the distance between them: her in New Zealand and him in London.

The previous night, when it was daytime in New Zealand, he’d even phoned the place where she worked, the Antarctic Survey Research Centre in Wellington, in case something had happened to her, a serious accident, and she wasn’t able to make contact with him. But the woman he’d spoken to had said Samantha Adams (Lauren’s cover name in New Zealand) hadn’t been in to work for four days, and they hadn’t heard from her, which was very unusual.

They’d been in touch with Lauren’s flatmate, a young woman called Kristal, who said that Lauren had told her she was going away for a day or so, and not to worry. So she hadn’t. But since the Survey Research Centre had got in touch, Kristal had contacted the local police and hospitals to see if there had been any reports of an unidentified young woman having been in an accident; but there had been nothing.

‘We’re very worried about her,’ the woman told Jake. ‘This is so unlike her. If you hear from her, would you ask her to get in touch with us?’

Jake promised he would. Just as he was about to ring off, the woman asked him if Samantha had any Russian connections.

‘Russian connections?’ Jake frowned.

‘It’s just that on the last day she was in the office she had a call from someone, and the switchboard operator was fairly sure the person was Russian.’

‘A man or a woman?’

‘A man.’

A Russian? Jake was puzzled. Lauren had never mentioned knowing any Russians. But then it had been five months since they’d last seen one another. Anything could have happened in that time. What was clear was that Lauren seemed to have vanished suddenly, and without trace . . .

I have to go to New Zealand, decided Jake. Maybe someone had got hold of her and was holding her prisoner.

His mobile beeped to let him know he had a text. He opened it, and read: L needs your help, followed by a phone number.

His heart leapt. Lauren! But why wasn’t she phoning — why text?

He checked the screen for the number that had called him, but was told it was ‘number withheld’. Which didn’t make sense, as whoever had texted him had given him a phone number. It was an 01680 area code, and he had no idea where that was.

He tapped out the number. It rang for a few seconds, and then a woman’s voice with a soft Scottish accent said: ‘Craigmount Guest House.’

‘Hi,’ said Jake. ‘My name’s Jake Wells. I had a message to call this number.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Wells,’ said the woman. ‘Miss Cooper told us to expect your call. We’ve sent you an email with our address and how to get here. Do you know when you’ll be arriving?’

‘Er . . .’ Jake was too taken aback to reply immediately. Arriving? Why? Then he remembered the message: L needs your help.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Not far from Craignure,’ said the woman. ‘If the email hasn’t arrived, just call and we’ll send it again.’

‘I mean, where are you, specifically?’ asked Jake. ‘Southern England, northern, Wales . . .’

‘The Isle of Mull,’ said the woman, sounding a little surprised. ‘Scotland.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ lied Jake. ‘I’m sorry, I was getting confused.’

The Isle of Mull? Jake recalled an obscure press release from his time as a press officer at the Department of Science mentioning Mull. It was one of the Hebridean islands off the west coast of Scotland. How long would it take him to get there?

‘I should be arriving sometime tomorrow,’ he said, making a guess.

‘Check the ferry times from Oban,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve included them in the email. Will you be coming by car or as a foot passenger? I ask because we can arrange to meet you if you let us know which ferry you’ll be coming on.’