‘It’s okay.’
Placing his tray on the worktable, Scott shrugged his jacket off. ‘I know. Take no notice. Whether he’s dead or alive, the word still exists and I have to deal with it.’
‘For what it’s worth, Sean Terry may be a scumbag but…’
Scott forced a smile. ‘Nothing we can say will make a scrap of difference. Let’s leave it for tonight. And, for my sake, if I get stuck on a word, ignore it. This is one situation where talking doesn’t help.’
Hilary nodded, her face full of sympathy. ‘Do you want to talk at all?’
‘Is it too late to ring Travers?’
‘It’s nearly midnight, Scott. Can’t it wait till morning?’ Hilary perched on the shabby couch, tucking one leg under her. ‘He would have called if he had any news.’
As if Hilary had pressed a secret button, the mobile in Scott’s pocket burst into sound. Scott grabbed it. ‘Travers?’
‘Just checking you made it.’
‘Anything?’ Scott pressed the button for speaker phone and Travers’s deep tone rang through the small room.
‘No, nothing. The police called again while we were out. They want to interview both Jay and me. Trying to find out where you are, I expect. Jay’s still not back…’
‘You serious?’
‘Not a word. Mrs Brody’s that worried. Mum told them I’d gone back to London with Natasha. She’s the best at lying – she’s that charming, no one ever suspects. She’s going spare about Dad though, threatening divorce when he does get home.’
‘No!’
Travers chuckled. ‘The coast-guard said there’d been no reports of an accident.’
‘Will you…’
‘Scott, I’ll talk to him as soon as, and call you. Oh yes, and Mary says…’
‘Is she there?’
‘No! She had to wash her hair, but my guess is there was something on telly she wanted to watch and didn’t want me butting in and spoiling her fun. I’m picking her up first thing. What was I saying?’
‘Something about Mary,’ Scott reminded.
‘Right. We need Weasel’s address – you forgot to give it to us.’
‘So I did.’ Hilary leapt up, fishing for the piece of paper which she had put in her jeans pocket. ‘Twenty-two Upton Court.’
‘Got it! Get some sleep.’
‘Travers?’
‘Leave the thanks till we’re in the clear, okay? Bye.’
Scott flipped the cover on his mobile shut, once again overcome by that sensation of being cast away in a vast ocean without a trace of land anywhere, nothing but a wall of dark grey water rolling relentlessly towards a bare horizon.
‘Scott? Scott?’
Scott blinked and the pictures vanished.
Hilary slipped her arm through his, squeezing it tightly. ‘What is it? Tell me!’
Scott gazed round the shabby little room as if seeing it for the first time and a deep well of unease soared through his body. ‘I don’t know but it wasn’t very nice. Come on, let’s get some sleep.’ All at once, he felt unbearably sleepy. He got to his feet and delved into a pile of blankets and cushions left on the sofa, yet another note pinned to them.
‘You haven’t eaten.’
Scott took a hurried bite of his burger. It had gone cold, the fat in the meat congealed. He took a hasty swig from his Coke bottle to clear away the taste. ‘I’m not that hungry. You having a bath?’
‘You know me, prickly as hell if I’m not clean. And it’ll warm me up. Get some sleep. I’ll try not to wake you.’
It was deep, dreamless sleep of total exhaustion; so deep that Scott neither heard their hostess get up and leave the flat nor Hilary moving about. He eventually awoke to the telltale click of an electric kettle switching off.
‘What?’
‘It’s gone ten.’
Scott struggled out of the nest of blankets he’d made on the floor, leaving Hilary the couch. He must have been tired, not even noticing the rigid hardness of the floorboards under the thin carpet.
‘You look awful. Here.’ Hilary passed over a mug of coffee. ‘I got some lenses.’
‘You’ve been out?’
‘I was their first customer. The shop assistant was curious so I told her I wanted them for clubbing tonight. I took the money from your pocket. Hope that’s okay.’ Scott nodded only half-listening, a dull throbbing headache pounding against his temples. ‘By the way, your photo’s in the paper.’ Hilary handed across the newspaper that she’d picked up at the supermarket.
Instantly wide awake, Scott stared down at the front page. It wasn’t a particularly good likeness, but the grainy black and white image had already gift-wrapped him into someone definitely guilty of something. ‘They didn’t waste much time,’ he said, his tone as bitter as the coffee he was drinking. Cheap supermarket stuff made from the dregs of floor sweepings. He rested his mug on the carpet. ‘I can’t drink this. Isn’t there any tea?’
Hilary shook her head. ‘Couldn’t find any. It tastes horrid, I know, but try and drink it.’
Scott got to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. A square box with a frosted-glass window for light, ramshackle cupboards hung from one wall posing as fitted units, with an old stove, its burners dulled with fat and grime, a sink, and a fridge lined up underneath. He hadn’t seen the bedroom but guessed, like the rest of Glady’s flat, it was equally poverty stricken and soulless – without any sense of personality – exactly like he felt. He’d slept fully clothed. It wasn’t a big deal but a shower would help. Opening a cupboard, he peered in. ‘There’s always a tea bag.’ Hilary caught the sound of tins being moved around. ‘Yep, thought so,’ Scott called. ‘One, lost in a corner. At last the day is beginning to pick up.’
Scott came back into the sitting room, his face buried in his mug. Hilary hadn’t moved. She held the newspaper rigidly in front of her, the fingers clutching the edge white with strain. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice broke. Dropping the newspaper on the couch, she fumbled through her pockets, pulling out a tissue.
‘Tulsa?’ She nodded, burying her face in her hands. ‘And Dad?’ Scott said in a dead voice. His tea forgotten, he stretched out his hand for the newspaper.
‘It’s on page three. Scott… please don’t!’
Ignoring the anguish uppermost in her voice, he flicked over the pages his eyes skimming the paragraph. Then, his expression steely and unflinching, he read it again as if trying to make sense of the words.
The cottage on the outskirts of the village of Oddisham is the property of Mr William Anderson, the eminent scientist. Recently returned to his home in Cornwall after addressing the United Nations in Geneva, Mr Anderson is still missing. His sixteen-year-old son, Scott, is being actively sought by police in connection with a shooting incident outside Falmouth Comprehensive in which two people were killed. A body recovered from the fire has been sent for forensic examination. It’s thought likely to be that of the owner.
George Beale, who farms the land around the cottage, when interviewed described the father-son family as quiet, always keeping to themselves. ‘Nice kid, used to ride a bike,’ he commented to our reporter.
A great bleeding void cut across Scott’s chest. He rattled the pages savagely, wanting to tear them into shreds to match his life, now reduced to a few paragraphs in a newspaper. Okay, so he still had a mother and a sister – except he didn’t, not really. He’d only met them a couple of time; the last fifteen years had been all about his dad. And now he was gone.
Fifteen
It was a stop-go road to nowhere, endlessly trawling streets and criss-crossing the city, frequently stopping just long enough for Hilary to ask directions; only to be met with, “Sorry, can’t help you, I am a stranger meself.”
The directory in the library had offered a bewildering list of industrial sites, an army of black blobs dotted around the map of the city like nettles in a field of corn. Hilary had visited only the one time, and not having an address they decided to check them alph
abetically. The weather didn’t help, the frost of the previous night replaced by a cold drizzle, the air thick and unmoving under its pall of steel-grey cloud. None of the sites were particularly easy to locate. Twice, they’d been directed back to a site already checked and it was one o’clock before they finally found where the furniture depository was located, Hilary recognising it by the position and number of the CCTV cameras. Besides that, its tin-clad units were no different from any of the other sites they’d visited, a line of concrete posts strung with barbed wire around the boundary, and double gates at the entrance tightly shut and accessible only by key code. Except here the gates stood open, blocked by a row of scarlet fire-engines. A pall of acrid smoke hovered over the site and heaps of smouldering rubble lay everywhere, yellow hosepipes straddling the concrete surface.
Scott skidded to a halt. He felt a tug on his jacket and caught the muttered, ‘Oh my God! We’re too late.’
He swivelled round, alarmed by Hilary’s wide-eyed stare, the fake lenses masking the obvious anguish in her expression. ‘What’s happening, Scott?’ she whispered. She grabbed at her mouth. Snatching off her helmet, she flung herself off the bike and ducked behind a wall.
Scott kicked the bike stand into place and quickly followed. He caught the sound of retching and saw Hilary crouched in a corner, her body shaking.
‘I can’t do this any more, Scott,’ she whispered wiping her mouth. Keeping his face averted from the pool of vomit on the ground, he pulled her upright. ‘I thought I could but I’m terrified. The men behind this – we can’t fight them, they’re too clever. They know what we’re doing even before we do.’ Her voice rose hysterically. Wrapping his arms tightly round her, he hugged her to him.
‘You all right, miss?’
A policeman stood next to the motorbike, watching them curiously. Hilary pulled abruptly away. ‘I think it was the burger I ate last night. I was feeling rotten all night.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it. We’re not using that place again.’ Scott gabbled the words, his face burning up.
‘Okay, then, if you sure you’re all right.’
Hilary’s lip quivered. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said her voice faint.
‘What happened over there?’ Scott nodded in the direction of the fire-engines, desperate to direct attention away from Hilary, the officer examining her white face with concern. ‘Witness says the place blew apart when they opened up. It was a furniture store – went up like a rocket. The fire brigade had their work cut out to contain it, I can tell you. Fortunately, they managed to stop it spreading to the other units.’
‘An accident?’ Hell! Scott gulped at his stupidity. His girlfriend was sick and he was showing more interest in the fire than her wellbeing. Rigid with fear, he eyed the officer relieved to find his grave expression of concern unchanged.
‘Most likely someone with a grudge.’ The officer seemed happy to chat and Scott relaxed a little.
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Hilary said. She clutched at her stomach, leaning against the wall. Worried she was about to throw-up again, Scott tucked his arm through hers. She needed to be strong now – one false word and they’d be for it.
‘One fatality; another seriously injured. Why are you interested?’ The policeman’s tone was suddenly keen, penetrating.
‘We’re not… except… you know… curiosity.’ Scott felt himself tense up. With enormous effort, he tried to relax his shoulders aiming them into a shrug.
‘Live round here, do you?’
Scott forced a smile. ‘Visiting – a friend from uni.’
‘Okay, then. Off you go – if you’re sure you’re all right, miss.’
Hilary smiled briefly. ‘I’m fine except I’ve gone off burgers.’ With her face angled towards the pavement, she busied herself tucking a strand of loose hair into place. Replacing her helmet, she climbed back on the bike.
Scott flicked the ignition, the bike responding instantly.
‘Good bike, that. New, is it?’
‘Not really; it just gets polished a lot.’ Scott muttered, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. Holy crap! What if the policeman asked to see his driving licence? His hands began to shake and he tightened his grip on the handlebars to keep them from betraying him. Anxious not to give an impression of being in a hurry, he raised his hand in a brief salute, easing the bike slowly away from the kerb. Swinging round the corner, away from the sharp eyes of the watching policeman, he took in a much-needed breath. ‘Do you think he recognised us?’ he called over his shoulder.
Hilary didn’t reply. There was no need, Scott already knew the answer. A crime had been committed and the police would check everything including a couple of nosey parkers asking questions. It would be standard practice to check the number plate.
He pulled to a stop and, fishing in his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet. ‘Half-way through, I realised I was carrying my licence. It’s got my real name on it too. I can’t believe he let us go without asking to see it.’ Pulling out the credit-card sized piece of plastic, he dropped it down the drain.
‘But, Scott…’ Hilary protested.
Scott jerked his head at the empty street behind them. ‘Want to bet he’s checking up on us right now. I’ll ditch the bike in the university car park, it should be safe enough there. We were so lucky. I hate to say it but thank God you felt sick. Come on, let’s grab you something to drink and phone Travers. His dad must be home by now.’
Keeping his speed low, he set off again picking up a stream of traffic as they joined the main road. ‘Scott?’ He felt a tug on his jacket and, indicating, pulled to a halt.
‘What?’
‘Pete would have known about that place so why didn’t they move?’
Scott didn’t reply, he couldn’t. His head was bursting, a swirling mass of confusion, flipping from event to event. Nothing made sense. ‘I don’t know,’ he groaned. ‘I’m making it up as I go along. But I tell you this…’ A little way down the road, he spotted blue signs directing them to the university. He swivelled round, seeing the black and white signs to the industrial site behind him. How ridiculous; they’d spent several hours combing the city looking for the place, and it was ten minutes away. How senseless was that? The way forward had been there in front of them all this time… and he’d ignored it.
‘Scott?’
He jumped. ‘Sorry! Let’s get back into town. We’ll ditch the bike on the way and walk in.’ Swallowing painfully, he revved the engine. Indicating, he pulled out, his mind made up. Strange how everything suddenly had become clear, like the road to the university. They could have saved hours if only they’d made the right choice at the start and begun their search in the local vicinity. However much he wanted and needed her company, he should never have allowed Hilary to come. It was so selfish belly-aching about how bad he felt, he’d never given a moment’s thought to the effect Tulsa’s death would have on her. All she could see was her own body lying blood-soaked on the ground. Besides, his problems were his and his alone. They always had been. Dad had taught him that. It had been the focus of his childhood learning, to become self-reliant in case the day ever came when it was needed. Dad had taught him to cook and keep house, row, climb, swim and play ball. Behind every lesson was that single-minded aim.
Uninvited, images of a body burned beyond recognition swept through his mind. He blinked them away. Hilary was right. Two kids alone couldn’t fight an enemy that was always one step ahead – they were too powerful.
Powerful enough to control government departments?
Scott’s hands on the brake lever tightened and the bike slowed. The thought was horrendous – too horrific to put into words. Before, it had only been a suspicion. Now, it was a certainty. Somewhere, hidden away among the corridors of power was a man that played chess with people’s lives, casually destroying any piece that stood in his way. And so colossal was this man’s power, no one ever questioned his right to give orders, however wrong or evil they might be. Unnoticing, the roadway sl
ipped past, Scott automatically steering around potholes, slowing for lights and pedestrian crossings. If this were a game of chess he would be a pawn, a solitary little piece of no importance. Except – he grabbed at the thought like a lifeline – even a pawn, if it chose the right move, was capable of changing the course of the game and bringing down the king.
Another thought jabbed at the corners of his mind, one he dreaded bringing to life. Pieces on a chess board could be swept away and the game begun afresh with no lasting damage. In real life, the dead stayed dead. And they wanted him dead.
The bike swerved and he felt Hilary tense up. He flexed his fingers tucked inside their handlebar muffs, bought with the money his dad had given him on his sixteenth birthday. He couldn’t think like that. There had to be some good, honest people around. Like that policeman. He’d been genuinely concerned about Hilary. If he told him what had happened in Geneva, that people were hell bent on killing him, maybe… just maybe… he’d be believed, especially after the fire today. Okay, so he’d be arrested but at least Hilary would be safe.
The bike swerved and a horn blasted out behind them.
‘Scott, what’s up – you’re scaring me.’
Scott opened the throttle, his mind made up. ‘We’re going back. I’m giving myself up.’
Sixteen
They were running along a dual-carriageway, a busy ring-road that circled the city. In theory, it allowed through traffic to bypass the congestion of the shopping streets. In practice, it made little difference, traffic expanding as fast as throughways were built. Along the centre of the dual-carriageway ran an unbroken concrete strip, tall lampposts like tree trunks sprouting up every fifty metres or so. On the near side, a narrow pavement overlooked council allotments and, beyond them, a forest of roofs, and the reason for the continuous stream of heavy traffic.
Scott scanned the road ahead searching for a possible way off, running the bike through a series of traffic lights with no right-turn. Frustrated, he cautiously edged his way through the long line of cars, slowing to a crawl as traffic ground to a halt. Behind him, horns broke out over the steady rumble of a dozen idling engines.
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