by Tom Bale
Harry was nodding emphatically. ‘Yes. So why didn’t you?’
‘Because it sounds fine, in theory. The reality would have been very different.’
‘So you keep saying. I just wonder if it isn’t an excuse.’
‘An excuse?’
‘Yes. If you really want to see these people brought to justice, how many more crimes are you prepared to witness and do nothing about? At what point will you decide that enough is enough?’
In barely more than a whisper, Ruth said, ‘When that time comes, Harry, I want as few people as possible caught in the crossfire. People like you. Alice. Your daughter.’
‘That’s not fair. You can’t claim we’re the reason you haven’t—’
‘I’m choosing to help you, remember? I could have abandoned you back there. And once they figured out that Renshaw had got away, their next target would have been you.’
She checked her watch, but the pause was clearly designed to let the warning sink in.
‘Round about now you’d be lying in a pool of your own bodily fluids, begging to tell them how long Renshaw and your wife have been conspiring together.’
It sounded horribly plausible. Harry crossed his arms and lapsed into silence. They left the A23 at the Hickstead junction, crossed the bridge over the main road and turned into the services car park. Ruth drove slowly, on the look-out for Laird’s men, and finally steered into a space close to the Little Chef restaurant.
‘They’re not here,’ she said.
‘Did you think they would be?’
A shrug. ‘Either way, it’s a good place to wait.’
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘We’re not. I need you to stay here while I go back to Brighton.’
Harry stared at her for a moment, but could read nothing of value in her expression. Finally she produced a smile, a peace offering of sorts.
‘I’ve gotta check out of my hotel. And I might run past your place one more time. In fact, give me your keys and I’ll pick up a change of clothes for you.’
‘And what am I meant to do in the meantime?’
‘Keep an eye out for their cars. Eat something. Try to relax a little.’
He snorted, as if the very idea was ludicrous.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there is one other thing you can do.’
A couple of minutes later he was standing in the car park, listening to the traffic thundering past on the A23. As he watched Ruth drive away he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being played for a fool. At the same time, it didn’t feel like he had much choice: there was no one else who could help get his wife and daughter back.
He looked down at his phone, the number keyed in and ready to go. He didn’t think much of the task she had given him, but decided it best to get it over with.
The phone rang eight or nine times, long enough for the jitters to subside. Just as he was about to cut the connection, a woman answered.
‘This is Keri. What can I do for you?’
‘Ah, Keri, hi. I, er, I wondered if I can see you some time?’
He was stammering, sweaty of palm and sixteen again, but the woman seemed unsurprised by that. Her voice was warm, friendly rather than seductive, and once again confounded his expectations. She sounded well-educated and intelligent, with a soft Midlands accent.
‘Well, I’m not available tonight. Tomorrow I can do twelve o’clock, midday.’
‘Midday? Right, okay, yes.’
‘An hour?’
‘Er, yes, please. Um, whereabouts are you?’
‘Thetford.’ A hint of suspicion audible in her voice. ‘How did you hear about me?’
‘A friend recommended you. Sorry, I’m new to this. I meant, where in Thetford?’
‘Not far from the centre. Look, you call again tomorrow, at eleven, to confirm the booking. Then I’ll text the address. Safety and discretion are important, for both of us.’
He could tell she was smiling, which at least meant she’d bought his story. That was something, even if he hadn’t managed to get a specific address. He thanked her and rang off, wondering if Ruth would regard his effort as a failure.
He’d know soon enough – assuming that she was coming back. It had crossed his mind that he’d already outlived his usefulness.
This particular Little Chef, because of its proximity to Brighton, wasn’t one he’d visited before, but he was familiar enough with the chain. The dining room was quiet, with only half a dozen tables occupied, mostly by travellers in ones and twos. Harry gave them all a careful appraisal during the brief wait to be seated.
He chose a table by the window, where he could see if any suspicious cars came or went. Studied the menu and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, along with a coffee and some water.
It was mid-afternoon, the sky outside still bright but fading fast, in the poignant manner of late autumn. There wasn’t much traffic to monitor, and while he was glad of that, it soon made him restless. His mind kept drifting back to the early hours of Thursday morning, trying to analyse why and how his life had been turned upside down.
The answer, he knew, lay in their failure to notify the police. He tried to craft a different narrative, where he rolled out of bed and watched the van drive away and then called 999. Police cars raced to the scene but the men in the van, still loitering in the area, spotted the flashing lights and realised that Harry had disobeyed their instructions …
No good. How about: he and Alice got back to sleep, but in the morning they went to a police station and gave detailed statements. Except that Alice couldn’t bear the thought of describing the sexual assault, so they agreed beforehand to leave that part out. Then, while being interviewed separately, inconsistencies started to appear, and the police became suspicious …
Harry sighed. It was futile trying to re-imagine the past. For better or worse, this was the path they’d taken. There was no Sliding Doors scenario available to them here.
A second delivery, Alice had said. But what had possessed her to take the package across to number 43? If she’d phoned him at work, he could have come home and together they might have been able to plot a course of action; something that wouldn’t have led to all this … turmoil.
His food arrived. He ate with a fierce appetite, then ordered more coffee and tried to make it last. Time was beginning to drag, and it didn’t help that every few minutes he called Alice and got bounced to voicemail.
At first he thought better of leaving a message, but then he succumbed.
‘Alice, it’s me. I love you. Call me when you can, please.’ His voice was choking up; he struggled to finish: ‘We’ll get through this, Alice. I know we will.’
Twenty-Eight
At first it didn’t feel like proper sleep. For a long time Alice felt she was aware of the engine noise, the movement of the car and the burr of tyres on the road, but although she kept trying she found it impossible to open her eyes.
What came back to her were the long-ago journeys of her childhood: the family holidays to Scotland or the Lake District where her father, a history teacher, had insisted on a five a.m. start, Alice stuck in the middle seat between her squabbling older brothers; Mum in the passenger seat playing peace envoy, doling out sweets to buy silence.
And now Alice was studying the back of her father’s neck, counting the little grey hairs that curled over the top of his collar while wishing she could speak out and tell him how much she loved him; how much he meant to her. Puzzling over the fact that somehow she knew he was dead …
It took her a second to register that her beloved dad had been gone for nearly nine years; a few more seconds to recall how and why she had come to be travelling like this, with a stranger at the wheel and Evie in her carrier rather than a proper child seat.
Renshaw was concentrating on the road with an expression of grim satisfaction. They were still on a motorway, enclosed by trees, only now they appeared to be travelling west, towards the setting sun.
Feeling gr
oggy, she rubbed her eyes, ran a hand through her hair. ‘Where are we?’
‘The M4, just past Reading.’
Alice sat up with a jerk. According to the dashboard clock it was twenty past three.
‘I can’t have been asleep for that long?’
‘Oh, you were.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘You snored, too, from time to time.’
‘I take it you’ve decided where to go?’
‘I have an idea, at least. An old friend who can give us shelter.’
Alice said nothing. She didn’t want to be visiting anyone Renshaw knew. She didn’t want to be on the M4. She wanted to be in Brighton, with her own friends and her family close at hand. She wanted to be with Harry, and to know that everything was all right between them.
She shivered. The trees by the roadside were tinged with gold. The sky was a rich but strangely melancholic shade of dark blue. Back in Lavinia Street lights would be snapping on in the homes of her neighbours: bright rectangles of warmth and comfort. And here she was on this cold open road, heading into the unknown.
She fought off a sudden urge to cry. What am I doing here? she asked herself.
What have I done?
Ruth had been gone for an hour when Harry resorted to browsing a display of tourist leaflets. He paid his bill and used the gents, where he found a discarded property magazine tucked behind the taps. He took it with him out to the lobby and browsed through it, aware that they really might have to sell up. Perhaps it was time to get out of Brighton, find a nice rural location: Hassocks or Stenhurst; somewhere with good schools for Evie …
At the back of his mind he was still preoccupied with what Ruth had told him about Vaughan and his gang. It was a struggle to come to terms with the fact that his settled family life had been derailed by a collision with such vicious criminals.
Then there was the worrying aspect of Ruth’s refusal to explain why her husband had been investigating Laird in his own time. He was brooding over that when his phone lit up with an incoming call. The name in the display produced first disappointment, then guilt. It was his mother.
He was tempted to ignore it, but then he wondered if something had happened to her or Dad. Could they have been targeted, somehow?
‘Harry? Are you all right, love?’
‘Fine. Why?’
No answer. Harry had the impression she was conferring with someone. His dad must be standing at her shoulder. Neither of them would think to put the call on speaker.
‘What about Alice and Evie? Are they with you?’
Now it was his turn to hesitate. ‘What’s up, Mum?’
‘Harry, please. Where are you?’
There was no mistaking the anguish in her voice. She knows, he thought.
‘Uh, just outside Brighton. I’ve got a meeting, Mum, and I don’t—’
‘I’m at your house.’
His heart jumped. They’d given his mum a set of keys when they moved in, so she could be there to oversee builders and take delivery of furniture while they were both at work.
‘Okay,’ he said, in what he hoped was a neutral tone.
‘I was in town and I’d bought a few things for Evie, so I thought I’d pop in and surprise Alice. What I found was her handbag in the lounge, and the change bag upstairs, and no sign of either of them. Where are they, Harry?’
Her voice was dissolving into tears. That sense of another presence grew stronger, and Harry instinctively turned to the door, as if to flee from it. Movement outside caught his attention: Ruth’s Corsa was speeding into the car park.
A man voice’s came on the phone: ‘Mr French, I’m Detective Inspector Thomsett. Can you please confirm that your wife and daughter are safe and well?’
Reeling, Harry said, ‘Of course they are. Look, what is this? What are you doing at my home?’
‘Are they with you?’ The detective remained calm, not reacting to Harry’s bluster. ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs French, please.’
The Corsa pulled up and Ruth jumped out. She’d changed her appearance: back in the dark wig and trench coat. Her urgency broke his concentration.
‘No, she’s, uh … They’re not with me right now.’
‘Then can you tell me where they are? Your mother here wants to know that all three of you are safe.’
‘Why wouldn’t we be safe?’ His voice was still too high, too strained. He was pushing through the door when Ruth saw him. She jabbed a finger at his phone.
‘Is it the police?’ she mouthed. And when he nodded dumbly, she grabbed his arm and hustled him away from the building. ‘Turn the phone off. They might be tracing your location.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll explain in the car. Now come on.’
The detective was speaking again, but Harry said, ‘The connection’s going, I’m sorry …’ and cut the call.
He powered the phone off and followed Ruth to the car. ‘My mum just rang me. She’s at my house, with the police.’
‘I know. I was in Lavinia Street when the cops turned up— shit!’
Harry frowned. A second later he heard it, too: a distant siren.
‘That’s not because of me?’ he asked.
‘Maybe not, but we can’t take the risk. Get in the back. Lie down.’
Ruth slowed a little as they left the car park. With some difficulty Harry squeezed through the gap between the seats, tumbling forward as Ruth reached the roundabout and accelerated from the junction, swinging the car to the right. Harry glimpsed a police car speeding towards them.
‘No way of knowing if that’s coming for us,’ Ruth said, ‘but best stay where you are for now.’
She wanted to know about the nearest town, Burgess Hill. Did it have plenty of banks?
‘I guess so. Why?’
‘Cashpoint. They might not freeze your account, but they’re likely to start monitoring the use of your cards. Aside from mobile phones, it’s the easiest way to trace someone. From here on it’s cash purchases only.’
Harry was stunned by the implication. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Afraid so. You’re a fugitive now, Harry.’
Twenty-Nine
Alice deliberated briefly before deciding that the blunt approach was best – or certainly no worse than any other.
‘What exactly is going on here? I need to know.’
Apparently untroubled by her tone, Renshaw gave a couple of slow blinks. ‘It is a conversation we must have, but not at this moment. I am unaccustomed to these motorways.’
Alice’s next question was interrupted by a sharp cry from Evie. She looked as though she’d been awake for a while, and had lost patience waiting for her mother to notice.
‘My daughter needs a feed. A clean nappy.’
‘Of course. You feed her naturally, do you?’
‘Yes,’ Alice said, thinking: No way am I doing it here, in front of you.
‘At the next services, then. We are close.’
A few minutes passed without any confirmation of that. For most of the time the motorway was bordered by tree-covered slopes, so uniform in appearance that it was like driving against a looping background in an old movie. Harry would have come up with a more vivid landscape than this, she thought wistfully.
At last there was a sign for Chieveley services. Alice was doing her best to keep Evie occupied but the baby kept arching her back, squealing at a volume that made Renshaw cringe.
‘She can’t help it,’ Alice said crossly. ‘It’s a miracle she’s been quiet for this long.’
Renshaw didn’t look as though he agreed, but evidently thought it wise not to antagonise her. In a bold attempt at small talk, he asked what Harry did for a living. He seemed fascinated by her description of the special effects business, even when she was virtually shouting to be heard over Evie’s cries. He didn’t once ask whether Alice had a career.
They were at least half a mile from the junction for Chieveley when Renshaw began signalling, the car slowing to less than forty miles an hour. Alice could hea
r a very large vehicle behind them but she didn’t dare look round. She gripped the door handle, bracing herself for an impact.
Finally they veered on to the slip road and a gigantic haulage lorry thundered past. Renshaw tentatively followed the directions to the large, busy car park. He aimed for a row of spaces in the far corner and switched off the engine with evident relief. As if to taunt him, Evie stopped crying at that exact moment.
Alice glanced out of her window, wondering what would happen if she jumped out now and ran away. It wasn’t a particularly rational response – or even a sensible course of action, when she thought about it: more a primeval instinct just to flee from the whole nightmarish predicament.
She heard a click as Renshaw released his seatbelt. Another click as he released hers, too. As if he’d read her mind, he said, quietly: ‘I cannot stop you. Even with the infant, I expect you are faster than me. If you scream, people will come to your aid. And you will have signed my death warrant.’
There was no melodrama in his voice. No sense of exaggeration. Alice believed him.
‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want to be here. I want to be at home. Even if that’s not possible right now, at least tell me when it will be possible.’
‘I cannot. There are too many factors. And you should not return until it is safe, you must agree with that?’
‘Then what about Harry? Because he’s not safe, is he, especially if that woman is something to do with them?’
Renshaw conceded the point, then added, ‘Perhaps there is another explanation. For instance, could it be that your husband has taken a lover?’
He said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment she felt winded. She had to swallow, take a breath. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she answered, but she was blushing furiously and she wasn’t sure if she detected a hint of doubt in her voice.
