‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Knox said, wondering what had prompted this. A while back he and Jean had enjoyed a bit of a fling, but it hadn’t lasted long. She was an attractive woman and Knox had since come to understand that he’d been her get-back-on-the-horse shag following the death of her husband a couple of years before. They’d parted amicably though, and since then Knox had sometimes wondered if, when she was ready, they might pick up again where they’d left off.
Tonight she was apologetic and harassed. ‘I should have let you know sooner, I’ve told everyone else. Michael will be fifteen on Sunday, and I wanted to warn you that he’s having a party tomorrow night. And since I can’t afford to hire anywhere I’m stuck with having it here. It goes against my better judgement, and I’m dreading the social media effect, but apparently all his friends are having them, so it’s pretty much expected.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ said Knox, drily.
‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’
‘You want me to steward?’ Knox asked. ‘I’ve got some experience in crowd control.’
‘That’s really kind, but I think I’m sorted,’ she replied, a little too quickly. ‘Pete Lennox, a colleague from work, has offered to help out.’ Knox wondered if Pete Lennox was the driver of the flashy sports car that had lately been much in evidence on Jean’s drive, often late at night. He had a tendency to notice these things. ‘Besides,’ Jean added. ‘I’m not sure if having a policeman on site . . .’
‘No, you’re probably right,’ Knox agreed. ‘But if you change your mind, you know where I am.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Has Michael been to walk Nelson today?’ she wanted to know. There was something in her voice.
‘It doesn’t look like it,’ Knox said. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jean sighed. ‘I’ve hardly seen him in the last few days. No, that’s not true. It’s more like weeks, if I’m honest. When he gets in from school he just goes straight out again, then he doesn’t come home again until late.’
‘But he is coming home?’
‘Yes, although I don’t know why he bothers. He can barely bring himself to say two words to me.’
‘He’s a teenager,’ Knox said, conscious that he was pointing out the obvious. ‘That’s how they are.’ He spoke from personal experience. He’d seen his own two kids through their rebellious phases, although mostly from a distance. Theresa, his ex-wife, had handled much of the fallout.
‘I know.’
‘Is he turning up for school?’ Knox asked.
‘As far as I know,’ said Jean. ‘He leaves the house at the right time every morning. But I do think he’s started smoking.’ There was a pause at the other end of the line, the cue for Knox to disclose his suspicions. But something stopped him.
‘You want me to come and have a word?’ he asked instead.
‘He’s not here right now — of course.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ said Knox, with more certainty than he felt.
Chapter Eight
Mariner restarted the car. The rain, mirroring his mood, seemed to beat down harder than ever, drumming on the roof of the car in a macabre tattoo. Rounding a bend, his headlights, on full beam, bounced back off the reflective band on a jacket sleeve; a man, head down in full waterproofs, pack on his back, was pounding along the side of the road. Slowing down, Mariner pulled over to the verge, and as the figure caught up with him, he flicked on the interior light and lowered the passenger window. A face appeared, bearded, raw and dripping.
‘Where are you going?’ Mariner asked. ‘I can take you as far as Tregaron.’
The man raised his arms to waist level. ‘I’m pretty soaked through,’ he said, in case Mariner hadn’t noticed.
‘That’s okay,’ Mariner said, reaching behind him to shove his rucksack out of the way. ‘Put your pack in the back there.’
Opening the rear door, the man wrestled his rucksack into the back seat then climbed in beside Mariner, pushing back his hood. ‘This is most kind,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to get there sooner, but the visibility on the hill back there was bad and I got utterly lost.’ Removing a sodden glove, he offered Mariner a cold, wet hand and they shook. ‘Jeremy Bryce,’ he said, catching his breath.
It was a firm grip and in the dim light Mariner made his usual quick inventory, getting the impression of a man in his late fifties or beyond, with grey wispy hair going in all directions, his lower face obscured by a substantial beard and cheeks reddened by the elements. Mariner was reminded of Raymond Briggs’ Father Christmas.
‘Tom Mariner,’ he reciprocated and, putting the car into gear, he moved off.
‘Well, if there’s one thing that can always be relied on, it’s rain in Wales,’ Bryce observed cheerfully.
‘This year more than most,’ Mariner agreed. ‘How’s the Páramo working out?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your jacket,’ Mariner clarified. ‘It looks like one of the new Páramos. I’ve just bought one myself but haven’t tried it yet.’
‘Oh, it’s excellent,’ Bryce said. ‘I might look wet through, but underneath I’m dry as a badger.’
‘A badger?’
Bryce laughed. ‘Sorry, an expression I overheard once. It stuck in my mind.’ He was English, but well-spoken and his voice was accent-free, making it impossible to guess where he was from.
‘Where are you heading?’ Mariner asked. He dabbed at the windscreen as the condensation from Bryce’s damp clothing began to mist it.
‘I’m walking the Black Mountain Way, with a few of my own variations, some intentional and some not. I’m having mixed success with accommodation so far, too. A couple of nights ago I got to a place only to find that the pub had closed down years before.’
‘It’s happened a lot recently in these remote areas,’ Mariner said. ‘You haven’t booked anything?’
‘Oh no.’ Bryce shook his head and drips flew. ‘At home my whole life is governed by timetables, meetings and deadlines. Now and again I feel the need to climb down from my ivory tower and get out on to the open road, as it were, with no schedule and no commitments. It’s liberating.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Mariner. It was exactly what he had planned for himself. ‘Do you know this area well?’
‘I wouldn’t say well. But I’ve been here before, years ago. How about you; where are you aiming for?’
‘I’m starting out from Tregaron and heading west in the first instance and then, who knows.’ Mariner tried to sound vague. Although Bryce’s intentions seemed to mirror his own, something prevented him from sharing that. However convivial this man might be, the last thing Mariner wanted to do was to attract a companion. A blaze of lights appeared on the road ahead: a petrol station. Mariner checked his fuel gauge. I could do with filling up,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said Bryce. ‘I can enjoy the benefits of being warm and dry for a few more minutes.’
The filling station was an old-fashioned one, with no self-service nonsense and a proprietor who moved at a leisurely pace, so it turned out to be almost twenty minutes, but eventually they were back on the road. After a while the dark, confining hedgerows gave way to pavements and a string of street lights that marked the way; they were coming into a settlement.
Bryce peered through the misted windscreen. ‘That looks like a pub up ahead,’ he said suddenly. ‘Do you know, I think I might try my luck there after all. I’d really like to bridge the gap that I’ve missed this afternoon. Does that sound eccentric?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mariner, feeling some relief that they would be parting company. ‘It’s probably what I’d want to do.’
In the village centre he drew up outside the Lamb and Flag Inn. It was small and unpretentious, no more than a stone cottage set a little way back off the road.
‘Thank you very much for the ride,’ Bryce said, beginning to assemble his thi
ngs.
‘I’ll wait here for a few minutes,’ said Mariner. ‘Make sure that you can stay the night. If not, you can come on with me into Tregaron. It’s a bigger town; there will be more options.’
‘I appreciate that.’ Bryce got out of the car and, heaving out his bulky rucksack, he disappeared into the pub. Moments later he returned, minus his backpack. ‘It’s fine,’ he grinned, peering in the passenger window. ‘They have rooms.’ He tilted his head back towards the pub. ‘Can I buy you a drink for your kindness?’
Mariner looked up at the rain still pattering steadily on the windscreen. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be on my way,’ he said. ‘I’d like to get to Tregaron in time for dinner.’
Bryce stuck his hand in through the window again. ‘Of course. Well, thank you again for the lift, and have a good journey.’
‘You too,’ said Mariner. ‘Let’s hope the weather improves — for both of us.’
Mariner drove on, arriving in Tregaron twenty minutes later. The Star Hotel was in the centre of the town and little more than a glorified pub itself, but it had a decent-sized well-lit car park in which, with the landlord’s consent, Mariner could leave his car for a few days. His room was typical British small-town hostelry: cool and slightly musty, with cheap furniture, thin curtains and a TV on a bracket attached to the wall.
Leaving his bags unpacked, Mariner went straight down to the bar, taking a couple of maps with him. There were few other customers: three young men in overalls enjoying a loud and laddish conversation, and a middle-aged couple at one of the tables. The place was inviting however, with a living-flame fire and the small TV screen deep enough into the corner to be largely ignored, though when the news came on the barmaid turned up the volume. The main story involved a couple of shootings on Merseyside and the Wirral, and speculation that the key suspect may have headed south and across into Wales. Great, thought Mariner, I hope Millie doesn’t hear that. She’ll be out here with a rescue party.
Glenn McGinley. From habit, Mariner pinged a mental sonar far into the depths of his memory, but it registered nothing. The couple at the adjacent table were also watching intently and Mariner nodded towards the screen. ‘Good thing I didn’t know that earlier,’ Mariner quipped. ‘I just picked up a hitchhiker. He wouldn’t have been so lucky.’
They smiled politely in response, and Mariner returned to studying the menu. It was pretty standard fare; Mariner ordered lasagne and chips and settled down with his pint, reacquainting himself with his maps. He’d been to this area several times before, once for a whole summer, but that was years ago, and he needed to re-orientate himself a little before he set off tomorrow. ‘Where do you want this, love?’ He looked up into the smiling face of the barmaid, who stood beside him balancing a steaming plate expertly on her arm. Mariner hastily cleared a space for her to deposit his dinner. Around forty, she was blonde and brassy and as she leaned over him, Mariner got an eyeful of a deep cleavage exaggerated by her snug, low-cut T-shirt. The food was good and after he’d eaten Mariner ordered another beer and chaser, then another, and another. It had been a tiring day, but had opened up a wound, and the longer he stayed here the longer he could avert the unwelcome thoughts that would come crashing back into his head the moment he was alone.
‘It’s okay, Bob, I can lock up,’ Mariner heard the barmaid call out and suddenly he realized that the towels were on the taps and he was the only customer left. She came round to his table to collect the empty glasses.
‘So what are you selling?’ she asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘The maps and the suit, I figure you must be in travelling sales. What is it — agricultural machinery or fertilizers?’
Mariner smiled indulgently. It wasn’t the first time that the mistake had been made. ‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I’m on holiday.’
‘Crikey, you dress a bit formal for your holidays, don’t you?’
Mariner shook his head. ‘I was at a funeral this afternoon.’
‘Oh God.’ She made an apologetic face. ‘Me and my big mouth.’
Mariner eyed his scotch glass, still with an inch or so remaining. He was already feeling pretty light headed. If he drank that all at once he’d probably pass out. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m keeping you up.’
‘You’re fine.’ Her smile seemed genuine. Her face was carefully made-up, her skin a smooth and creamy layer of foundation and lips flawlessly rendered in scarlet lipstick. Mariner was mesmerized by her voluminous breasts, and the faint definition of her nipples against the taut cotton. In contrast her nails were long and elaborately painted and Mariner was suddenly aroused by the thought of them digging into his flesh. A perfect hybrid of soft and hard, she wasn’t at all the kind of woman Mariner was ordinarily attracted to, but at this moment, mellowed by alcohol, he was so turned on he was sure she must be able to tell.
‘Was it someone close?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘The funeral? Someone you knew well?’
‘Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend,’ he corrected himself as a pain needled him in the chest.
She was studying him and the row of empty glasses on the table. ‘Not that ex, by the look of you,’ she said sitting down on the bench beside him. ‘I’m sorry. She must have been quite young. Was she ill?’
‘She was killed in a road-rage incident.’
‘My God, that’s awful.’
Mariner’s hand was resting on his thigh, and tentatively she reached out and laid hers over it, curling her fingers around and under the palm. Mariner wanted to press it against his stiffening cock, but instead they sat there unmoving for several minutes, until at last she reached out and picked up his glass, swallowing the last mouthfuls for him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’
Unsteady on his feet, Mariner ascended the stairs feeling the gentle pressure of her hands on his back, and when they got to the landing she took the key from him and unlocked the door, stepping back to allow him inside. As he passed, Mariner couldn’t resist slipping an arm round her waist and leaning in for a kiss but, the smile unwavering, she carefully disentangled herself, placing a palm flat on his chest. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. You seem like a nice man, but I’m not that sort of girl.’
‘I know,’ Mariner said, piling on the pathos. ‘But the kind of day I’ve had . . .’
She appraised him for a couple of seconds, her eyes lingering on the place where by now his erection was making a tent of his trousers. Sensing his chance Mariner cautiously reached out and cupped a hand under her weighty breast, smoothing his thumb over the nipple and feeling it rise beneath his touch.
She caught her breath. ‘Have you got condoms?’
‘Yes,’ Mariner said quickly, idly wondering if condoms were governed by sell-by dates. He didn’t have long to think about it. One minute she was gazing at him, prevaricating, and the next thing Mariner knew they were tumbling backwards into the room, and as he pushed the door shut with his foot, she was dragging off his jacket and pulling open his shirt.
‘Just not too much noise,’ she hissed into his ear. ‘I don’t want to have to answer any awkward questions in the morning.’
In the event, noise was the last thing they had to worry about. Things were going fine until Mariner reached for the condom. In that instant of a pause he suddenly, for no reason, saw Anna’s face looking straight at him, and immediately the key part of his anatomy changed its mind. For several moments he tried frantically to remedy the situation, but after a while it became obvious that it wasn’t going to work, and the mood, if there was one, had evaporated. The room went horribly quiet. ‘Sorry,’ he said, breathlessly. He was about to add ‘this has never happened before’ but that wouldn’t have been strictly accurate. It was just that it hadn’t happened in a while. And what would she care about that anyway?
‘It’s all right,’ she sighed, making it sound anything but. ‘You don’t have to explain. It happens, I know.’ To old codgers like you. ‘Too much booze I expect.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Somehow she wriggled out from beneath him. They hadn’t turned on the light and now, frozen with shame, Mariner lay on the bed listening while she pulled her clothes back on, and without another word, let herself out of the room. Then he muttered one single, bitter expletive.
For the rest of the night, Mariner slept fitfully in the bed that was too soft and giving, reliving his humiliation. The rich food lay heavy in his stomach and his dreams were vivid and bizarre. At one point he watched while Anna, sitting up in her coffin, led the congregation in a chorus of ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ as a rampant gunman (who rather bizarrely assumed the physical appearance of a desk sergeant at Granville Lane police station) approached her, grinning maniacally, a twelve-bore shotgun poised.
Chapter Nine
Day Three
McGinley woke after a restless night on a bed swaddled by cold and very possibly damp linen, with the all too familiar nagging pain in his side. Even fully clothed and with all the blankets he could find piled on top of him he’d shivered throughout the night, and for the first time he allowed himself the thought that the game might be up already and that he would fail to complete. Ironic that after all the effort he’d put into creating an elaborate decoy, his plans might be thwarted, not by the police, but by his own physical shortcomings. As he came round he found the place smelled weirdly of his dad — old cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave — and McGinley was disturbed by the strength of the recollections that came on him with force; each stage of his life worse than the one before, until events had finally spiralled out of control.
Buried Lies (Reissue) Page 5
