(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  ‘I keep thinking of those cartoons,’ Robbie said as he approached the car. ‘Tom and Jerry, or whatever it was.’

  He imitated the sound of a burning fuse, then extended his arm and hurled the cardboard on to the back seat. The vapour inside the car ignited in a white flash and Robbie leapt back with a cry of alarm. He turned and ran, the Fiesta engulfed in fire by the time he stumbled out of the barn, laughing as he showed Dan his face.

  ‘Anything get singed? My eyebrows feel weird.’

  ‘No, you look okay.’

  ‘Smart thinking, mate, to wait out here for a bit.’

  They watched the car burn, the smoke growing dark and foul within the confines of the barn until they could barely see the Fiesta at all. Gradually the smoke found an escape route and was sucked into the cool night air in thin grey strands like party streamers.

  Dan looked at it and said, ‘Are you sure this was a good idea?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How long will it burn for?’

  Robbie shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’

  ****

  They were startled by a couple of small explosions, which Dan thought had come from the engine compartment. Not loud enough to attract attention, or so Robbie assured him.

  The smoke was billowing out now, in dark boiling clouds. They retreated further to avoid the choking fumes, and then, since they were practically halfway to the house, it seemed like a good idea to fetch another beer. They took the drinks and stood on the lawn like guests at a boring wedding.

  Dan said, ‘Cate knows you’ve got this place back on the books. She can’t understand what you’re doing.’

  Robbie smiled. ‘That’s ’cause she thinks the way you do, like everything has to form part of a well-ordered plan. Whereas I prefer to act on the spur of the moment. Just wing it and see what happens.’

  ‘Like grabbing the steering wheel of your best friend’s car?’

  The atmosphere could have changed then, because of the bitterness in Dan’s voice. He realised the alcohol was worming its way into his brain, changing his moods with bewildering speed: one minute carefree, the next angry and resentful, spoiling for a fight.

  But Robbie kept the same equanimity that had seen him through scrape after scrape, good times and bad.

  ‘I know I should probably be saying how much I regret everything that happened this week. But the truth is, I don’t. Not really. I’ve never felt more alive than I have in the past few days. And I bet, if you’re honest, you haven’t either.’

  He waited a second. Dan only shrugged.

  Robbie said, ‘I mean, this is why we’ve got a pulse, isn’t it? Not for the usual boring day-after-day routines, but for the times like this, when the adrenalin’s pumping and it feels like your whole life is hanging in the balance. That’s what we’re alive for, Dan, to feel like this.’

  ‘What, are you saying we should celebrate killing Hank?’

  ‘No.’ Robbie raised his bottle and clinked it gently against Dan’s. ‘I’m saying we should celebrate that we’re still here.’

  CHAPTER 71

  After making sure that nothing in the house contradicted the tableau he’d created, Stemper studied the street from an unlit window until he judged it was safe to depart.

  Back at the car, he decided against returning to Sussex. He felt too weary for another encounter with Quills; besides, he suspected that his absence would only bind the unfortunate man still deeper into his obsession.

  He drove out of London amongst the dwindling traffic of a Saturday evening, stopped off at a supermarket for a few overnight essentials, and then booked into a Premier Inn in Woking. From there he called the Blakes and confirmed that it was done.

  ‘Any problems?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And it looks ...?’

  ‘Exactly as we planned it to look.’

  Patricia took the phone. ‘There’s been an update from across the water. The meetings were a great success, apparently. Our friend Mark could be homeward-bound as early as Wednesday or Thursday next week.’

  ‘I see. We need to up the pace, then. I’ll try and complete the search tomorrow.’

  ‘What about the sister?’

  ‘I’m sure I can find ... a “workaround”, shall we say?’

  ‘Thank you. And then the woman on Monday?’

  The question seemed innocuous enough, but Stemper thought he discerned another layer of meaning. In their meeting this afternoon he must have communicated some extra tension that Patricia, an impressively perceptive woman, had noted.

  He said, ‘Yes. Or sooner, if I can.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  But it was not at all splendid, and when the call was over Stemper brooded for some considerable time.

  The Blakes had Caitlin’s identity. Their research would soon unearth the names of any current or former partners, and one of those names would correspond with that of a murder victim.

  Stemper knew he should tell them about it, but to do so was tantamount to admitting he was fallible. It was a question of which he valued most: their faith or their trust.

  He took a shower and thought about it and decided, finally, that they were equally vital.

  So then it came down to timing. If he kept silent, how long before they were likely to discover his error? How long did he have?

  No. The real question was of a slightly different order.

  How long did he need?

  ****

  All day Gordon had been prey to a low-level neurosis, which the conversation with Stemper had done nothing to assuage. The news from America far outweighed these small advances in identifying their tormentors.

  ‘Time’s running out,’ he said, gesturing with the tumbler that contained his fourth whisky of the night.

  Patricia had also drunk rather heavily. There had been the air of a vigil about the evening as they sat together in the living room and waited for Stemper to confirm that the night’s grim task was complete.

  Now she swallowed the last of her Merlot and said, ‘I know. Those poor children ...’

  She was maudlin again, close to tears. Gordon couldn’t recall so many emotional displays in such quick succession.

  ‘Well, at least the other thing’s done.’ He felt an odd reluctance to speak Jerry’s name.

  ‘I wonder if she’s home yet?’ Patricia said. ‘The widow.’

  ‘I doubt it. From the West End.’

  ‘Of course. She’ll use public transport.’

  Gordon stood up and offered his hand. ‘There’s nothing more to do tonight. Let’s turn in.’

  Patricia nodded, grasped his hand and rose, teetering a little, and he laughed and used the loss of balance to engineer an embrace. He held her firmly and they stayed that way for at least half a minute, Gordon at first amazed that she hadn’t pushed him away; then gratified and – in spite of the other thing on his mind, or perhaps because of it – aroused.

  ‘Bed,’ he said, and kissed her.

  ‘Mm.’ She responded, taking the kiss, her tongue against his, hungrier than he had known it for years.

  Gordon led her upstairs feeling ten foot tall; the man of the house, with a raging erection and a head full of twisted images: bondage ropes and ball gags and unspeakable acts on a DVD – the props in a mercy killing, but ultimately it was mercy for them, not for Jerry.

  ****

  In bed, still in his arms, Patricia said, ‘You know, my absolute worst nightmare is that we retrieve the papers and go ahead as planned, but when we confront him it turns out he’s already signed the deal in secret, and he just laughs in our faces. Can you imagine it, Gordon? The humiliation as we slink out with our tails between our legs ...’

  He kissed her. He wanted her to put this aside for now, but she was determined to worry it down to manageable proportions.

  ‘Then should we try it anyway? As soon as he gets to the UK?’

  ‘Without the documentation?’

  He nodded. �
�Yes. Bluff it.’

  ‘I thought you were fiercely opposed to our direct involvement. And to do it without the evidence ...’

  ‘Darling, it petrifies me. But I know what this means to you. If we have no other options, I’m prepared to give it a try.’

  ‘Stemper might still pull a rabbit or two from the hat ...’ Patricia’s eyes were misty. Gordon’s expectation of sex was receding fast, but he had to admit that this affection was a pleasure in itself.

  ‘Let’s hope he does,’ he said.

  ‘He hasn’t failed us so far.’ She yawned, gazed into his eyes until all his motives were laid bare. ‘Oh, Gordon, I’m so tired. Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  He smiled. ‘Turn over. I’ll hold you.’

  She faced away from him and he snuggled in close, her body large and warm and solid. He thought she was done with conversation, but after a minute of silence she spoke again.

  ‘We have to make it succeed now. For the sake of those who are losing their lives.’

  He knew what she meant. He had spent much of the day examining his conscience. A necessary act, now that people were dying for the Blakes and their cause. Gordon had privately resolved that in tribute to Jerry Conlon he would purchase a less ostentatious yacht, and donate a million pounds or so to a worthwhile charity. Not necessarily a ‘selfish’ charity, either: not cancer or heart disease or diabetes.

  Maybe he should include Jerry’s widow in the choice? Make the donation specifically in Jerry’s name. Now that was a nice touch ...

  If the deal comes off, he reminded himself.

  A thought struck him. It seemed like a reasonably safe time to raise the issue, so he said, ‘How do you feel about Hank’s death?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t commented on it. At an emotional level, I mean.’

  He felt her tense, and responded by squeezing closer.

  ‘Gordon, it was years ago. It was sex.’

  ‘Good sex?’ he asked, aiming to pitch it as a light-hearted, almost frivolous query.

  ‘It was a mistake, you know that. But it did later pay dividends – or seemed to, at least – when he joined Templeton.’

  ‘Was that in your mind, right at the beginning?’ When you seduced him.

  ‘I suppose I recognised some potential. Good with numbers, if not with people. Just the right degree of blustering arrogance that impresses political types. But no, it wasn’t that calculated. Hank was brash and strong and confident.’ She made a little spurting noise, which he identified as a giggle. ‘And he was really rather well-endowed.’

  Nothing much to add to that, Gordon thought. He was idly stroking a rough patch of skin, just above the loose swell of her breasts.

  ‘You do realise, don’t you, that you needn’t have kept it secret? You didn’t have to exclude me.’

  She twitched, and he sensed her confusion. ‘You mean ... physically excluded, from my affair?’

  ‘Yes.’ He chuckled softly. ‘For you, it could have been twice the pleasure. Twice the thrill.’ Ever hopeful, he moved his hand lower. ‘Whatever makes you happy, my darling. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

  CHAPTER 72

  A relentless pounding noise drew Cate from sleep at what she felt sure must be stupid o’clock for a Sunday.

  It was: twenty to eight. Last night she’d granted herself permission to sleep half the morning away if she wanted. Now someone was thumping steadily on her front door. Someone selfishly, spitefully determined to destroy her chances of a lie-in.

  No prizes for guessing who.

  ****

  She couldn’t ignore him, because soon the neighbours would be complaining. She threw back her duvet and sat up, her head reeling. Too much wine last night, drowning her sorrows after the date fell through.

  She grabbed a dressing gown, tying it tightly as she descended the stairs. No visible cleavage, in case Martin was deluded enough to believe she was trying to entice him into bed. Clearly she’d been right not to treat yesterday’s silence as a positive sign.

  I’m going to report you to the police. Those were the words forming on her lips as she checked the security chain was in place and opened the door.

  ‘You bitch! You couldn’t bear it that I gave him what he wanted, so you tried to tempt him back, didn’t you? Bitch. You stinking, stealing bitch whore.’

  A torrent of words, slurred and exhausted and wrapped in long hours of tears cried. Even through a sliver of open doorway Cate could see that Janine was utterly wrecked, tottering on her feet, strands of wet hair plastered to her cheeks, yesterday’s mascara smeared across her temple. She wore jogging pants and a thin T-shirt that clung to the beginnings of a swollen belly. There was a violence in her eyes that belied the hopelessness in her voice. Cate had a very real impression that, had she possessed the energy, Janine would have gone for her throat.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Janine thumped the door again, stretching the security chain to its limit. ‘You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you?’

  ‘What? Do you mean Martin—?’

  ‘No, fucking Father Christmas. Who do you think I mean? I bet he wasn’t even at his brother’s Friday night. He said they were going fishing in the morning, but that turned out to be a lie.’

  ‘Janine, you’ve got it wrong. He wasn’t with me.’

  ‘So what was he doing in Brighton then?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Cate. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ****

  The silence that greeted this question was almost physical. It was as though expanding foam had been pumped into the space around them, freezing them into position. Cate saw Janine’s brain racing through a series of calculations; a glint of cruelty in the way her eyes widened, a bitter delight that it fell to her to deliver bad news.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re here for. I haven’t been seeing Martin and I have no interest in getting back with him. He’s yours, Janine, and frankly you’re welcome to—’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘—have him.’ Cate’s sentence was complete before she could process the interruption. If she hadn’t seen the words form on Janine’s lips she might have assumed she’d misheard.

  ‘Martin’s dead?’ Cate had to clutch the door frame for support. ‘Did he ... was it an overdose, or ...?’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stabbed to death, in the middle of Brighton.’ Janine’s lips trembled, and fresh tears flowed. Cate instinctively removed the security chain, opening the door and beckoning to her, but Janine backed away.

  ‘Don’t you touch me.’ There was a crazed look in her eyes. ‘You did this.’

  ‘Janine ...’

  ‘I dunno how, but you’re part of this. They told me. They told me.’ She had to stop, swallow, and find her voice again. ‘He was still alive, in the ambulance. He died before they could get him to hospital.’

  ‘Janine, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Shut up! They told me he kept trying to speak. Tell Cate. That’s what he said. That’s all. Tell Cate. And then he died.’

  ****

  Cate said nothing. Into the stunned silence came the sound of a car approaching at speed. A blue estate screeched to a halt behind Janine’s car. A man of about Cate’s age got out of the driver’s side, and from the passenger seat came a woman in her sixties: Janine’s brother and mum. Shamefully Cate recognised them from her occasional late-night prowl around Martin’s Facebook page.

  Janine ignored them. The emotion was roaring back, and her words were almost a shriek.

  ‘Were you with him? You saw him Friday night, didn’t you?’

  She lunged at Cate just as her brother got close enough to restrain her. Perhaps she had planned it that way, Cate thought. No good could come of a physical confrontation, and even within the depths of her grief Janine must have understood that.

  While her bro
ther wrapped her in a protective embrace, Janine’s mother reached out and caressed her cheek.

  ‘Come on, darling. This isn’t going to help.’

  From Janine, an incomprehensible burst of speech, while her brother stared coldly at Cate.

  ‘We didn’t know she’d got out. The doctor gave her something last night. We thought she was still with us.’

  ‘And that’s where you need to be,’ her mother said. ‘Tucked up in bed.’

  She steered Janine free of her brother’s grasp and started walking her towards the car.

  ‘You take her, Mum,’ the brother said. ‘I’ll drive her car back.’

  He glanced at Cate again, now slightly apologetic, but still far from warm. Cate thought she had perhaps less than a minute before the shock overwhelmed her.

  ‘I don’t understand. Is Martin really ...?’

  ‘Yeah. Bled to death in the ambulance.’ He shook his head. ‘Saturday afternoon, in one of the busiest shopping areas in the city.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘In the Lanes somewhere.’

  ‘The Lanes?’

  ‘Well, not the ones with jewellery shops. The hippie ones.’

  ‘The North Laines?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it.’

  Cate felt a coldness deep in the core of herself; a lightness in her head that she’d experienced previously when she was about to faint. Janine’s brother gave her a questioning look, but Cate would have slammed the door in his face rather than respond to it.

  Were you there?

  For a second that question hung suspended in the air between them. Then he forgot her and hurried to the assistance of his mother, who was hugging Janine as she stood, virtually catatonic, staring at the car as if nothing in the world made sense any more.

  Cate knew how she felt.

  CHAPTER 73

  Dan woke with a pounding headache in a room that reeked of smoke. All his clothes from last night were impregnated with it. He should have left them in the garden.