‘Don’t stand too close to the edge,’ he said, pulling her back, before flicking his cigarette and watching it fall down towards the wild water below.
She leaned into him, one arm around his waist, and he put a hand through her hair and over her shoulders.
‘We’ll be needing to cut your hair again.’
‘No, I want to let it grow.’
‘Understood, button.’
‘How high up are we?’
‘I don’t know. Fifty feet, maybe more. A long way to fall, that’s for sure.’
He felt a darkness shift over him, which he ascribed to the brown Ford he had seen and his paranoia about being followed and caught. He wondered if the man he bought the camper from had recognised them and told the police. He tried to brush his worries aside, as the north wind rushed the clouds over the cliffs. He picked her up and spun her and placed her back in the front seat of the van, then he drove on, telling himself that he was just imagining things. The brown Ford could have been an undercover policeman, but that was ridiculous. The police had no reason to be undercover, they would just pull him over as they had outside the Peak District.
He smiled to himself: the brown Ford was nothing. If he saw one of his brothers following him, then that would be a real paranoid delusion.
After Porthcurno George kept following the coast. The roads were like those he had driven on in the Highlands – single track. He had to pull into passing spaces to give way to oncoming traffic; except there was little traffic and the speed on the roads was otherwise fast. The cars that did pass George were travelling at least fifty miles an hour, while he only reached forty with a clear road ahead.
Around the next corner, George saw a cottage just after the Sennen road. It was single-storey, whitewashed with a black slate roof, like a croft. George reached into his bag and took out the map and the address that he had been given by the lawyer just after his mother’s funeral. There was a black and white photograph of the property attached, and now George held it up against the house ahead of them.
‘Look at that, button,’ he said, pulling over and pointing it out in the distance. ‘What do you think about that for a house?’
‘It’s pretty.’
When they drove nearer it was clear that it was almost a ruin. George pulled up and got out of the car. He had a key, but he could see as he approached that it would not be needed. One of the windows was broken and he peered inside. It smelled of damp and was unfurnished but for an old school desk in the corner. The floorboards were bare but there were still strips of old damson wallpaper on the walls. The lounge contained two simple open fireplaces.
George felt Moll at his side, her arm threading through his. Together they went around the back and peered into the small kitchen and two bedrooms. The back door was rotted; he merely pushed it and it opened.
‘I don’t want to go in there,’ she said. ‘It smells funny.’
She stayed outside, sitting on the grass, splitting autumn daisies with her thumbnail and threading one through the other to make a chain.
George stepped inside and walked from room to room, smelling the dampness, stamping on the rotten floorboards and inspecting woodworm. He imagined fresh paint and carpets, the fires burning, new wood in the window frames, a room filled with toys for Moll. He put his hands on either side of the broken window and looked out to sea.
The waves were wild but comforting and George felt a peace settle on him, which he had always known he would feel when he had arrived.
He turned and she was standing at the door with a chain of daisies held out to him.
‘Very pretty,’ he said.
‘It’s for you – a necklace.’
He knelt before her and bent his head, as he had as a child at mass. She tied the necklace carefully, taking her time, her breath a balm against his neck.
He stood up and the necklace stayed in place. ‘C’m’ere till I show you the rooms.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, turning and skipping. ‘It’s too dark and scary.’
‘I’ll be out in a minute then.’
The kitchen was old blue Formica with a stone sink, but there was no cooker. A bashed metal kettle sat on the worktop. His mother had had one just like it, and George smiled as he picked it up. She had used it to fill the bath when the hot water ran out – back and forth, lifting the kettle with two hands.
George glanced out of the window, but Moll was not there. He went into the living room and looked out of the south-facing window, but he could not see her there either. He frowned, wondering where she had gone.
Just then, he heard her scream.
33
Angus Campbell
Thursday 10 October, 1985
He approached her, his hands tight fists at his side, the wind lifting the scant hair from his head. He knew he would only have a few moments to save the child. He worried his lip as he formulated his plan. The child’s safety had to be his priority. But first, he needed to confirm her identity once and for all. He had to look her in the eye.
The wind was deafening – a rush in his ears – and he felt it push against his chest as he walked towards her. She was standing still, her fingers touching, hair messy across the nape of her neck.
‘Molly?’ he said, louder than he might have, because of the wind.
She turned immediately. Her hair had been roughly cut but it was her: blue eyes and a pronounced squint and her front teeth missing.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ he said, licking his lips, knowing that he did not have much time before George came out.
She said nothing, her head cocked to one side.
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded.
‘I’ve come to save you.’
He held out his hand to her, but she didn’t take it. She clasped her hands and pressed them into her chest, looking towards the cottage.
‘I know you’re afraid, but it’s all right now. Come with me. I’ll take you home.’
The wind was at her back, so that she wavered like a flower in the wind. She squinted at him, wrinkling her nose, as if to see him clearly.
Angus’s breath was in his throat.
‘There’s no time for this. You have to come with me now.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she said, looking again towards the cottage.
‘There’s no time for this,’ he repeated, taking her by the elbow and tugging her.
Her scream was high-pitched and sudden. It shocked Angus so much that he jolted backwards. He glanced at the cottage. They had only seconds. He knew how to deal with disobedient children, so he took her by the wrist and began to drag her towards his car, knowing that she would thank him in time.
Angus had always known that the Lord would lead him to George McLaughlin. When he reached Penzance he had taken the coastal route, making his way to the area that May Driscoll had told him about. He saw a camper van up ahead and had tailed it. He had imagined himself arriving in Penzance in similar style, and so he followed the van for fun around the snaking coastal roads. He imagined a family of believers inside, singing hymns.
The van pulled over and Angus had no choice but to pass. He glanced at the driver, out of interest. It was only seconds, but one look was sufficient. Angus had been certain. Big George McLaughlin was driving that van. Angus had finally found him.
It made sense that George would have taken another car, after the news reports indicated that the police were searching for a particular vehicle.
Angus’s mouth was suddenly dry with the excitement of it all. He would save Molly and return to Thurso not only a hero, but a soon-to-be prize-winning journalist.
He held up his map to disguise his face as he overtook the camper van. It was a straight road ahead and he was forced to keep driving until he was out of sight. He took a right off the coastal road and drove back towards town, before doubling back on himself and returning to the coast down the Sennen road. There were few cars on the country roads, and as Angus doubled
back, he noticed a black sedan in his wing mirror. He was travelling fast, over fifty miles an hour, in an attempt to find George again, and so he slowed down, taking his foot off the accelerator until he was only doing forty. Instead of drawing closer, or overtaking, the car behind also slowed and maintained its distance. Angus began to feel a flicker of apprehension.
There were several bends in the road, which was flanked by fields. After the third bend, Angus looked in the mirror and found that the black car was no longer there. He breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that it must have been visiting one of the farms, and continued on his way.
It was just after three when he saw the camper van ahead, parked by a cottage near the cliff side. He pulled into the roadside, parked with his tyres on the edge of a field of rape and proceeded on foot.
Once again, the Lord was guiding him. The child was kneeling in the grass picking flowers. He only needed to get close enough to see the eyes and then he would know for sure that it was Molly Henderson.
She was a wildcat and though she was tall for her age, Angus had not known a seven-year-old girl could possess such strength. She screamed as he tried to drag her back to his car. She was hitting his arm and pulling against him when George McLaughlin came out of the cottage.
Angus looked down at the child, whose face was streaked with tears. She was screaming up at his face, shouting, ‘No, no,’ as if he was the monster; as if he was the depraved animal who had taken her from her home.
He glanced behind and saw that the black sedan had parked next to his Ford. Instinctively, Angus let go of the child’s hand, but she had been pulling against him so hard that they both fell over on to the grass. Angus rolled on to his knees and when he sat up the child was in George’s arms. Angus was unsure whether to stand or to stay on his knees. He knew what George was capable of, although he doubted if he would do it before witnesses. Angus was now grateful for the black sedan’s presence.
‘Who are you?’ said George.
Angus stayed on his knees. George seemed like a colossus, his large hairy arms wrapped around the child.
‘You don’t know me, but I know you. I know who you both are,’ said Angus. He was shouting to be heard against the wind, but his voice sounded higher than normal. He swallowed, feeling his heart flail like a fist in his chest. ‘You are George McLaughlin and you have abducted this child, Molly Henderson, and I am here to take her home.’
‘Who are you?’ George shouted again, backing away with the long-legged Molly in his arms.
‘I’m a reporter from the John o’Groat Journal,’ Angus said, dusting the dampness and dirt from his knees and then smoothing down his hair. ‘I’m here to take Molly home.’
George frowned, and Angus thought that his assertive stance had made him weaken, but then he heard a car door slam and turned to see a tall, dark man standing beside the black sedan. Angus stared at him. He knew him. It was the man from the McLaughlin garage who had written him a receipt. Angus had suspected he was Richard McLaughlin.
George had seen the tall man too. He ran back to the van carrying Molly and drove off with sufficient acceleration to leave rubber marks on the road.
Angus had twisted something when he fell but he also ran back to his car. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as he pulled away and gave chase, and, as he expected, the black sedan also set off in pursuit. The car continued to tail Angus, but from a distance.
The camper van, which had been keeping to a leisurely pace until now, roared along the cliff-side road. Angus had to put his foot down to catch up and guessed that the van was doing sixty miles an hour or more. The exhaust was noisy but it also began to belch black smoke from the rear as the van snaked its way along the hillside. Angus was not very familiar with the Volkswagen caravanette, but he knew that the engine was at the rear and it looked as if it was on fire.
Above the sound of the exhaust and the crash of the waves, Angus heard a distant wail of sirens. The fire had come and now the police. He assumed that the police were here for George; that they had continued to track him even though he had changed vehicles. The Lord was showing his presence.
‘Your time is up,’ Angus proclaimed out loud as he drove. ‘For the wages of sin is death – Romans chapter six, verse twenty-three.’ Angus felt his face flush in anger, and the throb of the vein on his forehead that ran from one eyebrow over his pale, freckled scalp. George McLaughlin was going to pay for his sin and Angus relished the thought of witnessing it.
The sirens were still audible but Angus could not yet see a police car, so he kept up the chase. The black sedan was small as a beetle in his mirror. Angus was focused on the camper van, as it skidded and belched black smoke four hundred yards ahead. It felt as if everything in Angus’s life had been leading to this point where he, the righteous man, would root out the sinner.
Up ahead, he watched the camper van pull over next to a field. Angus drove forward one hundred yards then also pulled over to watch. The dazzle of the yellow rape field hurt Angus’s eyes and he strained to see what was happening up ahead. The van’s engine was still running – spewing black fumes. He wondered if he should overtake, try to slow George down; or if he should now approach McLaughlin and attempt a citizen’s arrest. The police were sure to be closing in and Angus calculated whether a citizen’s arrest would be possible, considering George’s great size. He sat clenching his hands on the steering wheel, wondering what was going on inside the parked camper van.
Finally, Angus got out of the car and walked carefully towards the vehicle. The smoke was heavy in the air and Angus had to put a hand over his face. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the dark sedan had also stopped in the distance. As he approached the smoking vehicle, he saw that the van was shaking a little, back and forth. The wind was still high but the shaking seemed to be coming from inside. It occurred to Angus that George could be murdering Molly right now. He began to walk faster.
The passenger door of the van next to the field of rape flew open. Above the sound of the wind, Angus could hear Molly crying. As he drew closer, he saw she was standing on the edge of the field. ‘No, no, I don’t want to,’ she was crying.
Just then, the van door slammed and the camper drove off, leaving the child behind. Angus ran up to Molly, only wanting to save her, but she screamed as soon as she saw him, and began to run at full pelt after the camper. There wasn’t much traffic, but the child could surely come to harm. She was hysterical and running down the middle of the road. Angus was surprised how fast she ran. He got into his car and followed.
As he drew near to the child, Angus noticed that the camper started to veer off the road towards the cliff side and then back towards the field, as if George was losing control of it. The girl was still running after it and Angus could not understand why.
At first Angus thought he saw a piece of material flapping between the back wheels of the van: something that George had run over – an orange flicker of fabric between belches of smoke. It was only when George veered again towards the cliff that Angus realised the van was on fire. Angus pressed on his brake and watched, mouth open, wondering if the camper van was going to head straight off the cliff, but instead it stopped only a foot from the edge. Now, side on, Angus could see that the engine had caught fire and this had spread to the inside. The child was now dangerously close to the burning vehicle and Angus realised that it might explode.
When he got out of the car he looked behind him. The black sedan was still parked half a mile up the road, and Angus listened against the wind, but thought he could no longer hear the sirens. He ran towards Molly, who was trying without success to open the van doors. Angus ran up to her and lifted her off her feet.
Redemption Road Page 40
