When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

‘I can’t see it,’ says Cyrus. ‘Maybe we missed it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could ask your friend in the car following us.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The gunman looks behind him and Cyrus touches my thigh, mouthing the words ‘seat belt’. I pull the strap across my body and clip it into the buckle.

  ‘This is it! Turn here.’

  Cyrus navigates a sharp bend on to a muddy track that leads to a hump-backed stone bridge with raised sides that is barely wide enough for the van to fit across. Up and over we go, bouncing and swaying along the rutted road, heading towards the base of a mountain.

  The car is still following us.

  ‘Did I tell you to slow down?’ says the gunman.

  ‘These potholes could break an axle,’ explains Cyrus.

  ‘Don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘OK, you’re the boss.’

  The van slides around the next corner. I grip the handle above the door. Cyrus makes no attempt to slow down. If anything, we pick up speed. We’ve reached a straight stretch of track on a downslope, where the road is little more than twin ruts through clumps of heather and half-buried boulders. Cyrus has the accelerator pressed hard to the floor and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ yells the gunman. ‘Slow down!’

  ‘You told me to speed up.’

  He tries to point the gun, but he can’t aim and hold on.

  Cyrus pulls down hard on the wheel and the van swerves off the track, rearing over the raised culvert so that the front wheels leave the earth. Everything that isn’t belted or bolted down is flying around us. Stencils. Bottles of tattoo ink. Needles. Wash bottles. Sterilisers. We’re on a steep downslope, gathering speed with every second, racing towards a stream where white water tumbles over rocks.

  The gun goes off. A bullet rips through the roof above my head. Cyrus is fighting the wheel, but we’re out of control, hurtling towards an outcrop of boulders. The impact will likely kill us, or we’ll drown in the river trapped in the van.

  We sideswipe one boulder and suddenly change direction before slamming into a rock the size of a bus. Everything explodes around me and I’m hurled forward until I see a flash of white and something punches me hard in the chest and face. In that instant, everything around is suddenly airborne, flying through a shattered windscreen. The bottles, paint, powder, needles, folders and machinery, along with a masked man, with blue eyes and a gaping mouth.

  64

  Cyrus

  I lose consciousness for a split-second and wake with an airbag deflating in my lap. My diaphragm is convulsing and I can’t get air into my lungs. I turn my head to Evie, who is still in her seat, her face covered with grey powder.

  Sucking in a breath, I inhale gas and dust and start coughing. Finally, I manage to croak, ‘Run!’

  Evie doesn’t react. She’s staring out of the shattered windscreen. I try to move but my right arm is pinned where the roof of the van has collapsed, crushing my shoulder. Using my good arm, I wipe dust from my eyes and follow Evie’s gaze. Beyond the crumpled bonnet and smoking engine, Berendt lies between two rocks. His head is bent at an odd angle and blood is pouring from his mouth and nose.

  ‘Run!’ I say again, more clearly now.

  Evie unbuckles her belt and shoulders open her side door. The van is higher on her side and she struggles to lift the weight.

  ‘I’ll hold it open,’ she says.

  ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My arm is trapped.’

  ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you.’

  She leans back inside the van and tries to pull me out.

  ‘I can’t move, Evie.’

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No.’

  A bullet bounces off the metal near her head. A split-second later the sound of the shot arrives and seems to echo through the valley. The other driver has pulled over. He’s higher on the slope, able to pick us off.

  ‘Stay behind the rocks. Follow the stream.’

  Another bullet hits the side mirror, making it explode. A sliver of glass cuts Evie’s cheek.

  Glancing back, angrily, she slides off the van and I watch her duck beneath the raised wheel and work her way around the front of the van, using it as cover. Craning my neck, I can look into the rear-view mirror. The dark-coloured four-wheel drive is at the top of the slope. A lone figure is making his way along the track, trying to get a better angle for his shot.

  Berendt’s gun! Where is it? I look into the back of the van, which is littered with broken tools and bottles. The pistol could have been thrown clear in the crash.

  Evie is sliding around a big boulder to my right. The water is about twenty feet below her. Glancing back at the mirror, I see the figure leave the track and begin making his way down the slope, zigzagging as he picks his way between rocks.

  He stops. Drops to one knee. Braces his gun hand with a cupped palm.

  ‘Get down!’ I yell. A moment later the bullet sparks off the granite boulder, close to where I last saw Evie.

  I pull at my arm, twisting it back and forth. My shirtsleeve tears. I try a different approach, leaning into the crumpled metal, trying to bend it away from my shoulder. I think of the American canyoner who used a dull penknife to amputate his own arm when he became stuck between two boulders. I would cut off my arm to save Evie. I would make a pact with the devil.

  The figure in the mirror is getting closer. He calls out for Berendt, not realising he’s dead. Meanwhile, I hammer my shoulder against the crumpled door, sending blinding pain through my side.

  Come on. Come on. I reach between my thighs, searching for the lever that might slide the seat backwards. It moves me away from the steering wheel. I have an extra few inches of room. Twisting my shoulder again, I manage to pull it free from the metal and immediately climb into the passenger seat, dragging my legs after me. My right arm is useless and every time I move, I feel broken bones scraping against each other.

  The gunman has almost reached the van, but is keeping his distance, looking for Berendt. I duck down, staying below the level of the window as he gets nearer. Sliding into the back section, I search for the gun, or any sort of weapon.

  ‘I know you’re in there.’

  The voice sounds familiar. It takes me a moment to come up with a name.

  ‘I only want the girl,’ he says.

  I lift my eyes above the edge of the shattered windscreen and see Bob Menken standing beside Berendt’s body. My mind begins joining dots, making connections. It was Hamish Whitmore’s old partner who followed me to Langford Hall and linked me to Evie. He also tried to steer me in the wrong direction by suggesting that Clayton Comber had taken out a contract on Eugene Green. The flight log in Hamish Whitmore’s diary showed a journey from Liverpool John Lennon Airport to Scotland with seven people on board. One of them had the initials ‘R.M.’: Robert Menken. He was here that weekend – at Dalgety Lodge – with Eugene Green and Terry Boland.

  A bullet punctures the thin metal of the van above my head.

  ‘Come out where I can see you,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t. My arm is busted.’

  He moves closer and points the gun through the shattered windscreen. ‘I won’t ask again.’

  I lean into the passenger door, bracing my back against it and pushing with my legs. Holding it open, I drag myself out using my good arm and drop down to the damp earth, holding my useless limb. The air smells of spilled fuel and burning rubber.

  Menken looks into the van, checking to make sure Evie isn’t hiding inside. He’s dressed in black jeans and a bomber jacket. Loafers. No mask. Satisfied that I’m no threat, he turns away and begins searching for Evie, heading back to higher ground where she’ll be easier to spot.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ I say. ‘People will find you.’

&n
bsp; ‘What people?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘I am the police.’

  ‘They’re on their way,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I called them.’

  My surprise amuses him. He leaps between two rocks, craning his neck, looking for Evie.

  ‘When they arrive, I’ll tell them I found three bodies and a wrecked van. Signs of a shoot-out. This gun will be in your hand.’

  ‘And how will you explain you being here?’

  ‘I was following up a lead – just like you. Hamish gave me some names – I checked them out.’

  He jumps to another boulder, swinging the gun from side to side.

  ‘He was your partner … your friend.’

  ‘I tried to warn him. I told him to leave it alone, but he wouldn’t listen. We secured a conviction. Eugene Green was dead. The case was closed.’

  ‘What about the other missing children?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Are you a paedophile, too?’

  ‘I would never touch kids.’

  ‘Yeah, they all say that.’

  Ignoring me, he slaps at his neck where a midge has bitten him. Then he closes one nostril with his thumb and blows out the other, clearing his nasal passages.

  ‘What does Fraser Manning have on you?’ I ask. ‘What’s your weakness?’

  ‘I have a liking for controlled substances and loose women. It was fine in the early days. You could arrest a hooker for soliciting and come to an arrangement. If they could fuck strangers for money, they could fuck me for a quieter life.’

  ‘You were pimping.’

  ‘I took my percentage.’

  ‘And the drugs?’

  ‘A bonus. A vice. That’s what happens when a young man has too much money and too much power.’

  Menken scrambles on to another boulder and looks along the stream.

  He yells, ‘I know you’re there. I can see you.’

  He raises his revolver and looks down the barrel with one eye closed. I watch his finger slowly squeeze on the trigger. The gun jerks and the sound reverberates around the valley, creating an echo that fades slowly.

  ‘That was deliberate,’ he yells. ‘Next time I won’t miss.’

  Silence.

  He aims again. Fires. Misses. Curses.

  The revolver swings towards me. ‘OK, enough games. You have ten seconds to come out, or the next bullet messes up your pretty friend’s face.’

  ‘Ignore him, Evie,’ I shout.

  Menken begins an exaggerated countdown from ten, pausing between each number. I desperately look around for something to distract or disarm him. My eyes settle on Berendt’s gun, which is lying in a spindly clump of heather near his body. The handle stands out starkly against the mauve flowers. I’m fifteen yards away. It might as well be fifty.

  ‘Four … three … two …’

  Menken is still standing on the boulder when I hear Evie say, ‘Don’t shoot him.’

  I groan. Why doesn’t this girl ever listen to me? ‘Walk towards me,’ says Menken, following her with the gun as she climbs the slope. I begin sliding across the ground, using my good arm to grab at clumps of grass, inching closer. Everything hurts.

  Menken is giving Evie directions. ‘No, not that way. It’s too steep. Go back down and come up between those rocks.’

  I’m ten yards away … then five. I hear Menken turn and yell. At the same time, I roll towards the gun, ignoring my shattered shoulder. The fingers of my left hand close around the handle and I roll on to my back, trying to hold it steady and fire blindly in his direction.

  I’m about to pull the trigger again, when I see him drag Evie into his arms, holding her like a shield across his body, with his forearm wrapped around her neck. She fights at him as he pulls the trigger, upsetting his aim. The bullet kicks up mud and shreds grass near my feet. He takes aim again, but Evie is kicking at his ankles and scratching at his face. He has to lift her off her feet.

  ‘Shoot him,’ she cries. ‘I’ll hit you.’

  ‘Just shoot him.’

  ‘No.’

  I lower the pistol and let it drop from my fingers. Menken lets go of Evie and touches his cheek where her fingernails have left scratch marks. Meanwhile, Evie has slipped away from him.

  ‘He’s out of bullets,’ she says. ‘He’s fired six times and hasn’t reloaded.’

  ‘What?’

  Menken lunges at Evie, but she stays out of his reach.

  ‘Revolvers carry five or six rounds. Terry taught me that. He hasn’t reloaded.’

  Menken makes a scoffing sound, pointing the gun at Evie’s chest. ‘I’ll shoot you right here, you little bitch.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s empty,’ she says, still eyeballing him – reading his face.

  Menken hesitates; no longer sure if he’s in control of the situation. Mentally, he’s trying to count how many shots he fired. He can’t be certain unless he checks the chambers, but that takes time – long enough for me to pick up the pistol.

  I know what he’s thinking. If he has one bullet left, he’ll shoot me first and worry about Evie afterwards.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask Evie.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I lean forwards and pick up the pistol, ignoring Menken’s demands. He points the revolver at me and pulls the trigger. I brace myself for the explosion and the noise, but the only sound is the dull click of a hammer hitting an empty chamber.

  A heartbeat later, I have the pistol in my left hand, aiming at the biggest part of his body. Menken looks at his gun in disgust and reaches into the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a fistful of shells, some of them falling at his feet. He flicks open the cylinder and tries to push bullets into the slots, but his hands are shaking.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ I say.

  ‘Shoot him!’ yells Evie.

  Cursing his clumsiness, Menken keeps trying to load the gun, but the shells fall from his fingers. He knows I can pull the trigger at any moment, but carries on.

  ‘I’m not going to prison,’ he says. ‘I know what they do to bent coppers.’

  ‘You can cut a deal,’ I say. ‘Become a witness.’

  He laughs. ‘There’ll never be a prosecution. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.’

  The tendons of his neck stand out like cables and the strain shows on his face. Finally, a bullet slides into the cylinder and he clicks it closed, lifting the gun towards Evie.

  ‘Do it properly,’ he yells. ‘Don’t leave me in a wheelchair.’

  I have the pistol resting on my hip, aiming at his chest. I squeeze the trigger. The weapon barks and everything falls away, collapsing in on itself. I don’t know what hits the ground first – the detective’s body or the pistol that drops from my fingers.

  Evie cleaves to me, burying her face in my stomach, wrapping her arms around my waist. I wipe mud from her cheek with my thumb.

  ‘How sure were you – about the bullets?’

  ‘I got lucky.’

  ‘Liar.’

  I sense her smiling. ‘Shut up and stop bleeding.’

  65

  Cyrus

  The pain wakes me every four hours when the drugs begin to wear off, but I delay pressing the medication button for as long as possible. Eventually, I succumb and feel the morphine blossom in my bloodstream and my mind begins to float away from my body.

  My right shoulder has been reconstructed by surgeons using titanium screws and pins. I have a fantasy of being part cyborg and part man; emerging from hospital like the new Tony Stark with a radioactive heart and a Ferrari red suit.

  My eyelids are sticky and refuse to open. I lick my forefinger and wipe away the gunk, turning my head so I can make out the numbers on the machines, measuring my heart rate and blood pressure. Beside my head is a chrome stand that catches the light on its curves. A clear bag of fluid is suspended from a hook, with a plastic tube that trails down and disappears under a wide strip of surgical tape wrapped around my left forearm.

&
nbsp; My right arm has been strapped tightly against my body to stop me moving my shoulder. The pain does that already. Last night, unthinkingly, I rolled over and thought someone had stabbed me with a carving knife. I haven’t made the mistake again.

  I take a deep breath and concentrate very hard on picturing Evie’s face. I haven’t seen her since they loaded me into a helicopter in Loch Etive and pushed a needle into my arm. The chopper had landed on a patch of flat ground above the wrecked van. I was flown to Glasgow where the surgeons operated, before being transferred to Manchester three days later.

  A nurse slips silently through the curtains. Her voice startles me.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she says in a lovely Welsh accent. ‘Are you thirsty?’

  I nod and she holds up a bottle of water with a drinking straw.

  ‘You were talking in your sleep,’ she says. ‘Is Evie your daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You kept saying her name.’

  She pops a thermometer in my mouth and rearranges my pillows, helping me to sit up. ‘You have a visitor. She’s been waiting for you to wake up.’

  For a moment I think it might be Evie, but Sacha pokes her head around the door, asking, ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘Not when you’re in my thoughts,’ I say.

  She blushes slightly and hushes me. The nurse smiles.

  ‘I thought you might be having a sponge-bath,’ says Sacha. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt the highlight of your day.’

  ‘I can wash myself, thank you very much.’

  ‘Can’t be as much fun.’

  The nurse has checked the machines. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. Don’t get his heart rate up.’

  Sacha leans over and gives me a lingering kiss on the lips. I try to pull her closer with my good arm, but she ducks away. ‘You heard what she said.’

  I reach for her again and she slaps me away.

  ‘For a one-armed man, you’re very handsy.’

  ‘I’m very bored,’ I answer. ‘Have you heard from Evie?’

  ‘They won’t let me see her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In a safe house causing general havoc and demanding to see you.’

  ‘What about Fraser Manning?’