(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  Jerry couldn’t fathom the Blakes: one minute harassing him to keep a closer eye on the place; the next trying to drag him away. They were pushing their luck, that was for sure.

  It was the issue of money that rankled the most. His thirty grand a year didn’t seem so generous now he knew they’d been angling for fifty frigging million. He wondered how much of that would have come his way, had they managed to pull it off.

  ‘Sod all,’ he kept muttering. ‘Not a bloody nickel.’

  ****

  In the end he rolled up at the Blakes’ place around seven, having stopped off at a Harvester pub and treated himself to a steak. Determined not to be hurried, he’d ignored their texts and calls.

  The atmosphere was every bit as unwelcoming as he’d expected. As he stepped into the house Patricia remained in the hall, barring his way.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said.

  ‘Bad traffic.’

  Patricia gave a dismissive snort: clearly he was supposed to find a way to float above the gridlock. ‘And is there anything more to report?’

  Jerry didn’t care for her tone. It sounded like she knew full well that there was.

  ‘The sister had a glazier round this afternoon.’

  ‘Making good after the burglary,’ Gordon commented. If that was intended to mollify his wife, it failed badly.

  ‘So what’s up?’ Jerry asked, thinking: I’ve had just about as much as I can take from you, lady ...

  Patricia waved towards an open door. ‘This.’

  He walked into a living room that he hadn’t been privileged to enter before now. It was cluttered with antique furniture and made gloomy by heavy maroon wallpaper. There was a TV stuck on freeze frame, the image shivering in the corners as if impatient to move on. A DVD box lay on the floor: Entwined.

  Gordon, who for some reason was chewing on the arm of Patricia’s reading glasses, indicated the screen. ‘Recognise this?’

  Jerry crouched down. The man in the shot was familiar: not a bad actor. And the woman was a looker, but she—

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Jerry stared in disbelief at the room in which the actors were cavorting.

  Gordon said, ‘We’ve only been there once, a few years ago. But it looks familiar.’

  ‘It’s the farmhouse, definitely.’ Jerry’s voice was calm enough, but inside he was thinking: Ohhh shit ...

  Patricia regarded him severely. ‘It’s a forlorn hope, I suppose, to ask whether you can make any sense of this?’

  ‘Nope. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

  ‘But you were paid, Jerry – handsomely paid – to keep tabs on him. As well as your role of intermediary, you were supposed to befriend him, become his trusted confidant.’

  ‘And I did. But I also took your advice that I mustn’t make him suspicious. “Don’t live in his pocket. Don’t make him uneasy.” Remember?’

  Gordon nodded, shamefaced. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of money, I wouldn’t call it all that “handsome”, given some of the crap coming my way.’

  Patricia made a spluttering noise, as though her outrage couldn’t be funnelled into mere words. Gordon stepped between them, appealing for peace.

  ‘Rather than fall out, let’s focus on the issues here.’

  ‘I wish we could.’ Patricia snatched the glasses from Gordon’s hand. ‘But with each development we seem to understand less, not more.’

  ‘Darling, to be fair, this is such a bizarre sequence of events ...’

  Jerry found himself tempted to slip away. As he took a step back Patricia brought her fearsome gaze to bear, jabbing the arm of her glasses in his direction.

  ‘Three days, and all we’ve had is more questions. More uncertainty. We need answers.’

  ‘I can’t magic up a solution out of thin air.’

  ‘Then I seriously have to wonder what use you are to us.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll walk,’ Jerry said, hating the petulant tone that always crept into his voice during confrontations. ‘But you’ll have to make it worth my while to keep my mouth shut.’

  A stunned silence. From outside, they heard the rumble of a car engine.

  ‘Are you threatening us, Jerry?’ Patricia asked quietly.

  He shrugged. He’d been rehearsing an exchange of this nature for most of the afternoon, but now all the clever retorts had deserted him.

  Ever the smarmy diplomat, Gordon said, ‘Stemper’s here. Can I suggest we park this issue for the time being?’

  CHAPTER 48

  Nobody had to spell it out: Cate knew what a dismal picture it painted of her life, pushing a trolley round Sainsbury’s at seven o’clock on a Friday evening. And not one of the big trolleys, either – which made it all the more obvious that she was shopping for one.

  Might just as well write ‘saddo’ on my forehead ...

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last done anything remotely exciting on a Friday, let alone had a hot date. And after this she was going to drive home, put the shopping away, eat a low-fat curry and probably drink the best part of a bottle of Pinot, while telling herself there was really nowhere else she’d rather be than here, on her sofa, watching a DVD.

  At least, as it turned out, that was what she should have done.

  ****

  It was an act of lunacy, but at the time it seemed harmless enough. Leaving the supermarket, she let the Audi drift towards the right-hand lane rather than the left.

  The house was in Mile Oak, on one of the many new estates that had sprouted up in recent years. The road layout was confusing. A couple of times she was flashed by the car behind when she slowed to read the road signs.

  ‘What am I doing?’ Cate said aloud. But the answer was only too clear. She was picking at a scab. The pain Martin had caused her on Tuesday wasn’t quite sharp enough to satisfy, or intense enough for her immune system to kick in and heal her. Deep down she understood that she had to feel worse before she could feel better.

  She found the address at last, within a cul-de-sac that had only a fraction of the space it needed for parking. It meant that after turning she had nowhere to pull in, but that was fine. She didn’t intend to be here for long.

  The house that Martin and Janine shared looked impossibly small to contain the three bedrooms which Martin claimed it had. The garden, if they had one at all, must be about the size of a tablecloth. No space for a child to run and play; no room to frolic or gambol or whatever it was you did when you had gorgeous little sprogs and life was perfect.

  Although it wasn’t fully dark, there were lights on in almost every room. Martin wouldn’t like that at all, even if they were energy-saving bulbs. Or maybe Janine was such an enthusiastic provider of oral gratification that Martin had learned to overlook the occasional bad habit?

  ‘God, I’m being a bitch,’ she muttered. And she was talking to herself again. ‘You’re a spiteful cow, Caitlin Scott. And probably going loopy as well.’

  ****

  No, this was just displacement activity. For the energy-squandering inhabitants of the house had neglected to close their curtains, and as a result Cate was able to see that the bedroom in the top left corner had already been decorated and equipped for its new purpose. It was a nursery, with bright mauve walls and a multicoloured lampshade, and some kind of mobile dangling below the light, a draught causing its shadows to dance and sway.

  Cate’s imagination did the rest, adding the crib and the cushions and the cuddly toys. A beautifully crafted bookcase filled with all the stories that had enchanted her as a child. The room would have its own special smell, too, of warmth and milk and a mother’s love—

  ‘Go!’ she cried, and thumped herself on the thigh. ‘You pathetic woman.’

  ****

  Home was still home, but now it felt cold, spare, brittle. Too silent. Before she put the shopping away – before she unpacked, even – Cate drew the last of the wine from the fridge and poured it brimful into a glass. Found a
new bottle and placed it in the freezer to cool quickly. This was an emergency, after all.

  She was tempted not to eat, but some degree of good sense prevailed. While the meal heated up, she put the shopping away and recounted all the reasons she had to be grateful that she was single, and free – if not exactly young any more.

  The curry, it turned out, was indifferent. As a result, when the doorbell rang, she wasn’t quite as inclined to ignore it and go on eating. Setting the plate down, Cate had a flashback to Tuesday night, the broken wine glass. Perhaps it was female intuition.

  Martin was calling her name. He sounded in good spirits; it was more like a serenade than his usual whinge.

  But she kept the security chain on. Opened the door and the first thing she saw were flowers. From Sainsbury’s: she recognised the wrapping. He was clutching them to his chest, but there was also a bottle of wine in his hand.

  That voice in her head said: See? Be careful what you wish for.

  ****

  He greeted her, but didn’t ask to be let in, which was as close as Martin came to reverse psychology. Cate slipped off the chain and opened the door. He was grinning like an imbecile. Dressed in newly pressed jeans and a grey shirt with a button-down collar. And he’d overdone the aftershave somewhat. Diesel, she thought it was.

  She gestured at the flowers. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘For you.’ He thrust them forward. ‘I hope you have a spare vase.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Now that he was inside, she had little option but to let him through to the kitchen. She shut the front door and heard a clunk as he put the bottle on the unit.

  ‘Do you have a drink on the go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was opening cupboards. ‘Of course, you’re one glass short. Sorry about that. Bloody clumsy of me.’

  Next the kitchen drawers, searching for a bottle opener. Cate stood in the doorway and crossed her arms.

  ‘Sorry, Martin. Have I missed something?’

  He turned, smiling easily. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this feels like one of those TV shows where the character falls into a coma for a couple of years, then waltzes in one day as though nothing has happened.’

  A tiny frown restored his features to those of an ageing, harassed father-to-be. He indicated the bottle.

  ‘Want a top-up? I need to get one in me quick.’ He snorted. ‘Dutch courage, I suppose. Isn’t that ridiculous, with my own wife?’

  ‘Martin, I’m not your wife any more. We’re divorced, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget? But it was a mistake. We both know that now.’

  Cate shook her head. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that.’ Martin opened his hands, appealing for reason to prevail. ‘I saw you earlier.’

  ‘What?’ Cate wanted to sound mystified, but she could feel herself blushing.

  ‘I’m so glad I happened to look out. It’s just like when you caught me this morning. We’re being drawn to each other.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t ...’ She laid the flowers on the worktop. ‘I wasn’t there because of that.’

  ‘Cate, it’s a cul-de-sac. Why else would you be there?’

  She bent her head and rested it against the door frame. Then heard him coming towards her, eager to exploit the vulnerability she was displaying. She quickly straightened up.

  ‘Martin, please. Don’t push me to explain.’

  ‘I have to, because otherwise you won’t admit it to yourself.’

  ‘No. You’re imagining things. Look, I’m sorry to be blunt, but I don’t love you any more. Coming here with flowers and wine ... Two, three years ago, I’d have been thrilled by that kind of attention from you.’

  ‘You were parked up outside my house, for Pete’s sake.’

  He took a step towards her. She retreated a step, into the hall.

  ‘Listen to me, please. I have no desire to get back with you. Your future is with Janine, and your baby.’

  His lip curled into a sneer. ‘So that’s what it is? You’re jealous.’ Then he saw his error, made an effort to be conciliatory again. ‘Don’t you see what I was getting at the other night? I would have a kid with you now. I’ll prove it.’ He nodded at the ceiling. ‘Let’s go and get started, right this minute. No protection.’

  She was stunned. ‘Martin ...’

  ‘Come on, we can take the wine with us.’ He pursed his lips. ‘You can’t still be on the pill, surely?’

  Cate stepped back again, winded; the words tumbled out: ‘Oh, you bastard ...’

  ‘Well, come on. It’s not like you’re getting any action.’ He advanced and now she was against the wall. She saw his hand creeping towards her and batted it away.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t you lay a finger on me.’

  ‘How dare you! Are you saying I’m gonna ...?’

  ‘I’m warning you, that’s all. And I’m asking you to leave. Please, Martin.’

  ‘Or what?’ he snarled. ‘You’re practically accusing me of rape. Are you gonna go sobbing to your little detective friend and make up a load of allegations against me?’

  ****

  He was looming over her, so close that there were flecks of his spittle landing on her cheeks. Cate felt paralysed, as if the mere mention of the word ‘rape’ had been enough to scramble her nervous system.

  ‘All that bullshit this morning,’ Martin said. ‘You are screwing him, aren’t you? Does he know you’re desperate to have a kid?’ He thumped the wall above her head, and it seemed to shudder against her. She let out a yelp.

  ‘If you don’t go now, I’m calling 999.’

  ‘I make you a bloody good offer and you turn me down flat. And yet you’ll go and use that cop as a sperm donor. To think you had the cheek to call Janine a slag—’

  She slapped his face. Martin recoiled, but at the same time he drew back his fist. Visions of the fight with Hank O’Brien ran through Cate’s mind as she ducked low and squeezed through the gap between him and the door frame. Into the kitchen, she dashed for the far counter, grabbed his bottle of wine and turned, gripping it by the neck.

  ‘Get out of here!’ she screamed. ‘You take one step towards me and I’ll kill you.’

  He didn’t move. Dropping his hands, he regarded her with contempt.

  ‘You’re a lunatic. A prick-teasing little whore who belongs in the nuthouse, and one day that’s where you’re gonna end up.’

  He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to shake the house. Cate managed to put the bottle down safely, then sank to the floor, drew her knees up to her chin and wept.

  CHAPTER 49

  Gordon could see how close to meltdown Patricia had come. Stemper’s arrival meant the explosion had been delayed, not avoided altogether.

  She went to greet Stemper herself, leaving Jerry and Gordon to share an awkward silence. When Patricia returned, Gordon had the impression that she’d been discussing the outburst. The manner in which Stemper’s gaze settled on Jerry Conlon brought to mind an undertaker sizing up a body.

  They replayed the relevant scene from the movie, and Gordon felt a sense of anticlimax when Stemper failed to exhibit any real surprise. Instead he looked smugly content.

  Patricia summarised the day’s events: the hard drives had yielded nothing of interest, and O’Brien’s sister had taken up what was hoped to be only temporary residence at the farmhouse, where she had overseen repairs to the broken window, as well as the removal of Hank’s paperwork.

  Then, eyes twinkling, she said, ‘I have to confess, I was mystified when you asked about Hank’s living arrangements. I take it you already had your suspicions about the film?’

  ‘I merely thought it should be followed up, given the enquiries that Hank had made a few weeks ago.’

  Stemper hesitated, as if from what he’d said only a moron could fail to comprehend the situation. In that respect, Gordon knew he would have to fall on his sword.

  ‘Well, I’m still baffled. W
e keep glimpsing this enormous canvas, but with each sight the picture looks bigger and more confusing than before.’

  ****

  There was a disparaging snort from Jerry. But Stemper inclined his head and said, ‘Eloquently put. In my view, what explains it best is that there isn’t one canvas out there in the dark, but two.’

  Patricia was the first to grasp his meaning. ‘So Hank’s death is nothing to do with our scheme?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I do believe there’s another conspiracy, and the movie lies at the heart of it. The farmhouse was used for filming at a time when O’Brien was living elsewhere. Now, his attempt to trace the location manager was made shortly after his return from Japan.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’ Patricia said. ‘The trip was to a Templeton subsidiary.’

  ‘It is relevant, but not in that way. I made some enquiries this afternoon. Entwined was part of the in-flight entertainment – if we can assume that Hank flew British Airways?’

  ‘Probably. We can check.’

  ‘So you think that’s when he saw the film?’ Gordon said.

  As Stemper nodded, Jerry clicked his fingers together. ‘He was in a steaming mood, you remember?’

  ‘And threatening to change the alarm code,’ Stemper said. ‘A natural reaction to what he no doubt saw as a violation of his property.’

  ‘Because the house had been used without his permission?’ Patricia looked stunned. ‘Is this what it’s all about?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. But I intend to find out.’

  ****

  They moved on to the events of Tuesday night. Stemper described the barmaid’s claim of a connection between the woman and the men who’d assisted her. He wanted Jerry to verify whether her descriptions matched that of the men in the BMW.