Fourth Day

by Zoe Sharp

  ‘But he could have been the right age?’ she persisted. ‘He’d be around five by now, I guess.’

  Her sudden intensity had me shifting in my seat. ‘It’s possible,’ I allowed cautiously. ‘But I never got close enough to the boy to tell one way or another.’

  She fell silent again. I drained the dregs of my coffee.

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘Why else would Thomas stay in that place?’

  This time, I didn’t bite back my sharp exhale. ‘Any number of reasons,’ I said. Many of which you’ve already outlined when you were trying to justify yourself. ‘OK, so Maria was once Liam’s girlfriend, but it’s a big leap to speculate—’

  ‘If he is my grandson, I want him out of there,’ she cut in, gaze sweeping over me. ‘I’m sure you can arrange that. It is, after all, what you people do.’

  I didn’t like the way her curled lip made her voice so bitter, but suddenly I remembered what Thomas Witney said to me about Maria, the morning after his extraction.

  ‘She would be harmed more than you can know if you try to take her away from her family as you did me.’

  I’d assumed he was talking more about Maria than himself, but perhaps there had been a double meaning to his words?

  ‘At this stage, we don’t know who the father is,’ I said quickly, as much to cover my own doubts. ‘And kidnapping is a serious offence.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to bother you as far as Thomas was concerned,’ she pointed out with damnable logic. ‘And if you don’t know about the child, then find out – you can do that, can’t you?’ She stared at me, remote and resolute. ‘I want him out of there, Charlie. Perhaps that was what Dexter was referring to out there, when he said what else do I have to lose? I’ve already lost my husband and my son. I will not lose my grandchild as well.’

  ‘I can’t make that decision,’ I hedged, saw the triumph in her eyes.

  ‘Parker will do this for me,’ she said with utter conviction in her tone. ‘Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I don’t care. I want it done.’

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, other than she would have to take it up with Parker personally. My boss would need all his negotiating skills, I reckoned, to stand firm in the face of such determination.

  I looked up and found Lorna Witney watching my expression.

  ‘You must be tired after your flight,’ she said, glancing at her watch, sensing victory and magnanimous enough not to crow. ‘I never could get much sleep on an airplane, even before my accident. Give me ten minutes to finish up here and I’ll drop you at your hotel on my way home.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I said. ‘Tell me the address and I’ll grab a taxi.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ she said, her ominous tone daring me to make an issue of it. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  I waited in the outer office, fully expecting the promised ten minutes to turn into an hour, just to drive the point home, but she was disarmingly prompt when she appeared, with her laptop, handbag and coat slung across her knees.

  I went ahead and pressed the call button for the lift while she spoke briefly to her secretary. She arrived alongside me just as the lift doors pinged and slid open.

  As she wheeled past me, I was treated to a single upward glance. ‘At least you don’t fuss, offer to carry things,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘I have my own bag,’ I said, tapping the strap of my rucksack. I could have given her the professional hands-free excuse, too, but I didn’t. I smiled instead. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who’s shy about asking for what she wants, Mrs Witney.’

  She raised her eyebrows at that, trying to work out whether to be offended, deciding against.

  The lift only went down one floor and the time it took the doors to close and open again was longer than the ride itself. She stopped again to speak to the two security men who were loitering in reception, and then led me out through the back exit to the car park, where a BMW 750i on a private plate was parked next to the doorway. The five-litre petrol engine alone, I noted, was enough to send even the mildest green protester into a frothing frenzy.

  Lorna Witney completed the transfer of herself from chair to driving seat with the minimum of fuss. From there, she folded the chair down far enough to swing it across and slot it into the passenger footwell, obviously well practised. I climbed into the rear.

  She cranked the engine, barely audible inside the luxurious cabin. The BMW was automatic and had been converted to hand controls.

  As we pulled round towards the main gate, the light had begun to drop fast, triggering the sodium lights on the outside of the building. The two security men let us out, giving their boss a casual wave as they did so.

  Despite my concerns, the protesters parted meekly as we drove through, their silence somehow more unnerving than a barrage of abuse. I looked for Dexter and the squat ginger-haired guy, but there was no sign of them.

  ‘Most people can’t resist asking what happened to me,’ Lorna Witney said, apropos of nothing as we accelerated along the road out of the industrial area, chicaning round parked eighteen wheelers loaded with huge pipes and chains and other, unidentifiable chunks of machinery. If it wasn’t for the fact that most of it was painted Day-Glo colours, I’d suspect it was all part of the latest supergun, destined for Iraq.

  ‘I assumed, if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.’

  That cynical smile again. ‘Helicopter,’ she said briefly, and I remembered one of the photographs on the wall behind her desk. It had showed a group shot of people wearing hard hats and company logos, posing between two Bell Jet Rangers.

  ‘Catastrophic engine failure coming in from one of the rigs three years ago. We ditched a hundred yards short of the beach, came in a lot hotter and a lot heavier than anyone would have liked, least of all me. Everybody else got out with relatively minor injuries.’ Her voice was cool, as if recounting a story about a stranger, one she’d told a thousand times before. ‘I was just unlucky, I guess.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Adapting must have been tough.’

  ‘Coping with my injuries has not been as difficult as coping with other people’s reaction to them,’ she said blandly.

  ‘They underestimate you,’ I said, a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Not for long.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Even before that, I recognised that I didn’t exactly fit the stereotype of a roughneck. I still have all my fingers, for a start.’ She glanced across. ‘You must have found the same thing yourself, in your line of work. I can imagine that people sometimes make the mistake of underestimating you, Charlie.’

  ‘Not for long,’ I said, with a wry smile of my own. ‘Where are we going, by the way?’

  ‘Trying to get a room at short notice is a nightmare in this town,’ Lorna Witney said. ‘But the company has so many people coming in and out that we have something permanently reserved at the Calley.’ At my raised eyebrow, she gave a slight twitch of her lips that might even have been a smile. ‘Listen to me, talking like a local. The Caledonian Thistle, on Union Terrace. It’s only a mile or so from here. It’s pretty good and it’s central. You should be comfortable there.’

  ‘As long as it’s got a bed without bugs and a shower that works, I’m not fussy,’ I said, looking around me at the darkening buildings, at the traffic behind us in the door mirror. ‘So, this guy Dexter. You said he comes back every year. Has he ever made threats before?’

  She frowned in recall. ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘nothing like that. They just hang around the gates and generally make a damned nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So, why is he following us now?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘He’s what?’ Lorna Witney’s head ducked between the mirrors, as if she expected Dexter to be looming large there. ‘My God,’ she murmured. ‘I mean, are you sure? Where is he?’

  ‘The white Renault, two cars back,’ I said. ‘It was parked on the other side of th
e road when I arrived, so I clocked the number. It’s been on our tail since we left your office.’

  ‘How do you know it’s him?’

  ‘I can see two people inside, and Dexter and his mate weren’t by the gate when we drove out.’ I checked again, caught another glimpse of the suspect Renault, and cursed the fact that travelling with carry-on baggage meant I didn’t even have my Swiss Army knife on me. ‘Besides, it does no harm to plan for the worst.’

  She gave a brief laugh, harsh with tension. ‘You sound just like Parker.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ I muttered. ‘Do you use hairspray?’

  ‘Do I what?’ she said, baffled now. ‘Yes, I do. What the hell has that got to do with anything? I have a can of it in my bag.’

  I reached forwards and grabbed her handbag off the passenger seat. ‘Squirt or aerosol?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake – aerosol,’ she said crossly. ‘Another thing those eco-freaks would hate me for, no doubt.’

  ‘Not me.’ I dug through the bag, found what I was after and flipped off the lid. ‘I’ll need to borrow this, if I may?’

  ‘You go right ahead. What are you planning to do – give them a makeover?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said.

  The vehicles ahead bunched up on the approach to a roundabout, leading to a bridge across the river, and we slowed accordingly.

  ‘Don’t go home,’ I said, one hand on the door handle, watching for a gap in traffic. ‘Stay somewhere public. I’ll call you later. Parker gave me your numbers.’

  When I turned back, she was pale and grim in the dashboard lights. ‘I’ll wait for you at the Calley,’ she said shortly. ‘This I have to hear.’

  ‘Fine.’ I nodded to my rucksack. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you my luggage.’

  We crawled to a halt, nothing but the red glare of brake lights ahead of us, cars now stationary in both directions. I hopped out of the BMW, the can of hairspray half-hidden in my jacket pocket, and jogged to the pavement, slipping between the people hurrying along its length. It was just starting to spit with rain and most of them had their heads down and their collars up.

  I used a man walking at about the same speed for cover as I drew alongside the Renault. A quick glance confirmed the occupants, even though the windows were misting up on the inside. Dexter was behind the wheel, the stocky ginger-haired guy in the front passenger seat.

  I took a deep, nerve-steadying breath, stepped down into the road, and flipped open the rear door.

  The two men twisted, slack-jawed, as I dived in, scooting across into the centre. They did not look happy. Dexter’s foot came off the clutch. The Renault lurched forwards and stalled. Good job he hadn’t pulled up too close to the car in front.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Don’t give up the day job, will you? Because you’re crap at tailing people.’

  Ginger, his recent defeat no doubt preying heavy on his mind, immediately tried to strike back at me with his clenched fist, hampered by the awkward angle and his buckled seat belt.

  I blocked his wildly swinging arm, jamming it hard against the side of the headrest, and squirted him full in the face with the hairspray, a prolonged burst, just like it tells you not to in the small print on the side of the can.

  He squealed, thrashing against my restraining arm. The air bloomed ripe with the hairspray’s soggy cloying scent. I let go of his arm, swapped the can into my other hand, and pressed it against Dexter’s cheekbone, the nozzle half an inch from his left eye.

  ‘Do something that makes me nervous, and I will blind you,’ I said calmly, loud enough to be heard over the howling. That made Dexter comply as much as the threat. We sat there for a moment, the only sound the intermittent slap of the wipers across the front screen, and Ginger’s retching cries.

  ‘For God’s sake, Tony, don’t rub at it,’ Dexter snapped through stiff lips. ‘You’ll make it ten times worse.’

  ‘There speaks a man who’s been gassed by riot police,’ I said. ‘You’ll know to wash it out with cold water, then?’ I’d been through all the CS gas drills in the army. The first thing you learn is that warm water opens up your pores and sends the irritant deeper, prolonging the sear.

  But Ginger – Tony – ignored his friend’s advice, pawing at his eyes like they were on fire. To be fair, that’s probably just how it felt.

  The car in front of us moved off and the driver behind gave an impatient toot of his horn. I nudged Dexter’s cheek with the can.

  ‘Move.’

  ‘Where to?’ he asked, reaching slowly and carefully for the ignition key.

  ‘That’s rather up to you,’ I said. ‘If you were following me, I was on my way to the Caledonian Thistle Hotel. And if it was Lorna Witney, that’s where she’s waiting for me.’

  The wipers stuttered as he recranked the engine, put the car into gear and closed the gap that had opened up, all of four or five metres.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked then, speaking carefully, as though afraid to move his facial muscles.

  ‘I was going to ask you much the same question,’ I said. ‘And from where I’m sitting, I think I can insist you go first.’

  ‘Don’t tell that bitch nothin’!’ Tony yelped in a muffled London accent. ‘Christ, mate, my eyes! She burnt my eyes.’

  ‘Shut up, Tony,’ Dexter said. Then, to me, ‘If you want to talk, OK, let’s talk, but take that damn spray can out of my face or you’re gonna get zip.’

  I considered, then withdrew my hand, keeping my finger on the nozzle, just in case.

  Dexter let his breath out, risked a backward glance. ‘Should have known you’d spot us,’ he muttered. ‘Way you handled Tony, you gotta be some kinda field agent, something like that, right?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I agreed.

  The traffic hutched forwards again. Ahead of us, Lorna Witney’s BMW made it onto the roundabout and swung out of sight. One less thing to worry about.

  Dexter said, ‘So, this is where you give us the spiel, huh? Stop making waves, and leave Lorna Witney alone, or you blind the pair of us for real, huh?’

  Tony gave a strangled squawk. ‘What d’you mean, for real?’ He was hunched forwards now, rocking, his head nearly on the dashboard and his face in his hands. ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Do you honestly think,’ I said, conversational, ‘if someone wanted to scare you off, that I’m the kind of person they’d send?’

  Dexter frowned and I saw his eyes flick to mine in the rear-view mirror. ‘No,’ he said then. ‘I would guess you’re more the kind of person they’d send if they wanted the pair of us found in a burned-out wreck at the bottom of a cliff.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ I said dryly, ‘although I should point out that, if I were any good, you’d never be found at all.’ I waited a moment. ‘So, to take up where you left off earlier, what exactly should Mrs Witney have left well alone, and – since she’s already lost her son, her mobility and her husband – what else does she have to lose?’

  ‘You’re so clever,’ he tossed back, ‘figure it out for yourself.’

  I moved the can closer to his face again, noting the flinch he couldn’t quite control. ‘And if I were to ask very nicely?’

  His breath escaped on a hiss. ‘Don’t play dumb, kiddo,’ he spat. ‘I know the kind of people you work for. You’re all the same. You just care about the bottom line and you don’t give a damn about the consequences.’

  ‘What consequences?’ I asked, but his initial shock was fading, his bravado beginning to return. I knew I didn’t have much time, otherwise I wouldn’t have risked asking, ‘For Maria? And what about her child? Is that why Thomas Witney stayed inside Fourth Day – because he found out the child was Liam’s?’

  For a moment Dexter’s head reared back. ‘Is that what the Ice Maiden told you?’ He let out a derisive snort. His driving had lost its jerky edge, smoothing out as we reached the roundabout ourselves. ‘My God, she’s a manipulative bitch, that one.’

>   ‘What would Mrs Witney gain by it, if it’s not true?’

  ‘A smokescreen. To keep you from looking at what really happened in Alaska.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Tony lifted his head, his mucus membranes still streaming where the lacquer and the propellant had inflamed them. I didn’t envy him washing that beard. ‘Dex—’

  But Dexter shrugged aside the warning growl. ‘We mounted a well-planned operation, but they knew we were coming. Someone betrayed us.’

  ‘Liam?’ I queried.

  Dexter twitched the Renault through the roundabout on the far side of the bridge and gunned onto a street that ran parallel to the railway line. I had no idea where the hotel was, and had to trust that we were heading in the right direction.

  He shook his head. ‘All Liam did was warn his mother not to be there. That was all she had to do – stay away. Instead, she set him up.’

  ‘And to make sure she wasn’t embarrassed afterwards,’ Tony put in, ‘she made damn sure those private-security bastards picked Liam out and planted that gun in his hand.’

  ‘Right,’ I said slowly, not trying to keep the cynical note out of my voice. ‘You were there, were you? Saw it happen?’

  Tony’s eyes flicked to Dexter, who took his eyes off the road long enough to glare at him. I was glad the traffic seemed to have thinned slightly. Less to hit.

  ‘No,’ Dexter said quietly, and there was something in his tone I couldn’t pin down. ‘But I was.’

  ‘Surely, if she had that kind of pull, she could have arranged a convenient accident for Liam?’

  ‘Like she tried with Thomas, you mean?’ Tony demanded. ‘She had him run off the road in California – didn’t work. And Randall organised his own security people to make sure it didn’t happen again. So she called in you lot.’

  I shook my head. ‘Mrs Witney had nothing to do with Thomas’s extraction.’

  He flashed me a pitying look. ‘No? He was safe inside Randall Bane’s place, but somebody springs him, and within twenty-four hours he’s dead. Go figure.’