“Are you going out with anyone nice, Caz?” Rosemary asked, just to make it absolutely clear it wasn’t me James was going out with.
“Ah…I’m between boyfriends right now,” I lied.
Rosemary asked us what we wanted to drink, and went to summon it, while a girl appeared holding a tray of canapes. I snaffled a tiny smoked salmon sandwich - delicious. James’s mother often used caterers, so she could spend more time with her guests, and the food was always first class.
The Brigadier cross-questioned me about rocking horses, his wife looking amiable but saying little, until Rosemary hauled them off to meet new arrivals. I felt something brush my shoulder. James had replaced my errant shoulder strap.
“I wouldn’t bother, it does that, you’ll be putting it back all evening.”
“I don’t mind,” he said softly, “I’m happy to volunteer as your personal strap replacer.”
I looked at James with wild surmise. I had the nasty feeling he wanted to move our comfortable friendship on a stage. Bad timing. I hoped I was mistaken.
“James,” Rosemary called from across the room, “come and say hallo to Isobel and Mark.”
James joined his mother, and I detoured towards the canapes before following dutifully.
Once dinner was over, people mingled in the drawing room. James had been disconcertingly attentive all evening, but he’d left my side for once, so I thought I’d nip to the upstairs bathroom. Give myself a break from polite conversation; check my nose for shine and my teeth for spinach. On the way I passed the half-open door to the smaller living room, and heard Rosemary’s ringing tones.
“Oh James, you haven’t. Posy is such a nice girl, so suitable, and you always seemed to get on so well together. I really thought she was the one. I do hope you’re not thinking of Caz.” James said something I couldn’t hear. “Of course I like her, I’m very fond of her, she’s simply not your type…how did it happen, I thought you were just friends?”
I heard James’s next remark, because he came towards the door as he made it. “Caz and I are just friends…unfortunately. I haven’t told her how I feel yet.”
My eyes widened and I sprang quickly and quietly up the stairs, grateful for the thick carpet.
Eleven fifteen seemed, by common consent, to be the end of the evening. The guests thanked Rosemary, made jovial parting comments that went on for five minutes, and headed for their cars. A half moon, and the sky was full of stars. It was cooler outside on the doorstep, and I snuggled into my big jumper.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said. Rosemary gave me her dazzling hostess smile. James kissed his mother’s cheek. Maybe I imagined it because of what I’d overheard, but I thought she seemed a little put out with him, a little terse.
“Now drive carefully, James. Remember there’s absolutely no rush.”
I waved as the BMW drew away from the kerb. Rosemary didn’t wave back. I settled into the comfort of the leather upholstery. The quiet and darkness of the car was welcome after an evening of chatter, though I’d enjoyed myself. With a jolt, I realized that in twenty-four hours’ time, I’d be setting off to break into Phil Sharott’s house. Apprehension shot through me. As an antidote I thought hard about Ric; his eyes, his smile, his strong muscular body…
James switched on the radio. Romantic violins from a film half a century ago came over the car’s excellent stereo system; a man with a heavy Italian accent broke into song. Some Enchanted Evening. One moment I was thinking, that dates from before my mother was born - it’s so corny - then its raw longing and passion gripped me and brought tears to my eyes. I leaned back and let it wash over me.
The song ended. I glanced at James as he turned off the radio, then at the dark countryside as we sped past in the powerful car. Neither of us said anything, but I got the worrying idea he might declare his feelings at any moment; that he was working up to doing just that. I didn’t have the necessary reserves of tact to deal with it right then. I shut my eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
I must have nodded off. The silence as the engine stopped woke me. We were in Fox Hollow Yard, James leaning forwards.
“Have I been asleep all the way? Sorry - you should have woken me.”
He smiled. “I hadn’t the heart. You were sleeping like a baby.”
I ducked my head down to see the flat’s windows. The lights were on; Ric had waited up for me. I turned to thank James, and his arm came round me. His lips met mine. No time to think up unhurtful ways of letting him down gently; we were in mid-kiss before I’d gathered my wits. Of course, there was nothing to stop me clenching my teeth and freezing. That would have got the message over. The trouble was, James kissed very nicely…and there was the inhibition-reducing effect of several glasses of wine thrown into the mix. I was in no way drunk, but I did have that cheerful what-the-hell-why-not feeling alcohol induces. I’d always thought I’d known James too long to fancy him; that kissing him would be like kissing one’s brother. Now I found that was not so. Kissing James was…terrific. But wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I broke away as soon as I could.
He ran his hand up and down my arm. “Thank you for coming tonight, Caz.”
“It was fun.” I felt for the car door handle.
“Can I come up for coffee? You know, I think I’m getting used to your horrible coffee. Getting a taste for it, even.”
No! Ric would be in the flat. Possibly in bed. It’d be grotesquely embarrassing. “I’m a bit tired. D’you mind if I don’t ask you up? Some other time.”
He smiled again. “Okay.”
I got out of the car. James did too. He waited while I found my keys and opened the door, then held me and kissed me on the doorstep. I’d have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been disapproving of my own behaviour so much. There was no excuse for not moving away briskly and telling him I was involved with someone else - okay, he’d know instantly it was Ric, but he’d have to find out some time. So why didn’t I? Partly because of a reluctance to discuss my love life with James, and partly because I’d already kissed him in the car. At length he released me.
“I’ll ring you in the morning.”
I said good night and closed the door. I leaned against it and listened as he started the BMW, turned it, left the Yard and set off down the road. When I could no longer hear the engine, I headed up the stairs, furious with myself.
Why did I do that? Why on earth didn’t I tell him? He’ll have to know eventually. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. He’s gone off all happy thinking I’ll be his girlfriend…he’ll be so hurt when he finds out. He’ll never understand why I kissed him. I should have told him about Ric, however awkward it was.
I opened the flat door, and called, “Hi!” into the quiet. No answer.
Dog jumped down from the sofa and made a fuss of me. Ric wasn’t around, and the door to the terrace was shut. I thought he must be asleep in bed. I climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, Dog trailing me. No Ric. I checked the bathroom, then went downstairs and checked that bathroom too.
It was one o’clock - why would he be out? My gaze passed over the coffee table, then returned to it. Some of the things I’d collected were missing…the smaller wrecking bar, a torch, a coil of rope, the navy hoodie…
Ric had lied to me. He’d gone to break into Phil Sharott’s on his own.
Chapter
24
*
I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the table. A lot of the stuff Ric hadn’t bothered to take - clearly he’d thought I was overdoing it. I got my mobile out of my handbag and rang his number. His phone was switched off. Dog jumped up and put his paws on my lap; there was something white round his collar. A note, folded small. I unfolded it.
I’ve gone to Phil’s - don’t worry, I’ll be fine.
Back soon,
Ric
X
Easy for him to say don’t worry. He failed to take Phil seriously as a threat, in spite of all I’d said; and if I’d gone with him, I’d have mad
e sure he didn’t do anything reckless. Together we’d have had more options - if Phil found us and got nasty, I could have got away and rung the police. Ric needed me, and he didn’t know it.
I looked at my watch. By now he might have broken in, discovered something or realized he wasn’t going to, and be on his way home again. Or not.
The thought of waiting up for him - because there was no way I could hope to go to sleep - with my mind running repeatedly through every possible disaster was unimaginable. Supposing he didn’t return? How long before I should get help? Three am? Four am? If only he’d said on the note. By the time I was certain he was in trouble, it might be too late - especially as it would take time to convince the police. The very thought made me frantic. Perhaps I should ring them now?
Ric wouldn’t like that…but I had to do something.
I got up. I’d go after him. No time to waste.
I leaped up the stairs, pulled off my clothes and flung them on the bed. I dressed again in black combats, a belt, a long-sleeved black tee shirt, a sleeveless hooded gilet with lots of zips, and cheap black trainers. Running downstairs I divided the kit on the table between my many pockets, except for the rope which I tied to my belt, and the wrecking bar which I put by the door. I checked the fridge - Ric had taken the meat, so I tipped some of Dog’s dry food into a plastic bag and pocketed it.
Dog - should I take him? Yes - I could leave him in the van when I got to Phil’s; he’d be on his own for less time than if he stayed in the flat. I switched on the printer, opened the laptop and tried to collect my thoughts while it came to life. Just in case I didn’t come back, worst case scenario, I would print out Private Investigations as planned. If I put it through James’s letter box on my way to Phil’s, he would find it in the morning.
I brought up the document, clicked File and Print, and while it was doing that, got the van keys out of my handbag, and attached them with the house keys and the torch to my belt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. With the quasi-commando clothes and my long fair hair falling about my shoulders, all I needed was a submachine gun, and my resemblance to one of the more heavily-dressed heroines of a video game would have been striking. Move over, Lara Croft. I got a hair band out of my bag and tied my hair out of the way.
A deep breath; I opened the door and picked up the wrecking bar.
“Come on, Dog, let’s go and find Ric.”
Out of Fox Hollow Yard into the sodium-lit street and across to the van. Eight minutes since I’d arrived with James. I unlocked the door and Dog hopped on to the passenger seat. The petrol gauge showed half full; it should be enough. James lives in Islington, north when I was heading west, ten minutes at that time of night. Hurry. I accelerated down the road; not much traffic, but I cursed every red light. James’s flat is at the end of a cul de sac. No lights in the windows; he must have gone straight to bed. I stopped the van on the double yellow lines outside, leaving the engine running, and reached for the three pages of Private Investigations.
I’d left them on the printer.
Bugger.
For a moment I thought of trying to write it out from memory - I’d got a pen on me - and hunted around for paper. I’d cleared out the van recently. All I could find was a slip of white card from Waitrose’s car park, not big enough to write everything on, even if I had the time. I couldn’t go back to collect my notes - that would waste twenty minutes. I had a brainwave. I reached down into the gritty crevice where the driver’s seat meets the seat back, and felt for the emergency set of house keys hidden there. I wrote on the card:
JAMES
I need your help - if you haven’t heard from me Sunday morning
first thing, but not before, go to my flat, let yourself in, there’s notes on the printer,
read them and ring the police. Ric’s gone to Phil Sharott’s. I’m going there too.
Caz
I printed his name in big letters, so he’d notice it among the pizza leaflets. Then I secured the keys to the note with the band off my hair. I jumped out of the van, ran up the steps to James’s door, and dropped the small bundle through the letter box.
The van gets noisy above fifty miles an hour, and normally I don’t push it. But that night we fairly hurtled along the M4, even, on the odd downhill stretch, exceeding the speed limit, the engine roaring and the panels rattling. We drove through Maidenhead at two-fifteen, and by two-thirty arrived outside Phil Sharott’s house. I pulled in opposite the entrance. The gates were wide open (had Ric left them like that for a quick getaway?) but everything was still, dark and silent.
Better turn off my mobile; I didn’t want it ringing while I was snooping about. Which pocket was it in… Shit! I’d put it back in my handbag, and I hadn’t brought my handbag with me. What else had I forgotten? It was because I’d left in a rush, I hadn’t been expecting to go - I’d have got everything right if we’d gone Sunday night. I sat for a moment, dismayed, then gritted my teeth. I probably wouldn’t need to phone the police. Ric might have passed me on the motorway, going in the opposite direction, racing back to the flat. He might be there now. If so, reprieve: I was okay about the wasted journey in the small hours; ecstatic, in fact.
Cautiously, I opened the van door and got out. Dog came with me. I approached the entrance, keeping in the shadows by the wall. Dog growled softly in his throat at the darkness beyond the gateway. I switched on my torch and played its light in that direction. There was something there…a sudden movement made me leap back, even before the bull mastiffs broke into snarls and barks, and crashed against the gate. Reflex reaction shot me halfway to the van before I realized they weren’t giving chase. I crossed the road again to investigate. Their barking increased as I drew near, so I threw them a handful of dog food. While they snuffled in the grass hoovering it up, I saw why they hadn’t got me.
The dogs had ropes looped through their collars; the other ends were attached to the side of the gate. Ric must have done it, thinking that on his way out, once the gates were closed, he could free the dogs with the gate safely between him and them.
That meant he was probably still inside. Rats.
I got back in the van and drove down the road, looking for somewhere inconspicuous to park. A short drive leading to a wooded area seemed ideal; as I turned the van something gleamed in the headlights. Ric’s Harley, tucked away by the shrubbery. He’s here. I got out, leaving Dog inside, though I could have done with his company, and locked up. If I somehow missed Ric in the dark, he’d realize I was here too. Don’t know what good that’ll do…
I went back along the road, wrecking bar held discreetly beside my leg, and approached Phil’s driveway. My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t imagine how it would cope when I reached the house. Maybe it would burst out of my chest and run for home. The bull mastiffs barked at me with more hope than ferocity this time, no doubt thinking I’d feed them again. Now my eyes were used to the moonlight, it wasn’t that dark. The keys at my belt clinked; I unclipped them and put them in separate pockets, and pulled my hood over my hair. I sidled past the CCTV camera, head down, and set off up the drive to the house, keeping on the grass near the trees, watching for any signs of life. If someone was there, I wanted to see him before he saw me. All I could hear was the occasional car passing on the road I’d left, each fainter than the last, the soft rustle of the breeze through the leaves, and the blood thumping in my neck. When an owl flew silently across my path, I jumped in the air like a startled deer.
The drive seemed longer on foot, and everything looked different by night. There was the lake to the right, shimmering through the trees. I slowed as I neared the dim bulk of the house with its circular lawn, and the separate garage block on my left. None of the windows was lit. I stopped on the edge of the gravel, got out the black socks and pulled them over my trainers, legs trembling. Dick Francis hadn’t gone on enough about how scary prowling around in the dark was. Or perhaps I was just a total wimp. A last look round before venturing across the open sp
ace of drive to the corner where Phil’s office was; no sign of life at all, but if there was a watcher at a dark window, I wouldn’t know. I walked slowly, trying not to make a sound. The office windows were closed; no blinds or curtains, and no marks of a forced entry on any of them. No one in there.
Where was Ric?
Keeping close in to the walls, I moved anti-clockwise, checking ground floor windows. I reached the corner; I peered round it, and traversed the side of the house. Nothing.
From the next corner, I could see the back garden; but calling it that gives the idea of a suburban patch of grass, with washing line, children’s bikes and a fence, and this was on another scale altogether. Extensive grounds, an estate agent might say; a stone-paved terrace with a swing seat, antique cast iron chairs, tables and sun umbrellas. From there, steps between topiary yews led to a big lawn (even in the dark, I could see the stripes on it) with a lime tree circled by a wooden seat. To the right, two tennis courts and a building with full length windows, that I guessed held a swimming pool. Flower beds, behind them big trees, the wind sighing through their leaves, and no indication of where the garden ended. It shaded into the night. Beyond would be the hangar containing Phil’s replacement for the Cessna, and the grass airstrip, the one Ric had taken off from in April over three years ago. And beyond that, too far away to be audible, the river.
I looked to my left. Creeper-covered brickwork, and bright rectangles of light shining on to the flowers and flag stones. My heart rate redoubled. Phil was up. No reason he would spot me. Deep breaths…
I tiptoed to the edge of the nearest French window, open to the night air. I crouched in the herbaceous border among the musk roses and moved my head carefully so I could see through the crack. A big room, softly illuminated by pools of light from silk lampshades, conventionally and lavishly furnished; no expense spared. Cream panelling, several sofas in green and beige, polished floorboards and Chinese carpets. Drapes rather than curtains edged the windows, their swags held back with tasselled cords. Paintings with their own little lights, vases of flowers; glossy books on coffee tables, no bookshelves. Not my taste, but comfortable.
Remix (2010) Page 16
