The Minders

by John Marrs

  “She’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  Charlie didn’t think that of Alix, but he did want her to stop shouting. He required space to process the implications of Bruno’s murder along with all he and the other Minder had discussed and shared.

  “She’s your DNA Match, isn’t she?” Alix continued. “You actually arranged to meet her here, you two-timing bastard.”

  “My Match? Where did that come from? I don’t have a Match.”

  “This begs to differ.” She reached inside her bag and brandished a tablet. “The man who claims to be someone ‘who doesn’t trust technology’; the man who doesn’t even have an email address or proper mobile phone actually hides a tablet under his sofa. The same man who reckons he’s a Refuser and would ‘rather rely on instinct than chemistry to find a partner’ receives an email confirming he’s taken a test and been Matched.”

  “I have a Match?” he repeated.

  “You don’t deny it, then?” Alix yelled, and hurled the device at him with such ferocity that had he not batted it away with his arm, it would have hit him square in the jaw. “Good luck to you both, you’re welcome to one another. You could have had a bloody brilliant life with me but you’ve blown it. I deserve better than an emotionally bankrupt arsehole like you.”

  Alix shut her suitcase and wheeled it to the door.

  “Let me pack my stuff and we can talk about this on the way home,” Charlie said, but he didn’t mean it. All he wanted was to read what the email had to say.

  “Are you stupid enough to think I’m going to drive you home? The moment this door closes, you’ll never see me again.”

  He didn’t say goodbye because before the door even had time to slam shut, Charlie was already picking up the device from the floor to read the email. Match found, the subject heading read.

  He took a deep breath as, for the first time since becoming a Minder, something inside him began to stir.

  CHAPTER 70

  FLICK, IPSWICH

  Flick held a stylus between her fingers and a digital clipboard on her lap and stared blankly at the wall ahead. She had gone as far as filling in her name before she stopped.

  She glanced at the other women inside the private clinic’s waiting room. Some, like her, were alone; others were accompanied by friends, partners, or parents. Nobody made eye contact with one another. But all were there for one purpose—to end their pregnancies. Flick guaranteed nobody had the same reason as her for terminating a child.

  It was the first time she had been alone since viewing Bruno’s murder. An image of his bloody face and his name carved into his forehead lingered in her memory. She’d also been struck by his apparent lack of fear; there were no tears, no recriminations, and no last words, only an acceptance of his fate and even laughter before his killer snuffed him out.

  For the best part of the month that followed, Flick used this second Minder’s murder as an excuse to shy away from confronting the problem growing inside her. Until this morning. When she awoke in the B&B, she knew that at ten weeks pregnant, she was more than halfway to the recently reduced legal abortion limit of eighteen weeks. Borrowing Grace’s car, she found herself at a clinic in nearby Ipswich, ready to eliminate the complication she was carrying.

  Earlier in the week and in a moment of vulnerability, she’d visited Aldeburgh’s library to read a pregnancy guidebook. She learned that the cluster of cells inside her had morphed to the size of a strawberry. There were paddles where its limbs would eventually develop, and even though it couldn’t hear anything, she’d found herself frequently talking to it. It was then that Flick realised she was developing an affection towards it. She had to get rid of it before she no longer had the choice.

  She pointed the stylus in the direction of the box asking for a brief medical history summary. She was unsure whether to fabricate it in case it was ever traced back to her, or to be truthful. The Minder she’d met at the spa was the first person in so long she had been able to be honest with. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed it.

  But in the end, it didn’t matter. Because try as she might, she could not bring herself to write another word. Her hands trembled as she deleted the file before handing the clipboard back to the receptionist.

  She left the building—still as two people, not one.

  CHAPTER 71

  FLICK, ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK

  Rap music blasted from each of the speakers placed throughout Elijah’s home. Although it wasn’t to her more pop-orientated taste, Flick didn’t mind, as his favoured genre helped him to concentrate as he worked. And while he was upstairs putting the finishing touches to the marble sculpture for his forthcoming exhibition, Flick filled her time rearranging his kitchen cupboards and throwing away anything approaching its use-by date.

  Quite why, she didn’t know, as the twice-weekly cleaning service Elijah employed had only visited yesterday. But earlier, she had also cleaned out his fridge and washed all his cushion covers. She stopped suddenly. “Am I nesting?” she said aloud, and, for the first time, she didn’t automatically consider pregnancy a negative thing. She dismissed the question: it was far too early for that instinct to have surfaced.

  Carrying a child had stirred up many an emotion in her, including thinking about the family she’d cast aside in London and how excited they’d be for her if they knew. She wondered what they thought as they scrolled through her Facebook photographs which suggested she was living a carefree life backpacking around the world. Her only regret was not saying goodbye.

  Flick’s dilemma over Elijah and the baby weighed heavy on her mind. She wouldn’t be able to hide her pregnancy from him for long. Even so soon, her stomach was beginning to harden, and in a few weeks, it would start to protrude. He had a right to know that he was to become a father, but what else should he know about the woman expecting his baby?

  The music stopped, and moments later, Elijah descended the staircase. “I’m driving over to Snape to pick up some canvases,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “What, now?” she asked, her face paling at the prospect of being left alone. The murder of Karczewski and two Minders left her constantly on edge.

  “I’ll be a couple of hours at the most.”

  “I can come with you, if you like?”

  Elijah’s eyebrows knitted. “I know I keep asking this, but are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “It’s as if you’ve been struggling to relax lately. I see you when we’re curled up on the sofa together and you’re twitching your legs or biting the insides of your cheeks. Most people return from spa breaks refreshed but you’ve been like a cat on hot bricks for weeks.”

  His canny observations caught her off-guard. “No, I’m fine,” Flick replied.

  “Has this got something to do with the exhibition tomorrow? You said large crowds make you uncomfortable. I won’t be offended if you’ve changed your mind and don’t want to come.”

  “No, I do want to, it’s your big night. Just as long as you don’t expect me to appear in front of the cameras, I’ll be all right.”

  “Okay. We’ll only have to stay a couple of hours in Birmingham and then we can head back to the hotel and make a weekend of it.”

  “And before that, you won’t let me see what else you’ve been working on up at your studio in the old church?”

  “Nope, but I can’t wait for your reaction.”

  Elijah winked and closed the door behind him. His car had yet to exit the drive when Flick manually locked all the doors to the house, closed the windows, and turned on the outside perimeter alarm. Only then could she try to relax. She lay across the sofa, her knees raised close to her chest, staring out towards the sea. This would be a good place to raise you, she told her baby. If we spent the rest of our lives here, I wouldn’t complain.
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br />   A woman Flick didn’t recognise caught her attention outside. She was hovering a little too long on the sandy path separating Elijah’s house from the pebbled beach. And she was giving the house more than just a casual glance. She wore a blue T-shirt, mirrored sunglasses, and jeans, and her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was holding her phone up towards the property, as if recording it. Flick sat upright. “House, privacy glass,” she ordered, and the windows switched from opaque to mirrored.

  She continued to stare at the stranger, who was now holding the phone to her ear and pointing her finger towards the property. And Flick became unnerved when she was joined by a man, overdressed for the balmy climate in dark trousers, a shirt, and a jacket. Flick frowned when he patted his jacket pocket as if checking that something was still there.

  Their undue interest in the house didn’t sit comfortably with her, and her body tensed. Her intuition suggested she should leave quickly. Scrambling to her feet, she slipped on her trainers and grabbed her phone and a vegetable knife from the kitchen counter, hiding it under the waistband of her jeans.

  She exited through the front, only to stop at the sight of two large all-terrain vehicles with blacked-out windows parked on the grass verge directly opposite the house. She was sure they hadn’t been there earlier. The window of one was ever so slightly ajar, as if someone was watching her from behind it.

  Flick was surrounded.

  CHAPTER 72

  CHARLIE, MANCHESTER

  Charlie traced the scar on his thigh through the surface of his jeans.

  It was raised and ridgelike, despite him not reopening the self-inflicted wound for weeks. He pushed his finger a little deeper until it flattened, and then deeper still to make an indentation. He felt nothing physically, but emotionally, something inside had definitely started to deviate. The action was making him squeamish.

  It wasn’t the only thing that had altered. He was experiencing apprehension and a joy he had not experienced in as long as he could remember. His Match Your DNA notification was reshaping everything. That single email was lighting the embers of the Charlie of old, but without the crippling anxiety. And tomorrow, he would be coming face to face with the person he’d waited his entire adult life to meet.

  He removed a crisp white shirt from its packaging and slipped it on. He attached a pair of platinum cuff links and zipped up his black leather Chelsea boots. Then he studied his reflection in the mirror, confident in his choice of ensemble.

  Charlie had not dwelled on what he had lost the night a furious Alix stormed out of his life. Instead, he clicked the email link informing him of his Match, paid his fee, and almost immediately, Rosemary Wallace’s details arrived. She was a twenty-nine-year-old nurse in County Louth, Ireland. He waited until he had returned to Manchester before he made the first approach via a new burner phone and email address. The conversation flowed without effort. Rosemary enjoyed travel, was fascinated by conspiracy theories, and felt her Matched friends had outgrown her. It was as if she was reading from his script. Naturally he was suspicious.

  He cross-referenced all she had to say with social media profiles and the web, the electoral register, and the School of Nursing and Midwifery in Dublin searching for untruths, exaggerations, or signs this was a trap. Only when he was convinced that she was genuine did he allow himself to accept that he might have found his Match.

  After several days and dozens and dozens of emails, Charlie had been the first to pose the question about meeting in person. But with her on a poorly paid nurse’s salary and him unable to leave the country, he offered to book and pay for her flight if she was willing to travel to meet him. She accepted.

  Charlie removed his clothes and hung them up neatly inside his wardrobe, where they would remain until his date. He reflected upon the last week and how he had chosen to lie low at La Maison du Court, turning his back on anything involving the life he’d forged for himself in Manchester. The friends, the job, the flat-share, and the woman who’d loved him were cast aside like an outfit that was no longer in fashion. He must close those chapters for good to get the future he’d always wanted.

  Only occasionally did he give thought to his pals and wonder if they missed having him in their lives, especially so soon after losing Milo. Had he been around long enough to have made an impact? Unlike his childhood friends, he sensed this group actually cared about him, even if he’d been unable to reciprocate. He briefly considered contacting Andrew to assure him of his safety but changed his mind.

  He’d not sought out Alix to apologise for his behaviour, which brought with it another emotion he hadn’t felt in some time—guilt. However, it would be too complicated to explain why she had caught him leaving another woman’s bedroom at the spa without having to lie further about who he really was. It was more convenient to allow her to believe he’d cheated on her and make a clean break. Perhaps one day he’d find a way to say he was sorry.

  Charlie slipped on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie and made his way to the door. He owed it to the programme to remain vigilant, so this would be the third time he visited the pub in Chinatown where he planned to meet Rosemary. He’d already viewed it from outside, and today he was going to choose and reserve a table where they could sit and not be recognised by anyone passing the window. He’d also locate escape routes and hide a weapon in one of the toilet cisterns.

  He desperately wanted to believe that his Match was genuine, but Bruno’s murder was still fresh in his mind. He and Sinéad had clearly made mistakes that had led to their deaths. Charlie was not going to do the same. He had a reason to live.

  CHAPTER 73

  FLICK, ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK

  Flick’s skin grew tight as she hurried back inside Elijah’s house, locked the door again, and ran through her options. She couldn’t call him for help and risk him being hurt in the event of an ambush, and if she called the police, there would be an official record of their visit and Flick didn’t want to be documented. But if she was to remain where she was, she’d be a sitting duck. There was no choice but to strike first.

  As she opened the bifold doors, she formulated her plan of attack. First, she’d take out the man with a punch to the throat or a kick to the groin and then a knife to his thigh, and if she was lucky and caught his femoral artery, he’d bleed out while she overpowered his accomplice. A stab to her neck could be messy but might give Flick enough time to escape before reinforcements arrived. Then she could run to Aldeburgh’s caravan park, pick up the disused railway track at the rear, and double back on herself. Halfway to Thorpeness, she’d locate the camouflage tent and sleeping bag she’d left hidden under a hedgerow weeks earlier. Finally, she’d escape the town through its surrounding fields.

  “Why are you staring at this house?” she snapped as she approached the couple. “This is private property.”

  The man responded by moving his hand inside his pocket as his accomplice drew closer. This is it, thought Flick. She pulled her arm back and hit him just where she’d planned, square in the throat. He clasped it, and as he moved backwards to avoid a second attack, he lost his footing on the sand and fell to the ground. Without thinking, Flick pulled the knife from her waistband and held it above his head as the woman screamed.

  “Please don’t,” the man gasped.

  “He’s lost control of the drone,” his accomplice begged.

  Right then she spotted the object he had retrieved from his pocket. His phone lay next to him—the screen contained an image of a drone with remote-control directions.

  “Why is it flying over my house?” Flick yelled. “Who’s paying you?”

  “No one, it’s for his YouTube channel, it’s about luxury houses,” the woman said.

  “You don’t have permission.”

  “I asked the man who left a few minutes ago if it was okay,” the man added. “He said I could, as long as I didn’t give out his address.”


  Flick stepped two paces back and looked up. Wedged against the chimney stack was a drone. The couple posed no threat to her—she had made a terrible error in judgement.

  Aware of the fracas, a crowd was gathering, so she turned on her heel and hurried back to the house. Once inside with the door secured behind her, she threw the knife to the floor and ran up the stairs. Flick was feeling irrational and vulnerable and wanted to hide under the bedcovers like a child until Elijah returned. Then she could admit everything—who she was, what she knew, about their baby, and how she was a danger to herself, to others, and their child. Elijah was the only one who could help her.

  Flick stopped in her tracks when she reached his studio: inside, there was an open door she hadn’t seen before disguised by panelled walls. Curiosity got the better of her and she entered, running her fingers across the wall until she found a light switch.

  The slate floor of the side room was covered in scuffs and paint marks, and canvases fresh and old were propped against the walls. She looked through them. There were two early illustrations of what became the incomplete painting of Elijah’s uncle, plus other alternative versions of work she recognised from the exhibition she’d attended in town.

  Further inside were more unfinished paintings, but this collection was only made up of portraits of women. There was a familiarity about them, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. Some of them were bloodied; others depicted faces contorted by fear. They were unsettling. It was only when she reached the final one and recognised the nose piercing on the young subject that her jaw dropped.

  It was Kelly, the waitress she’d employed at her old restaurant, and whom her DNA Match Christopher had murdered.

  Flick clasped her hand over her mouth as she hurried back to the partial sketches of the other women, and only now, she recognised each one of them. They were all Christopher’s victims. Elijah was the anonymous artist she’d seen on TV in her flat months earlier who had caused a national furore with his controversial exhibition, capitalising on Christopher’s sickening violence.