by GJ Minett
LIE IN WAIT
G.J. MINETT
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Ronald John Minett
03.11.22 – 16.01.16
With all our love
PROLOGUE
NOW: WEDNESDAY, 1ST OCTOBER
OWEN
‘How long now, would you say?’ she asks.
Out of the roundabout, up into third and accelerating away, engine screaming like a harpy till he manages to slam the mule of a gear stick into fourth. Gently doesn’t seem to cut it anymore. Gearbox nearly shot to pieces. Probably got another five, ten thousand miles left in it, according to Vic at the garage. Then he’s going to have to start looking for a replacement. New truck altogether would be nice but a couple of years away at least. Even stumping up for a reconditioned gearbox is going to leave him a bit stretched.
Willie says it’s his own fault for never showing any ambition. Brain the size of a planet – why the fuck are you pissing around with lawnmowers for a living? Swears a lot, does Willie. You can pick him up on it as much as you like but it never does any good. Straight back at you – effing this, sodding that.
‘Twenty minutes,’ he mumbles. ‘M-maybe less.’
‘What . . . Worthing or the hotel?’
‘Don’t know the hotel.’ He’s told her this already, wishes she’d listen. Like he’s got nothing better to do than answer stupid questions.
Engine starts to shudder as the needle creeps up to fifty. In the headlights he can make out the number plate of the car in front: GR02 ZMM. Total = 79, the calculation automatic, the irritation instantaneous. Prime number, he thinks to himself. So . . . overtake or drop back, one or the other. Anything as long as he doesn’t stay too close. Quick check to see what’s coming the other way and it’s non-stop headlights, so he eases his foot back on the accelerator and watches as the car in front starts to pull away despite itself.
Stupid, he thinks. You wouldn’t drive a car with faulty brakes or with tyres that were almost down to the rim. Why is it that people will happily pour their faith into so many leaky vessels in life – looks, dress code, personality – and yet ignore the certainty of numbers? People lie – they lie all the time. Only numbers are constant.
‘OK,’ Julie says, holding up her iPhone. ‘Just shout when we get anywhere near Worthing and I’ll switch on Google Maps.’
They’re heading out into open countryside now, Yapton and Barnham away to their left. Street lights racing off into the distance in his rear-view mirror. He risks a quick sideways glance. Can’t really see her face – not clearly. There’s the glow from the dashboard and the oncoming headlights that strafe across her features, causing the lenses of her spectacles to flash for an instant. Otherwise, nothing. Darkness.
Not pretty exactly, he thinks to himself. Wrong word altogether. Pretty is Abi. Always has been. And he can accept it’s maybe not ideal to be using her as a yardstick even now but there you go – you don’t get to choose these things. No, Julie’s not pretty. Pretty suggests petite and she’s a good few inches too tall for that. Loose-limbed, athletic. Something of a swagger in the way she holds herself, he’s noticed, as if she’s ready for a scrap if it comes to it. At least she’s here. It’s not like people are queuing round the block to help him right now.
Fuckable is Willie’s assessment of her. Tells you all you need to know about Willie.
Past the Climping turn-off. Away to the right, Littlehampton golf course and the seaside resort itself huddled down beyond it, dimmer switch turned right down and a strange, murky haze hanging over the lamps which have reappeared at the roadside.
‘We getting near yet?’ she asks again. Another stupid question.
‘Quarter of an hour or so.’
She sighs, wriggles around in her seat. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this but do you think we could stop somewhere for a few minutes? I’m bursting for the loo.’
Tesco has just flashed past on the other side of the dual carriageway. He maps the next couple of miles in his head. Picks out the Body Shop roundabout. Zeroes in on the Shell station on the opposite side of the road.
‘About two or three minutes,’ he says.
‘That’s great. Sorry about this,’ she giggles. ‘Small bladder.’ He blushes, hoping she can’t see his face any more clearly than he can see hers.
New traffic lights up ahead, turning amber. He brakes and rams the truck into neutral. Glances in the rear-view mirror again as they roll to a standstill and sees the headlights of the car immediately behind, which seems to be taking an eternity to close the gap. There’s a blast on the horn from further back and as the lights turn to green, the car stutters forward as if the driver has been woken from a daydream.
HK12 RCA: total = 53. Prime number. His heart skips a beat as he moves through the gears and pulls away once more. Same car. He trawls back through the journey so far, pinpoints the locations exactly. Traffic lights near the Martlets roundabout. Then just after they left Bognor seafront, as they went past the beach entrance to Butlins. Now here.
And here comes the rocking – he’s moving back and forth, back and forth in his seat, mumbling the number plate to himself, over and over.
Oi, how many times d’you have to be told? Cut it out.
Owen, dear . . .
You gonna sort him out or you want me to?
Owen, don’t do that, there’s a good boy.
Like living with a bloody half-wit.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Julie’s watching him closely, puzzled rather than alarmed. ‘You OK?’ she asks, and she reaches forward, placing a hand on his knee. He recoils as if she’s holding a taser, forces himself to calm down, concentrate. Pushes himself back in the seat, shoulders taut, neck muscles braced against the headrest. Needs to ride this out.
‘What is it?’ she asks again.
‘Car behind – no, don’t turn round,’ he says, catching her arm as she twists in her seat.
‘What about it?’
‘I think it’s been following us.’
She pauses before replying, allowing time for this to sink in. ‘Why?’
‘It’s been there since we left. Keeps letting other cars get in between, then closes the gap when there’s no choice.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I mean why would it be following us?’
No answer to this. He’s told no one about Worthing or the Burlington. Unless she’s let something slip, no way anyone can know about it.
‘Dunno,’ he says.
She laughs, tells him he’s been watching too many films.
‘Let him go past if he’s bothering you.’
Hand on his knee again. Slight reduction in voltage this time but he wishes she wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t know her well enough for that level of intimacy. Says nothing. Takes three deep breaths. One . . . two . . . three. The frantic impulse to rock back and forth is still there but it’s starting to ease off a bit and he
’s able to relax his shoulders a little. Runs a finger across his damp forehead. Evenings starting to get cooler now but he can feel a trickle of sweat working its way down his neck and into his T-shirt. More deep breaths. Perhaps she’s right. Maybe he’s imagining it. All the same, he’s not about to take his eyes off the rear-view mirror, watching every manoeuvre made by the car behind.
New housing estate coming up on the left, tucked away in the shadow of the sprawling Body Shop complex. One more roundabout and he’ll know for sure. She’s seen the petrol station up ahead and waves a finger at it.
‘That any use?’ she asks. ‘They’re bound to have a loo there, aren’t they?’ He nods and realises as he does so that he’d rather they went somewhere else. In his mind’s eye he can still see Callum filling the car while his fancy woman disappears inside to pay. Doesn’t see how he can say no though, not with her squirming around on the seat next to him.
‘You need any petrol?’ she asks. He shakes his head. ‘Do you mind popping in and getting me some mints or something while you’re waiting? I could do with something to freshen my mouth up a bit.’
He nods but in truth he’s only half listening. His eyes are on the mirror the whole time, staring a hole in it. There’s thirty metres between the two vehicles when he signals right and pulls across into the outside lane. Two seconds later, he winces as he sees the other driver do the same. Huge Norbert Dentressangle lorry coming from the right. Just time to get out ahead of it and accelerate into the roundabout; then no to the Body shop entrance, no to the A259, yes to the third exit. Copycat has to wait for the lorry and a couple of cars to pass and his headlights are no longer in the mirror as Owen turns left again almost immediately to pick up the access road to the Shell station. He slows for a second or two, half-turning in his seat to get a better look. Watches with some satisfaction as a large estate car drives straight over the top of the mini-roundabout, heading off towards Rustington. He can’t see the number plate from here but he’s pretty sure it’s the same one that was following them. He relaxes, his heart beating a little less insistently.
‘Can you let me out here?’ she asks. As he pulls over towards the rear of the building, she points out of her window. ‘That tyre-pressure thingy – if you park over there I’ll just go and find the loo. I’ll only be a second, I promise.’ She flashes him a rueful smile. ‘Really sorry about this.’
He waves away her attempt to give him the money and she jogs off past the red Biffa bins before disappearing into the darkness at the rear of the building. He turns in his seat, more interested in whether the driver’s going to realise they’ve turned off and double back. Wouldn’t surprise him one bit. You don’t shrug off prime numbers that easily. 53 is one he’s always had trouble with. Year his father was born? 1953. Callum’s mobile? 07977 642452 – total: 53. These signs are there for a reason. You don’t just ignore them.
Gives it a few more seconds, then drives round to the front and parks next to the tyre-pressure gauge as she’s suggested. Mints, he thinks to himself. Checks he’s got his wallet, then gets out of the truck, leaving it unlocked in case she’s first back. Nothing in there worth taking anyway. Smart thing would be to leave the keys in the ignition and hope someone drives off with it.
Busy inside. Gum-chewing lad at the checkout, serving a queue of people: girl in a white blouse and black jeans, holding everyone up while she tries to get her credit card to work; woman holding the hand of a small boy and making a point of keeping herself between him and the row of sweets and chocolates; middle-aged man in oil-stained overalls, tapping his feet and mumbling about his chances of getting out of here before Christmas. He joins the queue and looks through the choice of mints while he’s waiting. He hasn’t any idea which sort she’d prefer. Decides to get several different packs. Can’t go wrong that way.
The girl finally leaves and they all move forward one place. The boy has noticed him now and is staring at him. Little children can’t seem to help themselves. Jack and the Beanstalk. Hagrid. Shrek. Stares back at him and the boy toughs it out for a second or two, then clutches his mother’s leg. She nudges him away with her knee, too busy tapping in her own credit-card details to take much notice. The boy’s not so interested in the sweets and chocolate anymore.
Front of the queue at last. Puts the five packets on the counter and rummages in his pocket for the right money. The lad serving him makes a sort of snapping sound with the gum in his mouth, looks at all the mints and grins.
‘Worried about your breath?’
He frowns, shakes his head – no. Such an odd thing to ask. Counts out the coins . . . carefully. The lad shrugs his shoulders and asks any fuel? Shakes his head again, pushes the exact sum across the counter. Then he picks up the mints, turns and walks back to the pickup truck. A Toyota drives past and the little boy turns to stare out of the back window, bolder now he knows he’s safe.
She’s not there when he reaches the pickup. Thought she’d be back by now. He was in the shop long enough. Throws the mints onto the passenger seat and decides to stay outside, leaning against the bonnet while he waits for her. Five minutes crawl by. Six. He thinks this is a bit odd. Doesn’t see how a simple trip to the toilet could take this long. He pushes off from the truck and walks round to the rear of the petrol station, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he seeks out where he assumes the toilets will be. Nothing. He completes a full circuit of the building. Still nothing. No outside toilets at all. Inside, then – she must have gone in while he was parking the truck.
Different people in here now. The lad behind the counter doesn’t look up. Too busy laughing and joking with two women who won’t see forty again but are dressed as if they think they will. One other customer – man in a suit, tie tugged loose, checking the sell-by dates on a range of sandwiches left over from this morning, bottle of Irn-Bru dangling from one hand.
The toilet must be in the recess in the far corner. He fakes an interest in the crisps aisle and then, when he’s sure no one is looking, walks through the alcove and knocks on the door. Calls her name quietly. Knocks again, a little more insistently this time. Still no reply. Tries the handle and it’s locked so he calls a third time and bangs on the door with the flat of his hand. Everyone’s awake now.
‘Oi. ’Scuse me.’ The attendant has managed to tear his attention away from the women at the counter. Seems to think he ought to be doing something about this. Owen bangs again, shouting now, calling Julie’s name.
‘Is there a problem here?’ the lad asks, a little more politely once he’s emerged from the other side of the counter. He’s less sure of himself out in the open. Thinks maybe aggressive isn’t the smart option here as he sizes Owen up.
‘She won’t c-come out.’
‘Can you not do that, please?’ the lad asks as Owen slams his hand against the door again. ‘There’s no one in there, OK? It’s locked.’
‘JULIE.’
‘It’s locked, OK? The key’s behind the counter.’
The man in the suit is there now and the two women have clattered their way over on heels that border on suicidal. He’s not happy about the audience.
‘She c-came in to use the toilet,’ he says, aware that the pounding is starting up again in his temples. The rocking won’t be too far behind.
Everyone’s joining in now, trying to help the attendant get the message across. She can’t be in there. It’s locked from the outside. It’s only unlocked if someone wants to use it and to do that they have to get the key from the counter. No one’s done that in the last couple of hours or so. Does he understand? They’re talking very slowly. He hates it when people do that.
He turns to face the wall, pressing his forehead into it. Tries to concentrate, squeeze out all the distractions – the growing audience, the stupid questions, the clucking expressions of concern. One of the women catches hold of his arm and tries to lead him back towards the till but he shrugs her off. He just needs a few moments on his own, a chance to think this through. If sh
e’s not in here and never came in at any stage, where did she go? And why? And what’s he meant to do now – drive off and leave her? If they’ll just leave him alone for a few minutes . . .
He can hear them whispering among themselves, pushes past them, knocking over a display stand of chocolate bars in the rush to get outside. Runs over to the pickup truck – she’s not there. Mints still on the front seat. And next to them . . . a brown A4 envelope that’s materialised out of nowhere. He whirls round suddenly, hoping to catch sight of whoever left it here. Reaches in and picks up the envelope. Tears it open, watching as its contents spill out onto the seat.
Photos. Four of them. He turns on the interior light and examines them, one by one. And as the attendant calls out to ask if he’s OK, he barely hears him. He’s already in the driver’s seat, fingers fumbling with the ignition key as he tries to ram it into the slot. The engine’s reluctant to catch, takes three attempts before it finally fires up. Then he puts his foot to the floor and races out of the forecourt, working his way through the prime numbers, shouting them at the top of his voice to drown out their insistent gloating and strip them of any powers they think they might have over him.
He’s reached 317 – 66th number in the sequence – before he realises he hasn’t fastened his seat belt or even turned on the headlights.
PART ONE
1
EARLIER: FRIDAY, 22ND AUGUST
ABI
‘Oh my God, Abi.’
Mary stepped back to get a better view, one hand to her mouth.
‘You like it?’
‘Like it? Are you kidding? It’s . . .’ She broke off, apparently lost for words which, for a novelist, seemed anomalous enough to pass for a compliment. Abi busied herself with the empty box, head bowed. Replacing the lid, she carried it over to the draining board and placed it next to her car keys.
Her motives for doing so were baked from a complex recipe of disparate motives: one part practical (this way she’d remember to take the box with her), one part tactical (always allow the customer to provide the soundtrack) and maybe just a sprinkling of embarrassment. It wasn’t like this was her first cake and yet here she was, tongue hanging out for approval. Mary hardly needed a nudge of any kind. Even allowing for her hyperbolic tendencies, the glistening at the corner of each eye was testimony enough to how impressed she was.
