by Louise Voss
Pete moaned as the pair shoved him towards the ladder: a long, guttural sound that made Meredith’s skin crawl with sympathy and shared pain. What the fuck had Graeme done to him? It was too dark to see if he had any obvious injuries or was bleeding. But as they reached the steps again, he was able to grasp its rails. They shoved him up, each with a meaty hand on one of his buttocks, but he seemed too far gone to care.
Finally he reached the top of the ladder and flopped over on the tiles at her feet, twisting and gasping like a landed fish. Meredith couldn’t stop herself rushing towards him.
‘Stop,’ barked Caitlin, the gun again trained on her. Then she slowly swung it round to Pete. ‘You touch him and I’ll shoot you both right here.’
‘Pete,’ Meredith said, unable to prevent a strangled sob escaping. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He couldn’t speak, but their eyes met in a silent glint of love and desperation. I love you, Meredith mouthed, and he nodded, once, although it was too dark for him to have seen. He must have just known.
‘Up,’ Caitlin commanded. Graeme had joined her and was staring at the twins with an expression of gleeful fascination on his face.
Pete staggered to his feet, swaying, and it was only the tool wedged in her armpit that held Meredith back from helping him up.
‘Off we go, then,’ said Caitlin cheerfully, pushing them out into the warm night.
We’re not the first to be in this position, thought Meredith numbly. We’re not unique. She thought of killing fields and concentration camps; massacres; people being frogmarched towards open graves they’d been forced to dig themselves first. It’s just death. Comes to us all at some point. What did she have to live for anyway, if Pete was going to die too? Nothing. It was better this way.
Just a month earlier she’d had a twin she adored and three close friends, which was actually more than enough for her, these days. Only one of them was still alive – but once all this shit came out, there was no way Paula would ever still be her friend.
All that hate and revenge, for one kiss on a silo, dressed as a teddy bear, almost thirty-five years ago. Meredith wished again she’d never laid eyes on that toxic Kansan, blithely lying her way through a hedonistic life, knowing that her red hair and green eyes would dazzle any doubts away. She probably never even had any desire for nuclear disarmament – all Greenham was to her was an endless supply of open legs and sleeping bags for her to lick her way into. Then Meredith wished that Caitlin had been honest enough to admit that her precious Sam was a girl.
And that Caitlin wasn’t a lunatic.
But then, she thought, there’s no point in all that, is there? What’s done was done, as her mother used to say. And now she was done, too. If wishes were horses … something else her mother would quote. Meredith never understood what it meant.
It was a tiny bit of comfort knowing she would die in the grounds of the estate, with the person she loved most in the world. At least the last thing she’d see and hear was the sway of dark branches, the reassuring little noises she heard through the open window of her bedroom every night, tiny claws digging, black snouts snuffling.
The grass felt soft and cool under her bare feet. Death opened her arms and smiled a dark, welcoming smile, and for a moment Meredith felt a transcendent calm as she and Pete began to stumble barefoot towards their destiny.
51
Gemma
By the time Gemma drove around the side of Minstead House to the staff gate, she was feeling flustered and anxious. It was now an hour later than she said she’d pick Meredith up, and the woman wasn’t answering her phone, nor had she replied to her texts. Nor was she where she was supposed to have been.
Gemma had gone to collect Meredith from Trevor and Johnny’s barge as agreed, only to find it locked up and empty, no sign of life inside when she peered through the portholes. She’d had to go round all the other boats, knocking and calling, to see if anybody knew where they were. Nobody did, so she then drove around the three nearest pubs in the village, eventually finding the couple having a pint in the garden of the third. They were sitting in silence, looking glum, both wearing shades although the last soft rays of the evening sun had slid across to the other side of the garden. Trevor was twirling the tips of his moustache in an absent-minded way, and Johnny was flicking through his phone.
Gemma walked across to them, her heels sinking into the soft grass, exhaling with relief that she’d found them – while simultaneously swallowing irritation that she’d had to chase around the village to do it.
‘Hi – is Meredith here? I’ve just been to pick her up from the wharf, but she didn’t tell me you were all going to the pub.’
‘Oh, she went home this afternoon. She promised she’d let you know…’ Johnny said, looking up from his phone. ‘She didn’t want to stay. Said it was fine, as you were coming later.’ He paused. ‘Have you not seen her all day?’
‘No!’ Gemma said, more loudly than she’d intended. Worry had made her feel scratchy. ‘For God’s sake, why did she do that? Why did you let her?’
The two men raised their eyebrows at one another. ‘We’re not her keepers,’ Trevor said huffily. ‘She can do what she wants, and she asked me to drive her home, so I did. How were we meant to know she wouldn’t do as she was told?’
‘We were just trying to help,’ Johnny added, in a more conciliatory voice. ‘Poor woman’s in a right state. Is there any news about Pete?’
Gemma took a deep breath. ‘Yes, of course. It was very kind of you. No, I’m afraid there’s still no sign as to his whereabouts.’
She thought about vengeful, psychopathic Catherine Brown, Pete’s disappearance and Meredith’s vulnerability, and felt sick. In her mind’s eye she had a brief mental flash of Meredith’s little cottage, seen from above, a mere pinprick on the map of the Minstead Estate.
‘I need to go,’ she said abruptly. ‘Thanks guys. Enjoy your pint.’
Gemma keyed the code Meredith had given her into the keypad to open the side gate, reading the digits off the palm of her hand where she’d written them in biro. She could barely see them as dusk tipped into dark; black splodges of sheep moving in the field behind her, the soft rip of their teeth tearing at the grass the only sound she could hear.
Dark, and eerily quiet. Not for the first time, she wondered how Meredith could bear to live in such a secluded place. But it was one of many contradictions in the woman’s personality. She seemed so lonely and isolated, and yet chose to live out here on her own. She shunned people, yet worked in a customer-facing role – and did a great job with it. Gemma had sat in the shop with her the day before, and despite all the trauma Meredith had recently suffered, she was unfailingly polite, good-natured and helpful to each and every visitor who trailed in and out of the door in search of Minstead House toffee and tea towels. It was as if she was able to shut out the unwelcome emotions completely. Perhaps, Gemma thought, that was a throwback from her days in the public eye, where constant media scrutiny had taught her extreme self-possession.
The gate slid open and Gemma drove slowly in. She parked in the staff car park, which was empty apart from Meredith’s quirky little vintage car and two others, presumably night security. So she was likely still on the premises. That was good – wasn’t it? As Gemma approached the steps at the far end of the car park, down to Meredith’s cottage, she could see a light or two burning in the windows. Feeling prematurely relieved that everything looked normal, she walked up to the cottage, noting that the gate swung open.
She banged the door knocker, loudly, the sound reverberating around the silent grounds. Nobody came, so she banged again, then moved across and peered through the living-room window. The curtains were drawn, but she was able to see a sliver of the room through a gap. It didn’t look as if anyone was there.
Gemma checked the time on her phone – 10.20 p.m. It was possible that Meredith was in the bath, or had gone to bed, but surely she wouldn’t sleep through the sound of hammering on the door? She’
d be down, to check it wasn’t Pete coming back – or to see if someone was bringing news of him. She rang Meredith’s mobile again and held her ear to the letterbox to see if she could hear its ringtone coming from inside the house. Still nothing.
She wasn’t there. This was now seriously worrying.
Gemma took out her phone, realising she’d left her radio in the car: ‘Mav— … Mark? It’s me again, Gemma. Sorry to ring you so late, but I’m worried. I’m at Minstead but can’t get hold of Meredith Vincent. Has Emad rung you and told you what he found out about that escaped prisoner? The thing is, Meredith’s car’s here but there’s no sign of her at home.’
‘Yep, Emad filled me in,’ he said, when Gemma had finished. ‘Let’s get a trace on Meredith’s mobile. Leave it with me – I’ll get an oral authorisation from the Sup. It’ll only show the nearest tower, obviously, but at least we should be able to tell if she’s still on site. I’ll get straight back to you when I hear. What are you going to do now?’
Good question, Gemma thought. ‘Wait in the car for a bit, I guess.’
‘Not sure you should be there on your own, Meeks,’ he said, which was the closest thing he’d ever said to her that expressed concern and affection. She’d certainly never heard him call her by her nickname. Was he worried, or just mellowing?
‘Do you think I should come back?’
‘Hang fire for a few minutes, let’s see if she’s on the premises. If she is, I’ll send some backup over. Wait – isn’t there still someone up there on duty at the ice house? I’ll call you right back.’
Gemma trudged back up the steps to the car park, feeling in a strange sort of limbo. She was just opening her car door when her phone rang again. It was Emad.
‘Hi, Gemma,’ he said diffidently. ‘How’s it going?’
‘She wasn’t on the boat. Pete’s neighbours dropped her back home earlier – but she’s not here. I’m really worried now.’
Emad cleared his throat, a sudden harsh sound in Gemma’s ear, at such odds with his gentle voice that it made her recoil. ‘Um. Actually – I’m outside the staff gate. Do you know the code? Thought you could do with some company.’
Gemma laughed, half relieved and half annoyed. ‘You’re off duty!’
‘Yeah. Nothing better to do. I called in and asked them to create a CAD for me up at Minstead, in case you needed backup, so I’ll take the flak if it turns out to be nothing.’
She gave him the gate code, realising that she did feel happier that she wasn’t there on her own and that there was a CAD in place – Computer Aided Dispatch. She would have done it herself if necessary, but this covered them both, and frankly, didn’t make her the one who’d gone a bit OTT.
Her phone beeped. Mavis again, texting her:
Tried to call but line busy. Just seen Emad’s CAD. Cordon at ice house now lifted – forensics complete – glad he’s there instead. I’ll let you know if I get a trace on MV’s phone. Keep me posted pls. Mark.
Two minutes later she heard Emad putter down the gravel path on his moped. She couldn’t help smiling when she saw his face loom into her eyeline, framed by the helmet.
‘I’m not in uniform,’ he said anxiously, kicking down the moped’s stand and pulling off his helmet.
‘So I see,’ Gemma said, grinning at him.
‘I mean, will I be in trouble?’
‘Nah. There wasn’t time, and you’ve phoned in a CAD. Don’t stress about it. Mavis is trying to trace Meredith’s phone, but just when you rang I remembered something – I persuaded her to give me her Apple login a few days ago, in case anything like this ever happened, and I could use Find My iPhone. She wasn’t keen but I said it might be an idea, as a precaution. Let’s try it now. Hop in.’
Emad opened the passenger door and climbed in, clutching the helmet on his lap like a pet, as Gemma slid behind the wheel and started logging into iCloud. She tapped in Meredith’s details and waited a moment, tucking a long strand of curly hair back behind her ears. When she looked up, Emad was staring at her profile. When he saw she’d caught him doing it, he flushed briefly and looked away, embarrassed.
Something pinged on the screen and Gemma exclaimed, ‘Oh! Her phone’s still at Minstead. That’s not good. Why isn’t she answering the door then?’
Then she frowned and zoomed into the map with two fingers. ‘Wait – it’s not in the cottage. It’s in an outbuilding somewhere in the grounds. Fuck. This is not good. Looks like it’s about ten minutes away from the house. Let’s get down there.’
‘Should we call it in?’ Emad paused. ‘Sorry for the stupid questions. This is all still so … new.’
She smiled at him again. ‘It’s not a problem, Emad, honestly. No-one expects you to know everything straight away. It took me a good couple of years before I started feeling like I had half a clue about how it all worked. So, yeah I think we should – better safe than sorry. At least they’ll know where we are. And then we can see what’s going on – maybe she just went for a walk, you never know…’
They glanced doubtfully at each other, as Gemma radioed and left brief, calm instructions with the control room as to their whereabouts, in case they might need assistance on the hurry-up. Then they set off across the dark lawns, towards a copse of trees due south of the house and Meredith’s cottage, Gemma holding her phone out in front of her to see the map coordinates, while Emad lit the way with his torch app.
An owl hooted softly above them, making Gemma jump. For the first time, she felt the deep twitchy pull of fear, as if it was something physical inside her body, running around inside the nerve endings. She recalled the photos on the whiteboard of Ralph Allerton’s bloated corpse, and then what Emad had reported the mental nurse saying – the one who’d shown him Catherine Brown’s room with its Blu Tack pockmarks on the wall: how the staff thought it was funny that the woman had so many photos of a band she hated.
A woman so violent that she’d been considered a serious risk to herself and others for the best part of thirty years, with a rap sheet of violence as long as her arm. Not someone you’d want to have hating you.
‘Not gonna lie, Emad,’ Gemma admitted softly. ‘I’m a bit scared.’
There was a pause, then Emad replied, ‘Me too.’
‘She’s a nutter, this Brown woman, isn’t she? Sounds like she might’ve been responsible for the attack on Meredith last time, if she’s got someone on the outside helping her.’ Gemma felt a huge pang of worry for both Meredith and Pete. If it really was Brown, going to the trouble of escaping, presumably for the sole reason of having another pop at Meredith, they could be in serious trouble.
‘Sounds like,’ agreed Emad. ‘But all this might not be anything to do with her.’
‘Really glad you’re here.’
‘Me too.’
They walked fast in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sound their panting breaths, until the lawns ended abruptly at a wooden fence. There was a gate set into it a little way along.
‘Through here, I think. Shit, look.’ She pointed the phone at the gate, where a padlock had been sawn open and was swinging by its hasp. ‘This isn’t looking good…’
They broke into a run, down a narrow gravel path twisting through more trees, until suddenly they arrived at a small, detached single-storey mock-Tudor building.
‘Round here,’ Emad whispered, and they tiptoed towards the entrance, trying to silence their laboured breathing.
Gemma could feel her heart banging so hard in her ribcage from both exertion and fear that she thought it would be audible for miles around. The heavy Victorian iron door, set with stained-glass panels, was ajar, but all seemed dark and silent inside.
They crept in.
‘It’s an old swimming pool,’ Emad said in wonder. ‘Wow. No idea this was here. Why is it so far from the house?’
Gemma didn’t answer. She shone her torch around. ‘Hello? Meredith? Are you there? Are you hurt?’
No reply, just a faint scuffling from somewh
ere around the edge that made them both jump again.
‘Mice,’ whispered Emad.
‘Or rats,’ said Gemma darkly. ‘I hate rats.’
‘So this is definitely where it says Meredith’s phone is?’ Emad began to explore around the edge of the pool. When his torchlight picked out the tiles on the bottom of the pool, he gasped. ‘Fuck – look.’
In the middle of the empty pool’s bottom was a small but clearly-recognisable puddle of blood, so dark in the dim light that it looked black.
‘Oh God. And – here. Clothes. What the hell’s going on?’ Gemma had found a pile of men’s clothes on the tiled side – shorts, boxers, T-shirt. Like someone had decided to have an impromptu skinny dip, without noticing that the pool had no water in it. No shoes or socks though, she noted.
‘More over here,’ said Emad. ‘Looks like dungarees.’
‘Meredith was wearing dungarees earlier. Let’s see…’
She joined him and examined the pile, feeling through the pockets for Meredith’s iPhone. Nothing, except a scrunched-up tissue and a Minstead House-branded cherry lip balm. ‘They’re hers, I’m sure. Those are her flip-flops. I wouldn’t recognise her underwear, obviously, but that bra looks about the right size. I don’t remember what top she was wearing, but the dungarees…’
‘So how come her flip-flops are here, but there are no shoes by the guy’s clothes?’
Emad shone his torch near Gemma’s face. ‘We’re assuming they’re Pete’s, aren’t we…?’
‘Let’s get back-up,’ Gemma said. ‘This is too weird.’
‘Is the app still saying her phone’s in here?’ Emad asked.
Gemma immediately scrolled to it. ‘You call it in, I’ll check.’
Emad rang the control room and was just reciting his CAD number to the desk sergeant when Gemma exclaimed again and jabbed a finger at her screen.
