(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  ****

  For once Robbie was all set to go at six in the morning – and a Monday morning at that. He’d got his head down early and slept like a baby. He showered, dressed in tatty clothes, then trotted into the kitchen and found Jed already at the table, drinking a concoction so dark and thick that it might have been tar.

  ‘Did you go to bed?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Not exactly. We having brekkie here or stopping by Maccy D’s on the way?’

  ‘Maccy D’s sounds good to me.’

  ****

  Dan lay and drifted until his alarm went off, by which time the effect of the dream had begun to fade. Another half an hour and he’d restored enough hope to send Cate a text, suggesting they meet for dinner one night this week.

  It had been the same yesterday, his emotions on a see-saw after he’d left Robbie’s flat and walked home across the city. He had said nothing to his aunt about splitting up with Hayley – that news could wait until he’d come to terms with it himself. But Joan had asked what he was planning to do about his car, and he’d told her it was in hand.

  ‘A friend of Robbie’s came and got it last night. He’s taking a look at it for me.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s nothing serious,’ Joan said. ‘But either way I’ll pick up the bill.’

  Dan had begun to argue, then remembered that it was never actually going to happen.

  Louis hadn’t come home until eight, by which time Dan’s anger had cooled. In any case, this wasn’t the right moment to discuss Robbie or the drugs. Sunday nights were traditionally about family time: the three of them together in the living room, Joan busy with a sudoku and sipping a glass of sherry, Dan watching TV, Louis glancing at the screen while messaging his friends on his BlackBerry.

  Now, as he walked to work, Dan reflected on a tumultuous weekend. He’d lost his car, his fiancée and his best friend, and although it might be the case that he had gained a new lover, deep down he couldn’t bring himself to believe there was any prospect of a lasting relationship with Cate.

  He checked his phone yet again, but she still hadn’t replied. Perhaps, having thought it over, she had decided to go to the police. Dan waited for the idea to provoke a stab of panic, but nothing came. He truly felt that he didn’t care what happened to him now.

  ****

  The text from Dan made Cate’s heart sink. She wouldn’t answer it until she had given some thought to a tactful response. Despite Dan’s role in Hank O’Brien’s death and the subsequent cover-up, Cate was still disposed to let him down gently.

  In the light of a new day, she’d concluded that going to bed with him hadn’t been a mistake, exactly, but neither had it represented the beginning of something. She was in two minds as to whether she should meet Dan to warn him about DC Avery. Or would it be safer if she and Robbie stayed well away from Dan for the time being?

  She was thinking about reporting Avery’s behaviour to DS Thomsett when her phone rang. It was her mother, sounding uncharacteristically solemn.

  ‘Darling, are you still at home?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I wish I could be there, but I’m in East Grinstead and I’ve only just seen the paper. It’s Martin ...’

  Cate released the breath she’d been holding. ‘I know. DS Thomsett came to—’ She faltered: Mum doesn’t know about Thomsett, or Hank O’Brien.

  ‘DS who?’

  ‘He’s one of the detectives on the case.’

  ‘Oh.’ A sniff. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I’ve ... I was in shock, I suppose.’

  ‘You realise it happened in Kensington Gardens? It must have been that disturbance we saw. What was it, a fight with someone?’

  ‘They don’t seem to know at this stage. Look, Mum, I’m late for work. If you’re in the office at lunchtime I’ll pop round and we can discuss it then.’

  A little put out, her mother agreed, then clicked her tongue. ‘Martin was a bit of a pillock, but still. What a dreadful thing to happen.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Cate agreed, and managed not to hurl the phone across the room.

  She was surprised her mother hadn’t raised the thorny issue of coincidence. Then again, Mum had twice bumped into friends in Churchill Square. Half the city went out shopping on a Saturday afternoon, so maybe Martin hadn’t been following her at all ...

  An encouraging thought, until she remembered his final words in the ambulance: Tell Cate.

  And now she had gone and mentioned DS Thomsett, which would stir up many more questions. Cate would have to come clean about Martin’s visit on Friday night, and Janine’s tirade, and God knew what else. As Dan had proved, it was incredibly hard to maintain a deception for any length of time.

  It’s spiralling out of control, she thought. And sooner or later there’ll be a reckoning.

  ****

  It was a weight off Robbie’s mind to see the burned-out Fiesta carted away, and while other niggling worries remained, they were as nothing compared with the optimism that coursed through his veins.

  The only bugbear was that Jed’s buddy turned up late. It meant waiting around for nearly an hour, trying to make conversation with a man he didn’t understand, didn’t much like, and wanted out of his life as soon as possible. But Jed seemed sublimely unaware of Robbie’s irritation. He was far more talkative than Robbie had ever known him, his comments and questions always gently probing, overlaid with an amusement that suggested he knew all of Robbie’s secrets.

  And that, when Robbie stopped to consider it, was no small matter. He realised that this shabby, chaotic waster could, from what he’d seen and heard over the past few days, assemble enough information to make a real nuisance of himself.

  At last a recovery truck rumbled in through the gates. Robbie directed it across the lawn to the barn, wincing at the furrows it was carving in the grass. He’d have to devise an explanation for Hank’s sister.

  After reversing partway into the barn, the driver used a winch to drag the wreck up on to the flatbed. Another ten minutes and it was covered with a tarpaulin and strapped up tight.

  Robbie produced the rest of the payment but Jed took it from him and retreated to the far side of the truck, conferring quietly with the driver. Bastard’s taking a cut for himself, Robbie thought. If not for the small fortune resting in his safe – and the much larger one promised by Hank’s stash of paperwork – he might have made a fuss about it.

  Instead he was glad just to have this over with. They saw the truck off the premises, then returned to Robbie’s BMW. Jed took one last admiring glance at the farmhouse.

  ‘Hell of a place, this. Could take to living here myself.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ Robbie muttered.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Jed asked, as if genuinely surprised. ‘’S not as though the owner’s got any use for it.’

  Robbie gave him a sharp look. He hadn’t breathed a word about Hank O’Brien’s fate.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, you said this is one of your rental places. Nobody living here, by the look of it.’ A chuckle. ‘Why, what did you think I meant?’

  Robbie scowled. ‘Nothing.’

  ****

  Cate checked the street from her bedroom window before leaving the house. A furtive, guilty action, but she wanted to make sure DC Avery wasn’t lying in wait.

  There was no sign of him, thank God. She hurried downstairs, set the burglar alarm and stepped outside. It was a fresh morning, a warmish breeze coursing uphill from the sea. No pedestrians in sight, no passing cars; just a delivery truck double parked at the top of the road and a car with its engine running in the side street almost adjacent to her home.

  She set off down the hill, towards the magnificent red-brick church of St Mary Magdalen; beyond it, the whitecaps scudding over a greeny-blue sea. She loved the changing colours, the moods of the sea; a different landscape every day—

  ‘Miss Scott?’

  She hadn’t heard footsteps, but when
she turned there was a man only yards away. In his fifties, medium height, slim, wearing a suit and a raincoat. Grey-brown hair in a side parting, silver-framed glasses, a nondescript face.

  At that moment, only one thing explained who he was and what he was doing here: Avery had made good on his threat. This must be DS Thomsett’s boss.

  ‘Caitlin Scott?’ he said again. He had a smooth monotone voice; no discernible accent.

  ‘Yes. Do I know you?’

  Ignoring the question, he grasped her arm firmly at a point just above the elbow and steered her towards the side street, Victoria Place. ‘Come with me, please.’

  ‘What? Let me go. Who are you?’

  He moved with the agility of a much younger man, urging her forward while positioning himself slightly behind her. Cate was so startled that her body obeyed, her mind whirring uselessly like a slipped gear.

  His destination was the car with its engine running, a silver Ford Focus. Would a detective inspector or higher drive a Focus ...?

  You silly cow, she thought. He hasn’t arrested you, hasn’t cautioned you.

  He’s not a cop.

  The panic spiked through her like a bolt of lightning, but he anticipated the impulse to break away, tightening his grip on her arm. At the same time something dug into her side. She looked down, saw the muzzle of a gun. Her legs almost gave way.

  ‘You’re not going to be hurt, but I need you to cooperate. Can you do that?’ His tone was friendly, relaxed, and it induced a strong desire to believe him.

  There were duelling voices in her head: one trying to maintain order, anxious not to make a scene; the other furious and afraid, berating her for being so meek.

  Tell Cate ...

  Too late, it came to her: A grey middle-aged man, the witnesses had told the police.

  Martin had been trying to warn her.

  It was a paralysing thought. And now they were at the car. One of the rear doors had been left ajar – easy for her captor to flick it open without relinquishing hold of her arm or the gun.

  He had her blocked in. The street was still deserted. Cate could try to break away, or cry for help, but it wouldn’t save her.

  There’ll be a better chance than this, the calm voice told her. So she made the decision, possibly the most momentous decision of her life, and climbed into the back seat; and the other voice screamed and bawled, told her she was spineless, a coward and a fool, and that she’d just made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  CHAPTER 87

  Dan’s worst fears about his future at Denham’s seemed to be realised within the first ten minutes. He arrived to find Hayley sitting in the restroom, Tim Masters perched on the table above her as though waiting for an opportunity to tumble into her lap.

  Hayley took a sip from a carton of Ribena. A lock of hair fell across her forehead and Tim caressed it back into place, only to see her flinch. Confused, he glanced round, clocked Dan and gave a triumphant smile.

  ‘Morning ...’ The tone cheery but clipped, as if the full greeting would have been: Morning, loser.

  Dan nodded to them both, then set about making coffee. A few of their colleagues ambled in, and each time there were little starts and abrupt silences as they took in the intimate body language displayed by the couple at the table, then turned to examine what Dan was making of it. The more unconcerned he tried to appear, the more ridiculous he must have looked: any more nonchalant and he could have slithered under the door.

  Checking his phone was a reliable displacement activity, but even that brought disappointment. Silence from Cate.

  Then the old man walked in, dwarfed by his classic Crombie overcoat, complete with beloved TT Race lapel pin. He reacted in broadly the same way as everyone else: first a confused look at Hayley and Tim, then a questioning glance at Dan. But with Denham there was also an unmistakable hint of satisfaction.

  Diffident as ever, he said, ‘Uh, Dan, could we have a quick word, do you think?’

  ‘Sure. Here?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Denham’s eyes gleamed. ‘This is strictly between us.’

  ****

  Robbie was home before nine. A flying visit, so he left his car on the street. Jed sloped off to his room: back to bed, Robbie would have guessed, although the occasional thump and clatter suggested otherwise.

  Robbie was due in the office by now, but he’d checked his mother’s schedule and fortunately she was out for most of the day. He called Indira, who was less than impressed to hear he was throwing a sickie.

  ‘I have to be in Saltdean at four, and there’s no one else to cover.’

  ‘Just close early,’ he said. ‘I’ll square it with the old bat.’

  He put the phone down on her protest, then took a shower to wash off the smell of smoke that seemed to have adhered to him again. He put on a good suit – a dark grey Hugo Boss – and transferred Hank’s paperwork into a small suitcase. His Antler cabin bag was the perfect size and its combination lock, while insufficient to deter a serious thief, would at least keep prying eyes at bay. That was all he needed for now.

  He left the flat, his only farewell a spectacularly loud burp: the sausage-and-egg McMuffin repeating on him. He trotted down the stairs in a buoyant mood, partly because he’d kept a watchful eye out for anyone following him this morning, and he hadn’t seen a thing.

  For that reason he relaxed his guard, striding towards his car with barely a glance to his left or right. He didn’t notice his attackers until one of them spoke, a gruff voice that wasn’t addressing Robbie at all: ‘That’s him.’

  Three heavyset men in their late forties or early fifties, dressed in designer sports gear. Tough characters gone flabby from years of fine living, but still strong, still vicious. They were on him in an instant, tearing the suitcase from his grasp. One of them held him from behind, making sure he stayed upright under the barrage of blows. Robbie dimly registered that this was a good sign: fall to the ground and you’re dead.

  So he had been followed, he thought, barely hearing the abuse they were raining on him. He wondered if they’d have the brains to search him, or if taking the papers would be enough. The memory card was in his—

  ‘And keep your filthy hands off Jim’s missus,’ one of them growled, and at last the message penetrated Robbie’s skull.

  This isn’t about Hank O’Brien.

  The relief was sweeter than morphine. Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose and mouth, he lurched sideways, abandoning the effort to protect his vital organs, and made sure the suitcase was still there. It had been kicked across the pavement and now sat in the gutter next to his BMW. All it would take was for some opportunistic little scrote to wander past and nick it while everyone else was focusing on the assault ...

  Then he lost his footing and went down, his elbow striking the ground with such a loud crack that even one his assailants sucked in a breath. The other two laughed. Robbie felt like he was going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

  He heard a scream, thought for a second that it was coming from him. As it rose in pitch it transformed into a kind of war cry. The thugs were turning away when Robbie, through his tear-distorted vision, saw Jed hurtling towards them, brandishing a carving knife in one hand and a can of something in the other. Mace?

  ‘Who’s this fucking nut?’ one of the men said.

  ‘Dunno, but we’re finished here. Let’s go.’

  They backed off, crossing the road to a Jeep Cherokee. Jed slowed as soon as he saw the attack was over; at close range it was apparent that he had no real appetite for a fight. But he stood guard until the Cherokee roared away, then pocketed the Mace and went to help Robbie up. He froze when he saw the grin on Robbie’s face.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  Robbie laughed, choked, spat a gob of blood on to the pavement, then laughed again.

  ‘Celebrating.’ He ran his tongue over his teeth, testing to see if any had come loose. ‘I’m the luckiest man alive.’

  Jed shook his head slowly. ‘You�
��re a fucking lunatic, Rob.’

  ‘Yeah, I won’t argue.’ Robbie pointed at the suitcase. ‘Gimme a hand with that, will you?’

  ****

  Denham waved Dan to a seat, then hung his coat on the back of the office door and eased behind his desk.

  ‘Am I to assume that things have moved on?’

  ‘If you mean Hayley and me, yes. We’ve split up.’

  ‘I see. Well, I hope it wasn’t precipitated by our conversation on Saturday.’ Denham frowned. ‘Or should I hope that it was?’

  ‘It had been on the cards for a while. If it affects how we work together, I’ll look for another job.’

  ‘I hope you’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Denham sounded unusually stern, but there was still a twinkle in his eyes. ‘In any case, I don’t believe such drastic action will be necessary.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Denham idly inspected a pile of mail on his desk; lifting the first envelope, he read the return address and threw it aside in disgust.

  ‘They say that nothing is certain but death and taxes. To that, I’d currently add the obliteration of the High Street retailer. Now, I’ve denied it in staff presentations, and I’ll go on denying it for the sake of morale, but I can see the truth as well as anyone.’ He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, a relaxed posture that seemed at odds with his message. ‘The one saving grace is that we own this site. It’s the land we’re sitting on that’s the only true asset – and I say “we”, but actually it’s just me. At present.’

  Another pause. Dan had the impression that he should have cottoned on to something by now, but he remained mystified.

  ‘Here’s what I’m proposing,’ Denham said. ‘A management restructure, appointing you as general manager with responsibility for both sales and service.’

  A promotion, when Dan’s dream was to strike out on his own. He opened his mouth to explain but Denham raised a hand. ‘Hear me out. I won’t be able to employ a new sales manager, unfortunately, so there’ll be some increase in your workload, but I’ll be around as much as ever. Between us, I’m sure we’ll cope.’