Hide and Seek

by Denver Murphy

  With the barrier now waiting patiently in its vertical position, he moved forward the couple of hundred yards to border control. He neither wanted to look reluctant nor too keen, but kept the window wound down from before; the rush of the cool morning air a welcome refresh to his senses.

  ‘Hallo,’ said the young woman in a thick French accent, who sat in the kiosk level with Brandt. ‘Passport and ticket please.’

  ‘Er sure,’ he replied, pretending to search in his bag. ‘Here you go,’ he said cheerfully a few moments later. It wasn’t like immigration in some countries he had visited where he was asked the reasons for his visit. As she flipped to the relevant page and quickly compared his name to the one on the ticket before handing it back to him, he wondered whether things would be different once Britain left the EU. Pleased by the relative lack of attention, he placed the items back in his bag and reached for the gear selector in anticipation of being waved on.

  ‘Can you open the windows please.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The windows… the ones at the back. I need to see past the privacy glass.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Brandt cried, a little too loudly, fumbling for the relevant switch. He had deactivated the car’s stop/start system hoping the diesel engine’s clatter would cover up any noises from the boot, but he was sure Franklin would have heard him responding to the request. In a similar situation, Brandt was sure he would take the opportunity to signal for help but, with the French woman now satisfied, he was able to sigh a breath of relief and creep onto the customs area unimpeded.

  The layout was such that particular cars could be siphoned off from the queuing traffic to be searched in a number of covered bays, but the whole area seemed lifeless except for the man in the cabin at the end, who raised the barrier even before Brandt approached. It would seem that smugglers and terrorists weren’t perceived as keen on the early start afforded by the first train of the day.

  The road led around to a large parking area with a building similar to a motorway services; signs outside advertising some of the concessions within. He regarded the Starbucks logo with regret at not being in a position to go in and buy himself a large cup of black coffee. His full bladder was conspiring to try and convince him it would be a good idea to stretch his legs, but ignoring both it and the caffeine receptors in his brain, he pulled up in front of one of the large information boards instead. He would wait to urinate until he was on the train and, as he gazed up at the screen informing him that boarding would be called soon, he wondered whether Franklin had pissed himself yet.

  ‘Just one last stage,’ he exhaled to himself.

  As smooth as things had gone, he knew that until he cleared the terminal at the other side, he wasn’t safe. Then again, he was no longer Jeffrey Brandt and if they started looking for Brian Franklin then they would be able to trace the car throughout France’s motorway network. But there was little point worrying about that now, and he waited patiently until all the vehicles were loaded and the internal metal doors swung in to close off the different compartments. With the man in the van behind apparently content to spend the journey in his seat, Brandt pulled on a flat cap he found in the back of the car and followed the signs to the grotty toilet whilst the speaker informed him of the emergency procedures first in English and then French.

  Having arrived back to find no one crowded round his tailgate listening to the muffled cries for help within, Brandt settled back in the car and, with the train finally departing, he began drifting off to sleep.

  He was jolted awake less than half an hour later by the sounds of engines being switched on. Not only had he missed the entire journey, but he also had failed to notice when they had stopped and the sound of the internal doors retracting. The car in front had already moved off before Brandt remembered where he had put the key and, with the delay appropriately large for the van driver behind to give an impatient blip of his horn, he yanked the selector into Drive and sped off, determined to close the gap with the car in front to an acceptable distance before they disembarked.

  Sunshine greeted Brandt and he opened the window to take in his first gulp of cool French air. The line of vehicles continued steadily on and, before he realised it, they were fed onto the motorway. He had never driven on the continent before, but it didn’t take long for him to get used to the, initially alien, feeling of driving on the wrong side of the road.

  After a few kilometres of careful driving and with the, now programmed, sat nav telling him he had hundreds more until he reached his destination, he worked out how to use the X5’s cruise control and relaxed into the steady 120kph trip across Northern France. Brandt didn’t speak any French, but he remembered part of a song his sister used to sing when they were kids. His rendition of Alouette, Gentille Alouette, fifty years on, bore little resemblance but he repeated the same few lines over and over again, increasing the volume each time in the hope that Franklin would be able hear his jovial voice in the confines of the boot.

  Chapter Nine

  DSI Potter didn’t call Johnson back as requested. He drove to the Queen’s Medical Centre instead. He had needed to go and see her anyway, both as a colleague and a friend, but it was a little awkward leaving so soon after the police operation. Not that there was anything he could do specifically for now. Brandt’s house had been empty and with no sign of anything untoward. Perhaps examination of the contents of his computer’s hard drive would reveal something but, if it wasn’t Potter himself who recognised him in the images from outside the police station yesterday afternoon, he would be starting to wonder whether a mistake had been made.

  Even though the sting had been in the early hours of the morning, the commotion had been enough to wake some of the neighbours. They would all be spoken to in due course, but those who had emerged once the area was declared secure didn’t have much to say about Brandt, except that he tended to keep to himself and he had been alone since his wife left a few years before. No one was able to confirm whether Brandt had been at home that evening; the person living opposite thought she heard a car pull up at some point, but she couldn’t be sure it was at Brandt’s house and hadn’t thought to look out of her window. ANPRs showed he had travelled in that direction, but the hits stopped beyond his house. They hadn’t retrieved the vehicle yet, but Potter was sure he must have dumped it somewhere. It made no sense to him that Brandt would go to the effort of using a different car, one that was currently registered to a man in Yorkshire and not on the stolen vehicle database, only to drive it straight back home again afterwards.

  That there was nothing more that could realistically be done at this point wasn’t a comfort to Potter as he parked up and considered how he was going to explain this to Johnson. The truth was he felt he had let her down. He hadn’t approved of her unorthodox taunting of Brandt in the press, but he should not have let himself get caught up in other matters; those relating to the carpet fibre found on the body of the man in Milton Keynes. He should have realised that she had placed herself in personal danger and taken steps to protect her. Moreover, he was frustrated with himself for not recognising Brandt in the still she had pulled from the earlier CCTV footage. Now he knew it was Brandt in that grainy photograph, it seemed all too obvious.

  The coward in Potter hoped he would find Johnson asleep and he would ask the nurse to tell her he had visited when she woke. However, he very much doubted that would be the case. He had worked with Stella Johnson for many years and was well aware of her tenacity. When she hadn’t heard from him within a few minutes of their earlier call she would have been haranguing the officer on guard to find out the details. He just hoped that she had been unsuccessful because, much as Potter dreaded what awaited, he knew it would be better coming from him.

  The receptionist at A & E informed him that she had been transferred to one of the wards and, as he made his way along the maze of corridors, his mind turned back to Brandt; specifically, where he was and what he was doing. If he was as much of a loner as he had
been led to believe, then he wondered where he had managed to hole up. And it wasn’t as though this was a storm in a teacup that would blow over in a few days. By mid-morning his face would be plastered over all the major news networks and someone, somewhere would recognise him even if he hadn’t left a trail from where he dumped the car. There was no chance of him fleeing the country because his details had been sent to every port and airport in the British Isles. Believing it to be just a matter of time until Brandt was apprehended, he felt a little better as he pushed through the final set of double doors.

  Potter didn’t need to go to the efforts of visiting the desk to find out which room Johnson was in, the commotion that greeted him on the ward confirmed her whereabouts.

  ‘Give me some fucking clothes!’ She was berating one of the nurses whilst the uniformed officer was attempting to squeeze himself between them.

  ‘I’ve told you already, we don’t have any. Please just go back inside your room and we can…’

  ‘Fine then!’ But Johnson did not turn towards the open door; instead she started marching down the corridor. ‘I’ll just have to go like this,’ she shouted over her shoulder, the hospital gown flapping in her wake.

  Johnson stopped when she saw who was standing just inside the ward. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he called past her.

  ‘Er…’ the nurse replied nervously, wondering whether it would be a bad idea to say they could use Johnson’s room. ‘Er, yes… there’s a family area just down there,’ she finally said, pointing to a corridor on the left.

  Given Johnson’s barely concealed nakedness, Potter decided to break with his usual impersonal body language; wrapping his arm round her and leading her inside the place the nurse had indicated. He could see from the way it was laid out, the posters on the pin board publicising various counselling services, this was where bad news was delivered to patients’ loved ones. He eschewed the chair he guessed the doctor used, electing instead to sit Johnson on the sofa, where he sat next to her.

  ‘You didn’t call me,’ she stated blandly, pulling her legs under her and wrapping the gown protectively around herself.

  ‘I wanted to discuss face to face. How are you? I understand the X-rays show there are no broken bones.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He wasn’t there but he can’t have gone far. We’ve tracked the vehicle he used and are…’ Potter stopped. He could see from the expression on Johnson’s face that she knew exactly what procedures were going to be followed now and that none of them was a source of comfort.

  ‘He killed him.’

  ‘I know,’ he said simply. ‘I’m so sorry, I know the two of you had grown… close.’

  Johnson’s eyes started welling up. ‘I don’t know what he was doing there.’ Potter could feel the unfamiliar prick of his own tears forming. ‘He saved me,’ she added in barely more than a whisper.

  ‘You don’t need to talk about this now,’ he said, as much for his benefit as hers.

  ‘I need to go and see him.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea…’ he responded, weakly.

  ‘Please, guv,’ her eyes were imploring. ‘I… I went to get help and I was going to go back to him… but he had gone out the door and I chased him… and I… I…’ Sobs prevented her saying anymore.

  Potter embraced Johnson in an effort to console her. He waited, clutching her tightly whilst her body heaved in anguish, his own tears falling silently down his cheeks.

  Chapter Ten

  Johnson had seen many dead bodies over the years, but this was the first one she had known personally since her mother had died whilst she was still a teenager. She was treated differently as well; not there in a professional capacity, the mortuary assistant was keen to keep the viewing as short as possible. This was fine by Johnson. With no facial injuries, his serene expression could nearly have convinced her he was merely asleep, were it not for the austere and clinical condition of the room. Much as she was frustrated with Potter for not having caught his killer, she was touched by the uncharacteristic show of warmth in the way he had held her whilst she gave in to her despair for a brief moment.

  When she had made it clear that she would be leaving the hospital he had insisted that he drive her. Potter had asked about whether there were any friends or family she could stay with and she had hoped that her simple shake of her head would be enough. But he pressed the matter and she confessed that the photograph of her nephew on her desk was there more for appearance’s sake, and that he was actually an adult now living abroad with her sister. There followed the inevitable offer from Potter that she stay at his house for a while. The easy way he accepted her refusal confirmed her suspicion that this was perhaps a step too far for his sense of appropriateness, but he had insisted on arranging a hotel, claiming she did not need to worry about its immediate cost. They were half way there when they both realised she was still in just her hospital gown and, having established that neither of them would feel particularly comfortable with him shopping for clothes for her, especially as it would need to include underwear, he detoured via her house.

  Her whole street had been blocked off to prevent motorists having to double back once they saw the police cordon placed across the road to support the forensics investigation. Having navigated the barrier, Potter parked sufficiently away from the property to keep her view obscured. It was a sensible and sensitive move but ultimately futile because her mere presence there caused detailed memories of the attack to come flooding back, especially because she could see the damaged form of McNeil’s car parked behind the sparkling red of her own.

  Johnson studied the bandages on her right hand, which she had used to smash in Brandt’s passenger window with the assistance of her neighbour’s rockery. Not only was she amazed that she had managed to do so, but the fact she hadn’t broken any bones seemed remarkable. The impact with the road was still a hazy memory, but she suspected the thudding in her head was from more than the punch that had knocked her out when she was first accosted.

  Potter looked rather sheepish when he returned a few minutes later, which did cause a small smile to form on her lips. Sifting through her drawers to find her a few complete outfits, she hoped to God he’d had the good sense to avoid her bedside drawer. She knew he would be too ashamed to admit if he had gone in there but the thought of him withdrawing one of its items, turning it over in his hands whilst staring at it quizzically, caused a shiver to run down her spine.

  ‘Er, I hope I got everything,’ he said, passing her a tightly stuffed bag.

  She turned and placed it on one of the back seats. ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ she replied, trying to put as much warmth as she could into her voice; hiding the numbness she felt within.

  ‘I even nipped into the bathroom to get you some make up.’ He turned to her with a look of horror on his face. ‘I didn’t mean you need to put on any by the way. You look fine and, anyway, you…’

  She placed a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. Thank you for doing this, Steven.’ Use of his forename was odd on her lips but seemed the best way of reassuring him.

  They sat in silence for the short journey to the Crown Plaza, situated close to the city centre. Potter didn’t like the idea of Johnson brooding but, believing small talk to be inappropriate given the circumstances, he didn’t want to say anything about what had happened for fear of making things worse.

  Relieved that there was nowhere to park at the front of the hotel, and with Potter only able to pull into a drop-off bay, she insisted he let her go rather than seek out a space in the multi-storey behind it.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said in response to the look he gave the hospital gown she was still wearing. ‘I’ll get changed in the ladies’ before checking in. Don’t think I don’t appreciate this, but I need you to get back and find that bastard.’ Whether it was the venom with which she uttered the last word or the fact that he had spent longer away from the st
ation than he really should have under the circumstances, she didn’t know, but as soon as he gave a small nod of acceptance, she opened the car door.

  Johnson didn’t look back as she carried her bag through the entrance to the Crown Plaza. Ignoring the looks of surprise she was sure her appearance was receiving, she focused on taking the most direct path to the toilets, indicated by a small glass sign attached to the ceiling.

  A few minutes later, and dressed in a top and jeans that she would never normally wear in combination, she used the passkey she had been given at check-in to open up her room. It was clean and modern and with all the luxurious touches she would expect from a hotel of this reputation, but she was interested in none of these. She discarded her bag at the door; the blue of the hospital gown poking out between the zip. As she had stood naked in the toilet cubicle earlier, observing her battered and bruised body, the rush of emotion that had seen her break down in front of Potter threatened to return. Rather than allow herself to succumb within those unpleasant confines, she had hastily finished dressing and rushed to reception. Now that she was finally shut away in her own room she collapsed on the bed, unable to withhold her grief any longer.

  Chapter Eleven

  It did not take much time for the benefit of the short nap in the Eurotunnel to fade. Without the spikes of adrenaline helping to keep him alert, and the novelty of driving on the wrong side of the road wearing off, Brandt started to feel weary. The road through northern France was nowhere as busy as the British motorways. The landscape was dull. He desperately wanted to pull into a service station and get a few hours’ sleep, but he would not let his successful escape from the country lull him into a false sense of security. In many respects he was grateful to DC Pulford for providing a stark indication that Franklin would be missed. Clearly his absence hadn’t led to him being traced before they had made it to Folkestone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t near to doing so.