See How They Run: The Gripping Thriller that Everyone is Talking About

by Tom Bale

  Just paranoia, of course. He cut through to the seafront and used the crossing by the Royal Albion Hotel. Tourists were milling around the entrance to the pier, eating fish and chips and candyfloss and even ice cream. The air reeked of vinegar and made his stomach lurch.

  Up ahead, the Brighton wheel was turning against the murky sky. Most of its pods were empty: not much to see up there today. Harry crossed the road, scanning the pavement in front of the Sea Life Centre. Further along, a coach party had just disembarked, the crowd swarming in his direction. He darted in front of them and was climbing the steps to the terrace when someone whistled quietly and said, ‘You’re clear.’

  The woman was right behind him.

  Clare McIntosh at number 48 was one of Alice’s closest friends in the street. Clare was in her late fifties, a former civil servant who now worked part time in one of Brighton’s many small theatres. She’d also founded a book group, the Lavinia Luvvies, which was attended by more than a dozen women in the Port Hall area, and had another half dozen angling to join. Widowed and childless, she’d been a resident here for nearly thirty years, and as such she was a goldmine of information.

  Alice couldn’t recall which days her friend worked, but she was in luck. Clare answered the door within a few seconds – though not before Alice had spotted Lawrence Wright peeking at her from his bedroom window. She pretended not to notice.

  Clare was dressed in tatty jeans and an old painting smock, and minus her usual beads and bangles. She had a scarf tied around her hair, and dabs of what looked like white emulsion on her cheek and forehead.

  ‘Alice! How lovely to see you. Where’s the little one?’

  ‘My uncle’s babysitting. Look, if you’re busy …’

  ‘Oh, no. Glad of a break. I’m just tackling the bedroom ceiling.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her face, leaving another smear of paint. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Alice followed the other woman into the kitchen. The house was identical in size to her own, but made cramped by the profusion of books and pottery, glassware, clocks and tapestries – not to mention the shelves and cabinets required to store them.

  ‘Forgive the chaos.’ Clare scrubbed her hands, then moved a stack of newly washed clothes from one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Drink?’

  ‘I’m fine. Can’t stay long.’ Aware that she was probably blushing, Alice came straight to the point. ‘I’m curious about some of the other residents along here.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And you thought: who better to ask than the nosiest old bat in Lavinia Street?’

  Alice had no choice but to grin. ‘Something like that.’

  Harry was astonished by the way the woman had just appeared. ‘You can’t have followed me.’

  ‘I’m good at this. I have to be.’ She offered her hand. ‘Ruth Monroe.’ And when Harry had introduced himself, she nodded towards Madeira Drive. ‘Let’s walk.’

  ‘No, hold on. How do you know about last night?’

  She took a few steps, saw he wasn’t following and muttered: ‘I’ll do my best to explain. Come on.’

  As they set off along the pavement he was able to give her a quick appraisal. She was four or five inches shorter than him, maybe five seven, allowing for the low heel on her boots. Her coat and jeans were good quality but anonymous. She wore a plain gold band on her wedding finger, but no other jewellery that he could see. Again that long, glossy hair caught his attention.

  ‘So you knew about the break-in, and did nothing to stop it?’

  ‘Not really. I saw them going into the alley along the back. It was too dangerous to follow, so I couldn’t tell exactly where they were heading. Approximately thirty minutes later I saw them leaving your house—’

  ‘What?’ He was breathless with shock. ‘They were in my home for half an hour?’

  ‘Twenty-eight minutes, to be precise.’ She registered his astonishment with a raised eyebrow. ‘If they woke you, it was because they wanted you awake.’

  Harry couldn’t speak. Bad enough that the intruders had materialised in his bedroom, but to think of them prowling through the house for all that time. What if he or Alice had got up and blundered into one of them on the landing?

  ‘I know how traumatic this must be—’ Ruth began, but Harry was jumping ahead of her.

  ‘Do you know where they went? Did you get the van’s number? Where are they now?’

  She raised a hand. The nails were short, painted a dark purple. ‘I didn’t follow them. My priority was to see what had happened to the occupants of the house. I half expected the police to show up. When they didn’t, I considered calling them myself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Lights going on told me someone was alive. No police or ambulances meant no casualties.’

  ‘No cas—’ His voice was thick with indignation. ‘They terrorised us. Threatened to cut our baby’s throat.’

  Ruth gave a matter-of-fact shrug. ‘You might not think so, but you got off lightly.’

  Alice hid her interest in number 43 by beginning with a question about Lawrence Wright.

  ‘He’s something of an acquired taste – as is his homemade wine,’ said Clare, with a dry chuckle. ‘He was a teacher, retired early for medical reasons. Possibly a breakdown, though don’t quote me. Quite highly strung, and he can bore for England. Still, I’d run him close on that score.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. What about next door to him?’

  ‘The Walkers? She’s a snotty mare, which is why I haven’t let her join the book group. And hubby’s a bit of an arse, too. Works for one of those cable TV channels that endlessly regurgitate the dross of yesteryear, but to hear him pontificating you’d think he was Lew Grade.’

  ‘Who?’

  A wince. ‘Oh, you’re cruel. Am I really that ancient?’

  ‘Of course not. Actually, I meant the other side. Number 43.’

  Frowning, Clare said, ‘43? That belongs to Mrs Beckerman. She must be, ooh, ninety-something by now.’

  ‘Is she a recluse?’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t live there. She emigrated to Israel at least fifteen years ago. Kept the house as an investment, I believe. It’s been rented out several times, but not recently. Certainly not since you and Harry joined our little community.’

  ‘So it’s empty? Or perhaps someone lives there who wants to keep a low profile?’

  Clare pursed her lips. ‘Not impossible, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘I thought I might have seen someone, that’s all.’ As Alice stood up, she realised she was anxiously twisting her wedding ring and had to make a conscious effort to relax. ‘I’d better get back.’

  ‘You’ve intrigued me now. Could be squatters, I suppose.’

  ‘Squatters! I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘It’s not always the orgy of destruction that the media claim. I did it myself when I was eighteen or nineteen.’ Clare smiled at the memory. ‘Shacked up with a beautiful boy and his friends in a townhouse in Richmond. We actually took great care of the property. In fact, I painted that bedroom ceiling as well …’

  Her reminiscences followed Alice along the hall; before letting her go she secured a promise that next time Alice would bring Evie for a visit.

  ‘And I shall keep an eye on that house,’ Clare told her. ‘I do like a good mystery.’

  Alice grinned and nodded, but in her heart she couldn’t agree. Mysteries had their place, but what she needed was a solution.

  Ten

  You got off lightly. The words, delivered in such an offhand tone, had him reeling.

  They set off along Madeira Drive in the direction of the marina, passing an array of small businesses housed within the colonnaded walkway: cafes, galleries and gift shops, some of them already shuttered for the winter. From the mess of anxiety and confusion that currently passed for his brain, Harry plucked his next question.

  ‘How did you find out where I work?’

  ‘I followed you this morning, and got on the bus at the stop
before yours.’

  ‘What, you camped outside my house all night?’

  ‘No. From about six thirty.’

  ‘Who are you? Or what, I mean? A cop? A private detective.’

  She flapped her hand, as if the answer wasn’t important. ‘Close enough.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Either. Both.’ She turned away and marched across the road. There were fewer people on this side, and the pavement was wider, divided into lanes for pedestrians and cyclists. The wind buffeted them as they walked towards the old Volks railway line and the beach beyond. The rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore managed to sound both violent and strangely soothing.

  Ruth leaned on the railings and gazed straight ahead, ignoring Harry’s scrutiny as he tried to decide whether her presence was harmful or benign. He stuck with his initial assessment of her age: early or mid-forties. She had a striking, photogenic face with high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, and a dimple on her chin. Her skin was pale, with fine smile lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her lips were full and very symmetrical, with what he decided was a sardonic edge to them. And then there was the oddity of her hair.

  ‘Are you wearing a wig?’

  Sounding mildly hurt, she said, ‘I think it looks very realistic.’

  ‘It does. But the colour isn’t quite right for the tone of your skin. And there’s something about the shape – the way it sits against your temple isn’t completely natural.’

  ‘You sound like an expert.’

  ‘I work in visual effects. Hair and fur are some of the trickiest things to animate. Every single strand has its own weight and shape, its own way of catching the light as it moves.’

  She nodded. ‘But it’s good enough to fool a casual observer?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m just curious to know why you’re wearing a disguise.’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? These are very dangerous people.’

  Harry wasn’t about to dispute that. Her next question was whether they’d taken anything.

  ‘Not as far as we could tell,’ he said.

  ‘They woke you, though, so they must have wanted something. What was it?’

  Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated, turning away from her. The sea today was the rich green of a weathered copper roof; green and churning, its white peaks spitting up to taunt the darting gulls.

  ‘I get it, Harry. You’re not sure if you can trust me. Well, you should know that I’m equally wary of you.’

  The comment startled him. ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t actually see a break-in. For all I know, you could be in league with them.’

  ‘You seriously think …?’ he spluttered, and went to add: ‘You approached me—’

  She shook her head. ‘My point is, there’s an element of risk here, on both our parts. I need to know what happened. Are you gonna tell me, or not?’

  Harry fumed for a second before relenting.

  ‘They were looking for a man called Renshaw, also known as Grainger or Miller.’ He studied her closely as he said the names, but she gave nothing away. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I take it you don’t?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘But they expected to find him at your house?’

  Harry nodded. ‘It’s a mistake. We’ve been there nearly two years. He wasn’t the previous owner, either.’

  ‘So how did they come by your address?’

  ‘No idea. They said something about a parcel.’

  A spark of interest in her eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘They said we’d been sent a parcel – for Renshaw, I mean, although it was addressed to Grainger.’ He sighed. ‘This is like trying to describe a dream. It had a kind of logic at the time, but now it makes no sense at all.’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘So you denied knowing anything. What happened then?’

  ‘They kept insisting the parcel had been sent to us.’

  ‘And had it?’

  ‘No.’ He said it too loudly, attracting the attention of an elderly couple walking past. After waiting a second, he hissed, ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But you say they were certain about it. Maybe they sent the parcel?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘If they’re searching for Renshaw, it could have been a way to flush him out.’

  ‘But I just told you, Renshaw doesn’t live at our address. He never has.’

  ‘Did they say what was in the parcel?’

  ‘No. And we weren’t about to ask.’

  It was a curt response, and Ruth chose that moment to push off from the railings and start back towards the pier. Assuming he must have offended her, Harry said, ‘Hey, how about answering some of my questions?’

  ‘Not yet. Mine are more important.’ The brusque tone was tempered by a playful smile. She waited till he was alongside her, and said, ‘Is there any chance that you had something through the post? A failed delivery, maybe, where they leave one of those notes?’

  ‘I doubt it. The baby’s only a few weeks old, so Alice – my wife – is at home virtually all day.’

  ‘And was she just as sure about it? No deliveries at all?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ In trying to answer both questions, Harry sounded muddled. He recalled the moment clearly: how Alice had flinched, because the man with the knife had been moving in on Evie.

  ‘No parcel, no failed delivery,’ he said. ‘It was a mistake. As well as Lavinia Street, there’s a Lavinia Drive and Lavinia Crescent in Brighton.’

  ‘And you told them that?’

  He nodded. ‘It occurred to me afterwards, perhaps they went there, too?’

  ‘I’ll check it out.’

  ‘If you know who these men are, isn’t it your duty to report this?’

  She turned towards him, one eyebrow sceptically arched. ‘You had the opportunity to call 999 last night, yet you didn’t. Why was that?’

  Harry swallowed. ‘Because they threatened us. They said our baby’s life was at stake if we went to the police. Rightly or wrongly, we decided to take that threat seriously.’

  ‘Probably a good decision, then. The authorities wouldn’t have been much help.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A dismissive gesture. He was about to protest when his phone buzzed. Thinking of Alice, he quickly checked it and found he had three texts from Sam, the last of which said: Where r u, mate!? Transat meeting at 2!

  Harry swore under his breath. Ruth was studying her own phone, as if to make the point that he wasn’t the only one in demand.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But I can’t leave it like this. At least tell me who those men were.’

  At first she seemed to ignore him, stepping back to avoid a group of bored-looking teenagers on a school trip.

  ‘All I can say is that they’re career criminals, and they’re every bit as unpleasant as your experience would suggest.’

  ‘And Renshaw?’

  ‘The obvious conclusion is that he crossed them in some way. Or he’s got something they want.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry felt a peculiar sense of relief. None of this was good news, but at least the bigger picture was slowly being revealed.

  They reached the wheel. Ruth started moving towards the crossing by the aquarium. There was no farewell, no glance back to see if he was following.

  ‘Hold on,’ he called. ‘Are we going to meet up again?’

  ‘Depends what happens next.’

  ‘Hopefully nothing, from our point of view.’

  She gave him a quick, bitter smile. ‘In that case, you won’t need to contact me. But I can leave you a number, in case they come back.’

  He was horrified. ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘Unlikely, but you can’t rule it out. Especially if they believe you kept something from them.’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope you convinced them of that.’

  Eleven

  She read out he
r mobile number. Harry keyed it into his phone and confirmed it with a text. Then Ruth crossed the road and was soon lost from sight in a crowd at the gates to the aquarium. Harry was reluctant to see her go: there was so much more he needed to know. But he was late for an important meeting.

  He ran most of the way back to the office, arriving breathless and perspiring heavily. He longed to clean up but there was no time even for a quick detour to the gents. In the meeting room Sam was already running through the introductions.

  Their project manager and a couple of lead animators were sitting along one side of the table, facing a large interactive whiteboard and several monitors used for video conferencing. The screens showed two men and a woman sitting inside another meeting room, this one in Los Angeles. All three were suited and serious and perfectly still: a modern art installation entitled Time is Money.

  Sam disguised his genuine relief by beating his chest in mock relief. ‘Phew! And here, by the skin of his teeth, is my partner, Mr Harry French.’

  As Harry entered the range of the camera on the table, one of the Americans nodded and said, ‘Glad you could make it, Harry.’

  Out of view, Sam was mouthing a question: ‘Where the fuck were you?’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Harry settled into his seat, then realised his notes were still on his desk. He’d have to wing it. Difficult enough at the best of times, but right now, with his thoughts in turmoil …

  But he had no choice. So he smiled broadly, rubbing his hands together to communicate his eagerness to begin, and said, ‘Guys, hello! I can’t tell you how excited we are to have the chance to pitch for this. We’re convinced that LiveFire have exactly the right qualities to make this project a success …’

  And after the meeting, once he and Sam were back in their office, came the tense exchange that Harry both expected and thoroughly deserved: ‘Jesus, H. If there’s one thing we’ve learned it’s that you do not keep the money men waiting.’