“No, it doesn’t! Everyone gets angry - not everyone beats the hell out of women and defenceless kids - ”
“Well he’s dead now, so none of it matters! We’re never going to find out the truth.”
“I’m sorry, me talking about your father this way must be difficult for you, particularly now he’s dead, but I really need to understand the relationships your family had with each other and with other people.” He rubbed his hands across his face, a gesture of pure exhaustion. “I’m sure everything is connected. Look at what we have. Sarah is murdered, your father’s car goes over a cliff, Sir Henry Vyne, who owns the garden where Sarah was found and employed your father, dies in a shooting accident - ”
“Coincidence,” she said.
“I don’t believe in coincidence. John’s car going over the cliff? OK, we can explain that away as an accident - but the way he died last night, strapped into that wheelchair and left to burn? That’s not a coincidence. Did someone know he was planning to talk to you? Or is there some other reason someone would want him dead?”
Some person other than me? she thought, but said nothing.
“And we still haven’t found out what happened to Geraint. Was there anything else your father said? Anything at all?”
“Mostly he ranted about my mother … ” She closed her eyes, leaning back against the car seat, and tried to think back. She pictured her father sat in his wheelchair in that sterile little room, the room that no longer existed, now buried beneath the ash and rubble that had once been Rose Court.
Buried …
“He said I was an idiot for digging over stuff that was better left buried. He said no one would be interested. Sarah was dead and knowing the details wouldn’t bring her back. He started quoting the bible at me, talking about revenge, and then he said - ”
Natalie opened her eyes. She’d almost forgotten.
“What?” Bryn asked impatiently. “What did he say?”
“He said the weirdest thing … He said that none of this was about Sarah.”
“She was the one who died! How could it not be about Sarah?”
“How the hell should I know?” Natalie felt stiff from sitting in the same position for such a long time. She was hungry and cross, and despite only having been awake for a few hours, she felt utterly shattered. “Do you think we could continue this conversation some other time?”
“If you want,” he said, sounding as though he didn’t care one way or the other. He undid his seatbelt, which she thought meant he was leaving, but then he went back to staring at the brick wall, as though he expected to see the solution written there.
Natalie felt a flash of impatience. Sarah’s murder had haunted her for years - did he think he was going to solve it overnight?
She heard another car pull into the car park and watched in her rear view mirror as it bounced too quickly over the speed bumps. Charles Fitzpatrick had a car like that, she remembered - a dark-green Rover with tinted windows. She’d often seen it parked outside the front of Rose Court. She sincerely hoped Charles wasn’t paying her a courtesy call after her father’s death. It wasn’t even as though she could pretend to be out. He would have seen her car as soon as he’d driven into the car park.
She watched the Rover manoeuvre into a parking space beside the elevator, but no one got out. Was he watching her sitting here with Bryn - and getting completely the wrong idea about their relationship? And did it really matter what he or anyone else thought of her anyway?
She sighed and hauled her bag onto her lap, scrabbling about until she found a notebook and pen, whereupon she wrote down her phone number and handed it to Bryn.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Maybe we can meet up again one day next week?”
He looked down at the paper and frowned. “Next week? Why not now?”
“I’ve spent years trying to puzzle out who murdered my sister, for all the good it did me. I’m starting to think my father was right. I’ve got to get over it and move on, or I’ll go crazy.”
Without waiting for him to make response, she got out of the car.
Bryn did likewise, leaning against the side of the car and resting his hands on the roof as he said, “But it’s only four o’clock. We could go and have a coffee?”
“I have another book to write and I’m pretty sure you have a garden to renovate. Goodbye, Bryn.” Locking the car door, she walked towards the elevator.
She heard him slap the roof of the car in his frustration but ignored him. He didn’t follow her. Presumably he’d walk out of the car park via the road, rather than through reception. It would be quicker.
She could see the Range Rover was parked beside the elevator, although no one seemed to have got out. The combination of the erratic overhead lighting and the tinted windows meant she couldn’t even see if anyone was sat inside.
Her flat shoes made no noise as she walked. There were little patches of oil on the ground and she was careful to step over them, having no wish to spoil her shoes. Despite being underground, the air felt cold after the warmth of the car, so she pulled her jacket closer around herself.
As she drew level with the Rover, the driver’s door opened and a man got out - but it wasn’t Charles after all. She couldn’t see his face properly, as he had turned away on her approach to take something from the back seat, which he shoved into his pocket. He was tall but slightly stooped, and wore a heavy raincoat with a black woollen hat pulled low over his forehead.
He closed the car door and walked away from the elevator, straight towards her. He moved with an odd, swaying gait, and kept one hand deep in his pocket. Was he drunk?
Thoroughly unsettled, she had glanced back to see where Bryn was, when something clamped around her waist.
“Got you,” said the man in the heavy coat. He swung her around, so she could see Bryn running towards them. “Now tell your boyfriend to back off.”
Bryn had already stopped and was stood in the centre of the car park, tentatively raising his hands. What was he doing? Why didn’t he knock this guy out? Bryn was at least twenty years younger, and the way this man was swaying, Bryn could easily take him in a fight. She struggled against the arm that held her but he increased the pressure, gripping her so tightly she worried he might crack a rib. He was incredibly strong. It was an effort for her to even draw breath.
“Tell your boyfriend to back off,” the man repeated, and then there was a blur of movement to her right, followed by an explosion. Flakes of plaster showered down from the ceiling like confetti.
Natalie froze. “You’ve got a gun!”
“Bingo. Now give me what I want or I’ll shoot the pair of you.”
The fight went out of her. “It’s in my bag.”
“Then hand it over, darling.”
“I can’t reach it. You’re holding me too tight. You’ll have to let me go.”
After second’s pause, he relaxed his grip around her waist and instead took hold of the collar of her jacket, swinging her around to face him, so she could see the gun he had pointed at her head. Her first thought was that it must be a toy. Then she realised that what she’d mistaken for a woollen hat was a balaclava, now pulled down to hide his face. It was more sinister than the gun.
“Get a move on.” He knocked the gun against the side of her head and spoke very slowly and very clearly, as though he realised she’d gone into shock.
She slid her bag from her shoulder but now her hands were shaking so much she could hardly undo it. Concentrate, she told herself fiercely, folding over the flap and scrabbling around inside. She thought he would grab the bag from her in frustration but he remained still, watching her carefully, occasionally glancing over at Bryn, as though daring him to do something stupid.
Finally she found her purse and held it out to him. Her trembling hand meant it wavered in the air between them before he dashed it from her hands in fury, sending coins rolling across the concrete.
“Stupid bitch! Do you think this is about money?”<
br />
This time he did grab the bag from her and tipped it upside down. Everything tumbled out - make-up, keys, phone - and when the bag was empty, he shifted it into the hand that held the gun, and used his free hand to grope around inside.
“Where is it? What have you done with it?”
She was about to answer him when it dawned on her. He was no longer watching her.
For a second her eyes met Bryn’s then, without a thought for the consequences, she made a dash for the steps that led back up to the road, her feet slipping and sliding in a patch of oil.
There was a loud bang behind her. She ducked instinctively, just as something solid whacked her in the middle of her back, thrusting her behind a parked car and knocking her to the ground.
She tried to push herself up, only for someone to take hold of her neck and shove her, nose down, into the dirt.
“Have you got a death wish?” snarled a familiar Welsh accent. “Keep your bloody head down.”
In the distance she could hear the gunman screaming. “Where the fuck have you hidden it?”
“He wants Sarah’s diary,” said Bryn.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” She heard her voice rising hysterically. It didn’t even sound like her. There was grit in her mouth and she spat it out.
“Shh!” hissed Bryn.
She rolled over, careful to keep a low profile while she worked out where she was. They were between a row of the cars and the exterior wall - out of sight of the gunman, although he wouldn’t have to move far to see them, which he certainly would if they tried to make it to the stairwell, which was still some distance away.
“This is hopeless,” she said. “It’s like shooting fish in a bloody barrel. How could he possibly miss us?”
“Have you got your phone?”
“No.” She gestured towards the small heap of her belongings in the centre of the car park. “Have you?”
“No signal underground,” he groaned. “Why the hell did you run this way?”
“I was running away from the gun! Why did you knock me over? I could have made it to the road.”
“Sure you could - with a bullet helping you on your way! What were you thinking?”
“Oh, no!” she moaned softly, watching the gunman rip open the lining of her bag. “That cost £800! There was a waiting list!”
Bryn rolled his eyes. “Give him the diary and maybe we can all go home.”
“You think he’d let us go?”
“Not a chance.”
The pedestrian entrance to the car park, with steps leading up to the road, was about thirty feet away. Was it worth making a run for it while the gunman was distracted? Probably not - but what choice did they have?
She was about to suggest this to Bryn, when she noticed a shadow move across the stairwell. Was it a car passing on the road, or was someone standing there?
Another movement and this time she caught a glimpse of a man, leaning back against the wall of the stairwell. He was wearing black, from his heavy boots to the baseball cap on his head. When he realised she’d seen him, he raised his hand and made a gesture towards the ground with his palm.
Beside her Bryn muttered, “Oh fuck!” before slapping her shoulder. “Get down - now!”
She closed her eyes as a disembodied voice echoed around the car park.
“Armed police!”
Startled, the gunman fired randomly towards the road. Natalie put her arms over her head and prayed. Was he insane? Did he seriously think he could outshoot the police?
Sure enough, when the police officer did retaliate it was in a short fast volley. After which, there was complete and utter silence.
It took a moment for her to dare to lift her head up. Looking beneath the car, she could see the gunman lying on the ground, his head surrounded by an ever-increasing pool of blood. Disturbingly his eyes remained open, staring directly at her.
The police emerged from the stairwell. There were two of them, both carrying assault rifles. One headed over to the dead man, kicking away his gun. The other officer stood over her, shouting at her to stay on the ground, to put her hands over her head where he could see them, and not to move. Beside her, Bryn did as he was told - in such a practised move she could not help wondering if he’d done it before.
She then had to suffer the indignity of being patted down, presumably to check for concealed weapons.
Finally she was allowed to retrieve her belongings from where they had been scattered across the car park. One of the police officers escorted her past the gunman. His colleague had already rolled him onto his back to ascertain he was dead, and was now tugging off the balaclava. She could not help stopping to watch. Was she finally going to see the face of the man who had killed her sister?
The balaclava was peeled back, smudging a thin trickle of blood from the man’s lips. Then her view was restricted, as the police officer straightened and muttered to the officer beside her.
“What the hell is going on? I thought this guy was supposed to be dead?”
She tried to move closer, to see who it was, but then Bryn was there, pulling her back. When she tried to push him away he held her tighter.
“No,” he said. “Don’t look. It’s not pretty.”
“I need to see who it is! That man killed my sister.”
“You know who it is, cariad. It’s your Dad.”
34
Alicia’s computer was dead; there was no doubt about it. No amount of switching it off, and switching it on, and slapping it hard with the flat of her hand, made the slightest difference. The screen remained blank, apart from two words:
No Signal
“At least we know the monitor works,” said Lexi cheerfully.
Alicia gave her a look. “What did you do? It was fine when I left.”
“I didn’t touch it! There was a coffee mug on the floor. I bent to pick it up, the screen went ‘ping’, the computer went ‘crack’ and that was it. Dead. I spent the last five minutes waiting for you and Mr Waters to stop yelling at each other, or I would have told you sooner.” She folded her arms and regarded her mother resentfully.
Alicia got down on her hands and knees to check the hard drive. There was brown liquid pooling on top and tricking down the back.
Coffee.
“Wonderful,” she said, getting back up. “That’s my entire family tree down the Swanny. Ten thousand names, fifteen years of research - ”
“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before.” Lexi held out something small, pink and plastic. “Two words: ‘memory stick’.”
Alicia threw her arms around her daughter. “You are a genius!”
“God knows where I get it from. Both my parents are idiots.”
Alicia turned the memory stick over in her hand. She’d probably lost the work she’d done that morning, but that was nothing compared to an entire database.
“Your computer is insured,” Lexi was saying, and for a moment sounded exactly like James. “You’ve still got the laptop. You don’t have a problem. It’s all in your head.”
Who was the parent here?
“It’s still very inconvenient.” Alicia tucked the precious memory stick into the pocket of her jeans. Now, did she have time to clean the coffee out of the carpet before that was wrecked too?
“Have you had lunch?” she asked her daughter.
“Yes, you made us sandwiches.” Lexi was back in the chair, swinging herself back and forth, crouched up like an elf on a toadstool.
“Do you have something to occupy yourself while I clean the carpet and arrange for the computer to be repaired?”
“An essay on Macbeth,” Lexi grimaced. “Something wicked this way comes, etc.”
“How about Will?”
“What about Will?”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno. Bedroom?”
Alicia raised her eyes to the ceiling. Will’s bedroom was directly above them.
“He’s remarkably quiet … ”
“Don’
t knock it. Call out the engineer and get your computer fixed. Then we’ll all be able to relax.”
Alicia cringed. Was she really that self-obsessed?
“I’ve got to go upstairs to get the laptop,” she said. “I might as well check on Will while I’m there.”
Lexi shrugged. “Whatever. Do you want me to clean up? You know, when the hard drive’s dried out, the computer might still work?”
Alicia wouldn’t put it past Lexi to start dismantling the thing herself. “It would be a great help if you could get the coffee stain out of the carpet,” she said carefully, “but I think I’ll call out the engineer to be on the safe side.”
As Alicia climbed the stairs to the second floor it occurred to her that Lexi was right - the smart thing would be to leave Will playing whatever game was keeping him so engrossed. But she couldn’t resist opening his door very quietly and peering inside.
Will had the smallest bedroom, although he did not seem to mind. Despite Alicia’s best efforts to keep it tidy, it usually looked as though a bomb had gone off, and today was no exception. The curtains were drawn so the small mound hunched up in the centre of the room, which she had first taken to be her son, turned out to be his school bag once she’d switched on the light. With mounting panic, Alicia checked inside the wardrobe, under the bed and beneath the desk but Will was nowhere to be seen.
A quick search of the Old Vicarage revealed his coat and wellington boots were missing from the cloakroom.
“He must be in the garden,” said Alicia.
Lexi looked out the window, as though she expected to see Will standing on the other side. “But it’s raining!”
“Since when would that stop him?” Alicia collected her phone and keys as she passed the hall table. “Help me find him and I’ll order an Indian takeaway for dinner.”
Lexi sullenly pulled on her coat. “You know, this whole takeaway thing is starting to pall. When are we going to have some proper, healthy food?”
Nemesis Page 20
