by Holly Watt
She stepped away, stood staring at the wreckage.
‘We’ll wait for the first emergency services,’ said Miranda. ‘But we have to get to Dominic, Casey.’
Casey ignored her.
‘Casey?’ Miranda’s voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away. Now there was a siren, far in the distance.
‘Casey,’ Miranda said, more urgently. At last Casey shook herself.
‘All right,’ Casey stood up straight. ‘All right.’
‘What did she do to you?’ Miranda was staring at her. ‘I saw you talking in her sitting room. I saw you smiling . . . I thought if I knocked out the lights, you’d be able to get away. And then you ran out of the house, and she didn’t follow you, so I thought you were safe, and I went to take out the cars . . .’
‘She had a gun, Miranda.’ Casey almost laughed, on the edge of hysteria. ‘A gun.’
Energy was flowing back through Casey’s veins now. She forced herself to think clearly, staring at the destroyed cockpit. Shrugging, Miranda turned away from her, walking close to the wreckage, peering at it thoughtfully.
Casey blundered towards the rucksack Clio had thrown away at the last minute. Dropping to her knees, she searched it.
Her own phone. A key that unlocked the handcuffs. A gun. Casey stood, rubbing her red raw wrists. She stared down at the rucksack.
A safe distance from the debris, a helicopter landed with a busy clatter, the paramedics running towards the mangled plane. But they stood back after a few seconds, nothing to be done.
‘I’m going to take my friend home,’ Miranda said loudly, as the medics glanced towards them. ‘She had an accident with a horse, and she’s in shock. She needs to lie down.’
Miranda walked Casey down the road, to where they had parked the car. Only a few hours ago, but it felt like a different life. The sky was bright now. Two little girls trotted past on ponies, red jumpers bright against the woods.
They climbed into the car. ‘Right,’ said Miranda. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘Later.’
‘OK. Tilney Cottage.’
Miranda braked to a halt beside the cricket pitch. The pub landlord was watering his gaudy hanging baskets in the weak sunlight. It seemed impossible that the Burton-Smiths had been just a few hundred yards away, imprisoned in their pretty cottage.
Casey moved to open the car door.
‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘You’ve done enough.’
‘But . . .’
‘And he might have been briefed about you,’ said Miranda. ‘He won’t know who I am, not exactly.’
In her black trousers and black top, Miranda could be an undercover police officer, a Jehovah’s Witness, a hostage negotiator. Or a journalist.
‘Plus,’ said Miranda, ‘you look terrible.’
Casey touched the cut above her eye. ‘I know.’
‘Call the police if anything goes wrong,’ Miranda said briefly, and Casey thought of the long list of disasters those few words might mean.
‘I will.’
Casey followed Miranda, all the same. Creeping up Tilney Cottage’s long potholed drive, and ducking behind the sprawling laurels. The black Porsche Cayenne stood in front of the house, sleek and menacing.
Casey held her breath as Miranda – shoulders square, moving purposefully – marched towards the house.
The man came to the door. Casey watched as Miranda absorbed his initial rage, and then addressed him fluently, assuredly.
Casey looked away as Miranda went for her phone. Scrolling through the photographs, one by one. Showing him. She knew what they would be. Clio. Trapped in the wreckage, broken, desperate.
And dying.
This is what we did to a kidnapper. Look. See.
She saw the man’s body language shift, his eyes go to the Porsche.
Your freedom for his, a cruel sort of trade.
But as Miranda stepped back, the man’s chin lifted. Faster than Casey could see, his hand whipped to his side.
And a gun, black and lethal, pointed straight at Miranda.
78
Miranda put her hands up. She was still talking smoothly, not giving away her fear. She was trying to convince him, Casey could see, her hands making hushing gestures even as she held them up.
But he was angry, blazingly furious. He stepped out of the house, the gun still pointed at Miranda as she backed away.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he was shouting at Miranda. ‘Don’t you fucking move.’
Before she knew what she was doing, Casey was moving quietly across the drive.
Miranda’s eyes never flickered towards her, and in her hand Casey held Clio’s gun. She had grabbed it from the abandoned rucksack back at the airstrip, ramming it into her pocket almost without thinking.
On the Apollo, all those years ago, clowning around with the Marines. Paper humans, and bullets splashing into the sea.
The grip was smooth beneath her fingers, almost seductive, and now she was just a few feet away.
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Casey said quietly.
He froze, then started to turn, but Casey snarled. ‘Don’t you fucking dare. I’ve got a gun, and I will fucking kill you.’
The man made to turn again, and Casey fired the gun, just the tiniest shift of her finger, almost nothing. The bullet grazed his shoulder, blasting through the yew hedge. The man winced, just slightly.
‘Next time,’ said Casey, ‘it’ll be your head.’
He stood there for a moment, the crows cawing into the sky, agitated by the gunshot.
‘Clio’s dead,’ said Casey. ‘It’s over, and I’m giving you a chance to get away.’
Another beat. And then – haltingly, sullenly – the man began to lower his hands.
‘Put down the gun,’ said Casey. ‘And walk towards the car, very slowly.’
Casey saw Miranda stand back as the man crouched down, placing the gun on the ground.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Casey. ‘Get in that car and get the fuck out of here.’
Casey held Clio’s gun as the Porsche engine roared, sending the crows shrieking into the air again. And then Casey and Miranda watched together as the car stormed off up the drive, turning onto the road with a furious jerk.
‘Thank you.’ Miranda turned to Casey with a twisted smile. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
79
By the time Casey had limped to the house, Miranda was unlocking a door in the kitchen.
‘Where is she?’ Dominic exploded out of the cellar. ‘I heard a gun. Where is Emily? Where is Poppy?’
‘We’ll take you to them,’ said Miranda. ‘Both of them.’
‘But where the hell are they?’
‘Poppy is in London,’ said Casey. ‘Emily’s on her way up there now. We’ll drive you up straight away.’
She fought away the memory of Dominic speaking to the camera, his arm around Emily’s shoulder. The end justifies the means . . .
‘Are they all right?’ Dominic’s voice was hoarse. ‘Has anything happened to them? Who is looking after Poppy?’
‘We hired a nanny.’ Casey tried to sound soothing. ‘The best. Poppy is being very well cared for, Dominic.’
‘I didn’t know what was happening. I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to . . . Oh God.’ He put his hands to his face.
He’d been beaten badly, Casey could see. One eye swollen closed, blood in his hairline. Not friends, no.
‘You could have got us killed,’ he spat at Casey, as he looked at her. ‘You stupid, unthinking . . .’
‘I am sorry,’ Casey said, knowing it could never be enough, knowing he would have let her die. ‘We came here as fast as we could.’
‘We were trapped in that fucking cellar,’ he shouted at her. ‘For days. My wife . . . We thought we were going to die.’
‘I know. And I am very sorry . . .’
Dominic slumped into a kitchen chair. He looked grey under the bruising.
‘We’re just fucking collater
al damage, aren’t we? Emily and I. For your stupid fucking story . . . We couldn’t get out. I thought he was going to kill us both . . .’
‘It’s a bit’ – Miranda’s words sliced across the room – ‘like Zohra, out in Bangladesh. The woman who gave birth to your baby. Except she was held for months and months, before dying in agony.’
‘Is this what this was to you?’ Dominic was on his feet again. ‘Some sort of revenge?’
‘No.’ Casey stepped between them. ‘Of course not. We came as soon as we could, Dominic. And we are very sorry about what has happened to you and Emily. It must have been terrible. But it’s over now. And Poppy is safe. You’re all safe.’
They stood there, in the cosy kitchen, stunned to silence.
They’re very nice, the current tenants.
‘What’s been going on?’ Dominic asked tiredly. ‘While we were in the cellar. Have they been caught? What happened to your face?’
Casey told him as briefly as she could, watching his face harden at Clio’s death.
‘Good,’ he spat.
‘So you see,’ Casey finished, ‘we have to get up to London now. We have to hurry.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I do see.’
80
There was electricity in the air as Casey and Miranda walked into the office.
‘You’re here at last.’ Dash surged across the room.
Dash’s words blurred as Casey listened.
Rob’s finished the backgrounder. Graphics working on the maps. The lawyers aren’t happy, but then they never bloody are.
‘What happened to Clio Greystone?’ Dash ended, his voice dropping a notch. ‘There’s a story on the wires. Light airplane crashed in the New Forest. The pack are assuming she was trying to get out of the country, away from the media scrum after her husband’s arrest.’
‘We fronted her up, she crashed her plane,’ said Miranda.
‘That it?’
‘Yes. I was driving a tractor. It was a bit complicated.’
Dash’s eyes flickered over Casey’s face.
‘Fine. The police have been in touch, though. They’ll have to interview you.’
‘OK.’
For a second, Casey felt shaky. She sat down on the sofa, forcing the walls to stop spinning. Dash watched her, almost pityingly, and then he stood up, and walked back towards the newsdesk.
Casey and Miranda sat on the sofa for a moment, side by side.
Cressida paused beside them for a second. ‘I’ve seen that video. Think we’re probably losing the Rhapso ad spend.’
‘Sorry,’ Casey sighed.
‘Worth it,’ Cressida flicked her hair, moved on.
‘You did it.’ said Miranda.
‘Only just.’ Casey breathed a sigh. ‘Because of you. Thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t showed up when you did.’
‘Any time,’ Miranda said cheerfully, the bounce irrepressible. ‘And we’ve still got to get Alicia Dalgleish.’
‘We will,’ said Casey. ‘Somehow.’
‘I know.’ Miranda smiled widely. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Casey watched Miranda stride off across the office, then she walked back towards Dash.
‘The Burton-Smiths are next door, in the hotel. I need to take them to Poppy.’
‘Oh.’ Dash hesitated for only a second. ‘Of course.’
Janice, the editor’s secretary, had booked a second room at the London Grand, a cosy little cocoon for Pippa Lancaster to become Poppy Burton-Smith.
A couple of floors up, the nanny’s mouth pursed as Casey picked up her tiny charge.
Thank you so much for your time, Nina, sorry we needed you longer than we thought, I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.
Casey left Miss Reynolds packing her clothes in tissue paper. Very carefully, she carried the little baby down the corridors of the London Grand, past the heavy golden mirrors. There was a gurgle and a small hand waving, a sweet baby smell and a memory that wasn’t quite real.
She was so tiny. It was quite impossible to imagine this small bundle as a whole human being. Is this all that we fight for?
As Casey walked, thoughts flickered through her mind.
Romida, and a dress of red roses.
Zohra, screaming in the dark.
Clio, teeth red with blood.
The lift, all gilt, slid open. In the lift, a woman in a neat business suit smiled longingly at the tiny baby. ‘Isn’t she a darling?’
You never know how you can run, until you run for your daughter.
Like a dream, Casey was at the door to the hotel room. She didn’t have to knock. The door was torn open, and Emily erupted into the corridor.
Later, they sat in the hotel room, Casey perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. On a sofa by the window, Emily’s head was bent over Poppy. Dominic was beside them, and for a moment, they looked photogenic, perfect, despite Dominic’s bruises. Come as a couple, leave as a family.
Emily looked up at Casey, meeting her eye squarely. She looked older. Tougher. She’d lost weight since those spring days in Bath. Barely eating, Casey thought. Barely sleeping. There was a new determination in her eyes.
‘You saw the footage?’ There was no embarrassment.
‘Yes,’ said Casey unemotionally.
‘I managed to warn you the first time. But then . . .’
‘I know.’
‘I had to do it.’
‘I know. I can hardly blame you. It’s what I . . .’ Casey’s voice trailed off. ‘You do what you have to do.’
Emily nodded, shifting Poppy’s weight. Her face darkened. ‘They’ll investigate Clio now,’ she said. ‘The police might find that footage, and then . . .’
Casey shrugged, exhaustion settling like snow. ‘They might. They may not even look. If they do look, they may not be able to get past Clio’s passwords.’
‘But . . .’
‘Go and look after Poppy,’ said Casey. ‘If something happens, we will work it out.’
Emily looked down at Poppy, her finger tracing a cheek, a tiny nose.
‘Dominic told me about Zohra,’ said Emily. ‘I’ll always think about her.’
Her voice was light, blithe.
They sat there in silence. Casey remembered Emily, standing in the cold breeze of Kensington Gardens, clutching the photograph of a young, smiling girl. Zohra. Zohra, beside the kindly stern poster, of a nurse with a needle.
The photograph that let Emily believe it was all a kindness; or was it a photograph that let her pretend it was all a kindness?
We always expected the men to fight, Casey realised suddenly. And now . . .
‘You got your story,’ said Emily, after a minute.
‘Yes.’
Casey stood stiffly, shards of pain everywhere.
‘I must go,’ she said.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Emily said.
‘No,’ Casey said flatly. ‘I don’t.’
‘But you do.’ Emily’s voice was calm. ‘You – of all people – know what it is like to want something beyond all reason. So that you’ll risk jail. You’ll risk lives. You’ll risk everything. You know exactly what that feels like, you just want something different.’
‘I don’t—’ Casey stopped, the room filling with silence.
For a second, Emily smiled up at her, that easy charm surfacing again. All at once, she was the beautiful girl, strolling arm in arm with her husband.
The perfect family.
‘Goodbye, Casey,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’
81
Outside the hotel, the storm was breaking. The wind chased paper cups down the street with a hollow rattle, and commuters scuttled for cover. There was thunder in the air.
You have to choose.
The sky darkened. Casey stood in the growl of the traffic.
You have to choose.
A taxi clattered down the street, breaking the spell. Go.
Casey ran f
orward, arms windmilling. The taxi veered towards her and she was gone.
‘Where to, love?’
Casey’s mind whirled, and there was only one thought.
I always climb hills in a thunderstorm …
‘Primrose Hill,’ she said instinctively.
‘Course.’ The taxi spun on a sixpence.
He won’t be there, Casey insisted to herself. He won’t, he won’t,he won’t.
The storm roared. By the time she was paying the driver, the excitement was twirling round her. Face slick with rain, she couldn’t make out the top of the hill, the cast-iron lamp posts gargoyles in the gloom. You have to try. And Casey raced up the hill.
She made for the benches, up where Liv loves Charlie, so that it almost made her laugh aloud. And then she caught her breath. There was a figure, sitting, staring out over the city.
‘Ed,’ she shouted, her voice cracking. ‘Ed.’
The man turned. She could make out the silhouette of his shoulders against the darkened sky, the angle of his head.Him.
‘Ed!’ she called again.
Now he was moving towards her, hurrying down the path.
‘Ed.’ The shock hit her, and she skidded to a halt.
He hesitated. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing here, Casey?’
She couldn’t breathe, lungs heaving, almost turned away and ran. ‘I just … What you said up here … You made me promise not to ask you again … ’
He almost laughed, his face creasing in the ugly glow of the storm. ‘You haven’t come up here to ask me to come on the next story?’
‘No.’ Almost a shout. ‘But I don’t want to choose.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t want to choose … ’
He moved nearer. ‘What do you mean, Casey?’
‘I’ve been stupid.’ Casey pushed her hair back. ‘I’ve been stupid, and thoughtless, and careless.’
‘Casey … ’ For a second, the sun gleamed through a break in the clouds.
‘But I just realised,’ said Casey. ‘I realised that if I never asked you … Never told you … You might not know.’
So no one can say …
‘Know what?’
She looked up. He was smiling at her now, and there was an expression she hadn’t seen in his eyes before.
