Safe

by Jane Adams

  “Harry gave it to me,” Lauren whispered. “Said I should only use it in an emergency. In an emergency emergency. But they’ve got Harry and if Harry isn’t dead already, he soon will be. They’ve come for me. You’ve got to help.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment Lauren thought the woman had hung up.

  Then, “Where are you?”

  The voice was guarded, thoughtful and noncommittal, but Lauren could have yelled with relief. The question seemed to open the possibility that this woman would help.

  Lauren told her where Harry’s cottage was, gave her the grid reference and satnav reference, which Harry had made her memorize, and told her about the Red Lion pub and that she was hiding out in the sand dunes. Again, the silence. Then the woman said, “It will take me a while to get to you, two or three hours, perhaps.”

  Lauren’s heart sank. It seemed such a long time. They would find her. And then the worry came back that she was on the wrong side of the cottage. She had to somehow sneak around the back and head towards the Red Lion. But the woman told her to stay put. For a moment, Lauren was desperately confused about what to do next.

  “I’m scared.” It was all she could manage.

  It sounded to Lauren as though the woman took a deep breath and made a decision.

  “I’m coming for you. Now, listen. Stay hidden. I’ll come along the beach, when you see me, you need to follow — don’t approach, don’t come anywhere near me. Follow me and I’ll lead you back to where I parked my car and we’ll work it out from there.”

  “How will I know it’s you?”

  “I don’t imagine many people walk on that beach at this time of year. You’ll recognize my voice. I’ll have two dogs with me. Their names are Tod and Abe, you’ve got that?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “No buts. Stay put, stay hidden.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “You’re still alive,” the woman told her. “That’s how I know you can.”

  Chapter 21

  Lauren dared not move. She had wriggled herself into a position where she could see the side of the cottage and one of the cars with its headlights on, but that was about it. She would like to have seen more, to try to monitor what was going on, but there was no way she could risk shifting position. The headlights illuminated two big patches around the cottage. They did not reach where she was lying, even though they had been put on full beam. Beyond the range of the headlights lay shadow made deeper by the lights themselves. She knew that it would be hard for anyone to spot her in the greater darkness, so long as she didn’t move, so long as she didn’t try and run. So long as she didn’t lose her nerve. But that still left her with the problem of having to get past all of this and either back onto the beach or — the option that she had begun to see as more likely — through the marshy field onto the main road. From there, she knew that she could walk back to the Red Lion. If she could make it that far, then perhaps she could phone this woman again, let her know what was going on. It was a plan of sorts. But the idea of finding her way through the field that she knew to be full of holes and hollows and sucking mud filled her with dread. It was also open, with no cover anywhere.

  She glimpsed shadows crossing in front of the car, the shape of two men heading back along the track. Obviously, somebody had thought of that option already. She stayed still and listened. There were shouts from inside the cottage and she recognized her father’s voice. Harry had ceased to cry out. If he was making a sound now, it was too low for her to hear and she found herself hoping that it was over.

  Another shout, this time from behind her. The two men seemed to have spotted something in the field. Lauren froze. What if they had seen her? She curled even smaller, closed her eyes, as though that would make them go away. She heard a shot fired, running feet and then fervent cursing and coarse laughter. “It’s a frigging cow,” someone said. “You shot someone’s frigging cow.”

  She heard them coming back, grumbling and complaining about being covered in mud. Complaining about wet feet. Complaining about normal stuff. A door opened and closed as they went inside the cottage. The slight creak told her that it was the door into the kitchen and not the front door facing onto the beach.

  She realized she was holding her breath and released it in a deep sigh. She was crying. Her cheeks were wet with tears, the rest of her with rain. Already she was chilled to the bone and this woman on the phone was still hours away. Lauren wondered how she was going to cope, how she was going to get through the wait, how she was going to get past the cottage. She wondered if those men had tried looking in the field for her, and realized what a lost cause it was, that this might now be the best route for a getaway. She raised her head a little, then ducked down as the door opened again. It crashed closed and someone came out. He stood in the shadow of the Land Rover and lit a cigarette. If she raised her head just slightly, she could see the ash glowing in the dark. He was, she guessed, about two hundred metres away. She was estimating this by recalling the distance of the running track at school. He was smoking in the rain, standing in the lea of the vehicle. The tarpaulin had been dragged off almost as soon as the men arrived, and she realized that she had got away just in time.

  “Thank you, Harry,” Lauren whispered and somehow that strengthened her. She was pretty sure now that Harry was dead. When she thought about him, there was a kind of absence where Harry should have been. A kind of negative space that she couldn’t quite explain. She knew that Harry had always talked to Jean, that his dead wife still figured solidly in his thoughts. She wondered if Harry believed that he would be with Jean now. She wondered if he was. Then she suddenly realized how much her thoughts were wandering and she wasn’t staying focused.

  Just got to wait, she told herself. She’ll come, and I’ll find a way of getting past the cottage. I’m going to have to do it soon, because once it gets to daylight, I’ve got no chance.

  She set herself to visualizing the lie of the land. She had a pretty good idea of where she was in the dunes, and knew that there was a breakwater that came up the beach approximately lining up with her current position. If she could get through the dunes, and get behind the breakwater, then she’d have some chance of getting down onto the strand line on the beach, climbing over and running along the damp sand. She should be far enough from the house then that she could avoid being seen. Deciding she had no other option, she waited for the smoking man to go back inside and then slowly began wriggling out of her hiding place, shuffling backwards through the sand and across the tussocky grass.

  She had moved barely two body lengths when a new sound came. Vehicles on the main road — and not just any vehicles, but vehicles with sirens. The police, Lauren realized. Who the hell had called the police? Had the gunfire been heard further along the coast, or was it the woman on the phone? Offhand, Lauren couldn’t think of a single reason why this should be the case. Unless, unless . . .

  There were shouts from the house, men piling into cars and taking off back down the drive, the lights that had been pointed in her direction suddenly swung at right angles, sweeping across the dunes and then across the field. She flattened herself as much as she possibly could, wriggling flat to the earth, just in case she might get caught in the beams. In the distance, she heard screeching brakes and gunfire, some of it automatic, a staccato rat-a-tat-a-tat puncturing the night air.

  Lauren knew she had to take this chance.

  She rose from her hiding place, shook off the wet sand, and ran towards the front of the cottage. The police could be here any moment, but she had to know. She had to know. She pushed the door and went inside and then just stood, looking at the blood, looking at Harry. He was laying on the living-room floor, his body gouged and his throat laid open. Harry was dead.

  She could hear the cars getting closer now, vehicles coming up the track. She had to get out of there. She turned and ran down to the beach, and along near the tideline, where the sand was firmer. Only w
hen she’d put distance between herself and the house did she look back. Lights, bright blue lights this time, shone out over the sand. Men were shouting and someone was picking their way down to the shingle. She froze and again crouched down, making herself small. The man just waved his torch around and headed back to the house. Grateful, trembling, she ran at a crouch back to the dunes that had offered her safety before. This time, she was on the right side of the cottage. She was heading in the correct direction. She silently blessed whoever had called the cavalry, burrowed back into the sand and waited for the daylight and rescue to come.

  Chapter 22

  It didn’t take long for a mobile incident room to be set up next to the field. Three police cars sat at the back of the house with a scientific support van and a mortuary ambulance.

  Another, proper ambulance, as Lauren thought of it, had already come to the house, which told her something astonishing. Someone was alive in there. It sure as hell wasn’t Harry, but someone was. Had Harry wounded one of her father’s men? Had they left him behind? That seemed unlikely, but they’d left in such a rush it was possible.

  As the sky had lightened, Lauren had hit upon a way of finding out what was going on. She had taken the chance on three occasions of raising her phone above the level of the dunes, setting the camera on the phone to full zoom, snapping a quick photograph and then examining whatever it was she had captured. She’d been aware, from shouted instructions, that the senior officer was keeping his people close to the house until someone had arrived with big lights. These were now set around the crime scene. Even then, he’d kept them within the lighted perimeter. It seemed his colleagues had been injured and perhaps killed and he wasn’t about to risk anyone else. He was obviously anxious about a gunman hiding out in the dunes and for a brief while, Lauren had been worried too.

  When the ambulance had come along the main road towards the cottage, it had been accompanied by two others. They, however, had halted back on the main road so she assumed there were at least two injured.

  One of her snatched photographs showed armed police standing at the perimeter of the scene. For what felt like a crazy moment, she thought about simply getting up and walking over to them. What would they do? Would they shoot at her? Probably not, as long as she kept her hands raised. But she was terribly aware of Harry’s warning, that he had no idea how far the spider’s web of her father’s business extended. Besides this, Lauren had learned never to trust the police. Her father, of course, cultivated this mistrust, but so had Harry. She realized now just how ingrained it was and wondered if it was actually something she should be letting go of. Were they really the enemy? The trouble was, Lauren decided, she didn’t really have a clue who she could trust.

  She didn’t even know who this woman was who was supposed to be coming to rescue her. But Harry had trusted her and Lauren still trusted Harry, even though she felt that she had been right and he had been wrong. They should have kept moving.

  Later that morning, police officers left the cottage with spiked poles and tape and set up a wider perimeter. She saw them looking for footprints and evidence and pointing out where men had trampled tussocks and left deep imprints in the sand. She moved further away from their activity, which meant she could no longer use her camera, but she did feel a little more relaxed about taking the occasional look. They were so focused on the area around the cottage that only occasionally did they look further out and she could sense their reluctance to go tramping around on a difficult beach or through sand dunes when there was no evidence that anything had taken place there. She supposed that later on others would arrive and the search perimeter would be widened but she hoped she would be long gone by then.

  The clock on her phone told her that the three hours had long passed — it was now closer to five. She was tempted to ring this woman again. She held off. She had no idea what the situation was at the other end. Had the woman been delayed because she couldn’t get away from somebody or something? Lauren had no wish to put anybody else risk. She would give her another hour, then she would make her way along the beach to the Red Lion, search for the numbers of a local taxi firm on her phone and get a lift to the nearest small town. She’d figure things out from there. Thanks to Harry, she had money and, if the worst came to the worst, she told herself, she was also armed.

  Lauren’s new deadline was almost up when she heard another sound on the beach. A whistle and then someone calling the names of two dogs. One looked like some kind of terrier and it was having a wonderful time dodging in and out of the waves. The other was larger and more sedate and occasionally cast a look of tolerant exasperation at its smaller companion.

  The woman walked past where Lauren was holed up, on towards the cottage. Lauren wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Perhaps someone older . . . and bigger. This woman was maybe in her thirties, she wore a thickly padded coat and a bright red hat, which concealed her hair. She looked small, Lauren thought, slender, and the spotted wellington boots were not the kind of footwear Lauren had ever associated with this kind of life-and-death rescue mission.

  The woman paused as though suddenly noticing the police cars and wondering what was going on. She called the dogs to heel. Yes, Lauren thought. That was definitely the voice on the phone and the dogs were called Abe — the larger one — and Tod. Abe obeyed and sat down beside her. The smaller one joined them after a moment or two but it was evidently having too much fun to want to be still for long. Lauren found herself wanting to laugh. It was a strange feeling, a nice feeling. A desperately sad feeling.

  The woman began to head back the way she had come. She was halted by a shout and one of the police officers came running down to her. Lauren held her breath. The strong wind off the sea carried snatches of conversation and she heard the police officer ask the woman if she often walked along here. She told him no, not often. But that the dogs liked it, whatever the weather.

  She must’ve asked what was going on, gesturing towards the police cars and the cordon. Lauren could almost imagine the official response from the way the officer suddenly stood more upright and looked more formal.

  Then he said something that made the woman laugh and she was on her way again, calling the dogs and strolling back along the beach.

  Lauren watched carefully until the officer had returned to his post by the cottage, then began to follow the woman and the dogs, placing every step carefully. The woman never looked in her direction. The larger of the two dogs seemed conscious that she was there and would occasionally lift his head and sniff. Each time he did this, the woman directed his attention away. She had a tennis ball that she threw at regular intervals. The smaller dog would chase after it, but once he caught up with it, would leave it lying on the sand. The bigger one would amble along and pick it up and hand it back to the woman, then watch as she threw it again. Lauren had the sense this was a well-established routine.

  It seemed to take a very long time to get back to the gap between the dunes, the car park, and what Harry had always referred to as “civilization.” The women still did not look around. She opened the boot of an estate car, shut the dogs in, dropped her coat onto the back seat and got into the driver’s seat. She leaned over to open the passenger door. Lauren hesitated for the briefest moment. Here goes, Harry, she thought. She ran to the car and got in.

  “Fasten your seatbelt,” she was told. “There’s water and chocolate in the glove compartment and the heater will soon warm up. If you look behind you, there’s a blanket and a flask of coffee in the footwell. Can you reach it?”

  She was pulling away, not waiting for an answer. There was no one about, but she seemed eager to be gone anyway. Lauren tugged on the blanket and wrapped it gratefully around herself. She began to shiver as though her body had suddenly realized just how cold it was. She fished the chocolate out of the glove compartment and managed to pour some coffee, thankful that she had something warm to drink.

  “Are you a friend of Harry’s? Harry’s dead, did you know th
at?”

  “I supposed he must be, otherwise he’d be with you. I’m Petra, by the way.” They had halted at the junction with the main road and she took the opportunity to turn and look at Lauren. The look was cool and appraising but not unkind. “You seem very young for someone to want to kill you,” she said.

  “I’m seventeen. I didn’t realize there was an optimum age.”

  The woman laughed. She had a phone in a cradle on the dashboard and at that moment, it began to ring. She put a finger to her lips and signed to Lauren that she must be quiet. A man’s voice. “I’ve been calling you, where have you got to?”

  “Had one too many last night, slept over at Gail’s house.”

  “Wondered if you might like to meet me for lunch.”

  “Sorry, no can do. Got a hair appointment booked.”

  “You could cancel it.”

  “No, I can’t. Need to look my best for Saturday.”

  Lauren heard the man laugh. They exchanged a little more conversation and then the man rang off. But he had called her Pat, not Petra, Lauren noted.

  “Your boyfriend?” Lauren said.

  “For my sins.” Her tone had changed and now it was Lauren’s turn to scrutinize her.

  “He might be a boyfriend, but you don’t like him very much, do you?” she asked.

  Petra glanced over at her. “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve grown up around a lot of women who don’t like their husbands or their boyfriends,” Lauren told her. “He called you Pat. So what is your name, is it Pat or Petra?”

  “Depends who’s saying it,” she said. “Harry called me Petra.”

  Lauren considered. Petra it was, then. “So how did you know Harry?”

  “Now that is a long and complicated story and I think we’ll save that for later. First things first, are you hurt or just cold?”

  “I’m not hurt. Harry woke me and I got out before they arrived.”