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

by Tom Bale

  The morning was bitterly cold, but after the foul atmosphere of the container it was a joy to shiver and gasp in the fresh air. It had the salty tang of the coast, and as she was manoeuvred into the back of a van she heard the far away cry of a seagull.

  East Anglia, she thought. Back on their territory.

  She was made to lie face down. The man in the clown mask stayed with her, his gun pressed into the small of her back. She had a feeling this was Niall Foster, one of the men who’d terrorised Harry French and his family earlier in the week.

  She’d been thinking about Harry a lot. She hoped he was still safe in Crawley, furious at her perceived betrayal. Better that than the alternative – that he too had been spotted, snatched, and was now languishing in captivity himself. Or dead.

  She wasn’t taken far: she estimated the journey took about twenty minutes, on roads that rarely allowed for high speed. There was very little traffic noise, and no conversation except for one brief exchange. The driver had shouted in a strong Glaswegian accent: ‘You copping a feel back there?’

  ‘Shut it,’ the other man said. Quite a rich voice: definitely Foster.

  ‘Ah, I don’t see the harm. Looks tasty enough, for her age. Are they decent tits, ’cause it annoys me off how the bras make ’em seem—’

  ‘I said, shut it.’

  A couple more minutes and they turned right, then took a sharp left and bumped over some sort of minor obstruction before slowing to a crawl. The engine noise changed, echoing as they moved inside. A garage door clanged shut. The pressure of the firearm eased slightly.

  ‘Don’t try anything,’ the gunman told her. ‘There’s no escape from here, and you just heard my friend. If you misbehave, rape is only one of our options.’

  Ruth thought he was bluffing, but she couldn’t be certain. In any case, she had no plans to fight back until the odds in her favour were improved – or until she was left with absolutely no choice.

  She was directed through an internal door, into a building that felt blissfully warm and well-kept. Her feet sank into deep carpets. There was a pleasant scent of fresh flowers and, even more appealing, fresh coffee.

  After being manhandled up two flights of stairs, still with the gun at her back, she was taken into a large room with a wooden floor and made to kneel on a soft woollen rug. The smell of the coffee made her delirious with longing. Assuming it was around seven in the morning, she’d gone more than eighteen hours without food or drink.

  The gentle clink of cup on saucer suggested a certain refinement, in line with what her other senses had told her about this place. She felt sure she was in a large, well-appointed home, owned by a man with taste and good judgement – in some matters, at least.

  Her heart was thumping at the thought. After so many years, to be this close now …

  Finally the canvas bag was removed from her head, though the handcuffs stayed on. She was in a sun lounge that doubled as an office. There was a range of furniture of Indian design, including a sideboard, a desk and a couple of bookshelves. Most of the shelves contained lever arch files rather than books.

  The light in here was comfortably muted; the blinds closed on what was obviously an impressive picture window. A sea view lay beyond it, she suspected.

  Aside from herself and the men who had brought her here, there was only one other person in the room. And it wasn’t who she’d hoped to find.

  Forty-One

  ‘Hello, Mark.’

  ‘Ruth. Wish I could say it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  It had been eight or nine years since she’d seen Mark Vickery at close quarters. He’d aged pretty well, she had to admit. Always a slim man, he had perhaps lost a few extra pounds, and was in danger of looking gaunt. But his hair was a darker brown than ever, styled in a side parting, and some of his teeth looked whiter and straighter than she remembered.

  He was sitting behind the desk, dressed in a white shirt and a pale blue V-neck sweater. There was an unlit cigarette in his right hand, which he twirled, restlessly, between his fingers. A silver MacBook sat before him.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Pleasantries over in no time. Now, why don’t you explain how you came to be working with Renshaw?’

  She knew her frown of confusion would be only mildly realistic. Name recognition tended to produce an unmistakable signal.

  ‘I’m not. I have no idea who he is.’

  ‘Then what were you doing in Sussex?’

  ‘Following Foster and his buddies.’ Burying her relief that they didn’t seem to know about her recent alliance with Harry, she nodded towards the man in the clown mask. ‘I was hoping they could lead me to your boss.’

  ‘I’m in charge here,’ Vickery snapped. But he shifted uncomfortably as he spoke, glancing at the laptop as though it was an autocue. ‘Tell me what you know about Renshaw.’

  ‘I know you’re searching for him. That’s all.’

  ‘Renshaw has stolen something from us. He had help. A man called Hasan Mansur.’

  He paused, watching for her reaction. The name was vaguely familiar, but this time Ruth gave nothing away.

  Vickery said, ‘Hasan came to a messy end, in the place where you spent the night.’

  Ruth tried to maintain a look of disinterest. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had the stomach for torture.’

  ‘Things have moved on since you were last a part of our lives.’ He gave her an icy smile. ‘Oh, I do hope you enjoyed your time away?’

  ‘Very refreshing, thanks. But I saw for myself that people like you don’t really change.’

  That wasn’t entirely true. For one thing, Vickery seemed more confident, more at ease with himself than Ruth remembered. And he’d dropped the silly attempts to speak with an Estuary accent, reverting to the clipped, privately educated voice of his Surrey childhood.

  ‘Renshaw used a cut-out to take receipt of a parcel Hasan sent him. Some young couple with a baby. Because of that, he eluded us again, and now the family have disappeared as well.’ Another glance at the laptop. ‘I believe you know more about this than you’ve admitted, so either you tell me right now, or you’ll suffer the same fate as Hasan.’

  This time Ruth made him wait. She stretched out, leaning a few inches to her left. To retain eye contact Vickery had to turn his head slightly.

  ‘One problem. Torture only works if the victim has the information you want. And I don’t. You know that, and so does Nathan.’

  ‘I’ve told you—’

  ‘Mark, he’s listening to this and feeding you instructions through that earpiece you’re wearing. So stop treating me like a fool – both of you – and listen to my proposal.’

  Vickery looked furious, probably toying with the idea of tearing out the earpiece and telling Foster to go to work on her right there and then.

  But he couldn’t. Because he wasn’t running the show.

  ‘You think you’re in any position to make a deal?’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes. I don’t have what you want, but I do know how to get it. And without my co-operation, what I know is useless to you.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Renshaw has one of the innocent neighbours with him. A woman called Alice French. I agreed to help her husband find her.’

  ‘Why … ?’ Vickery began, but Ruth shook her head.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The fact is, I can find the husband, Harry, and monitor his communication with Alice. Renshaw let her speak to Harry once, so he might do again. If he does, I can find out where he is.’

  ‘So we’re supposed to let you go, and trust you to lead us to Renshaw?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t care who he is or what he’s done. He’s nothing to me. But if I find him for you, I want something in return.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Laird knows.’

  That really pissed him off. Vickery listened to the voice in his ear, his fists clenched on the desk.

  ‘In that case, my guys are coming with you.’<
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  Ruth glanced round. The masks had come off and she’d guessed right about the gunman: Niall Foster. The Scottish man had the same slight build as his usual partner, Darrell Bridge, but he was much older, in his fifties, with a scrawny, undernourished look and thinning grey hair.

  ‘The name’s McBride, hen,’ he said with a leer. ‘Look forward to seein’ more of you.’

  Ruth ignored the comment, addressing Vickery. ‘They have to stay in the background. If Harry gets a whiff of their presence he’ll be gone. I can’t afford to lose his trust. Neither can you.’

  Laird must have said something, for Vickery let out a bark of laughter. Ruth gave him a quizzical look but Vickery, when he spoke, wasn’t talking to her.

  ‘Yeah, she is.’ Now he met her gaze, still replying to Laird, but speaking loudly for Ruth’s benefit: ‘Oh, it will be a pleasure, if she doesn’t come up with the goods.’

  Forty-Two

  Country sounds nudged through her dreams: the busy squawk of chickens, the growl of a passing tractor. There were rooks or crows cawing on the roof. From far away came what might have been the crack of a shotgun. A dog barked three times – and then the memories came rushing back. She knew where she was, and how she had come to be here.

  But was it safe?

  She’d fallen asleep, unable to decide for sure, and vaguely recalled waking a couple of times in the night – once on autopilot while she fed Evie and changed her nappy – but she had refused to let herself dwell on it. Now, looking around the nursery in the soft grey light of morning, the answer remained stubbornly out of reach. It felt as though she’d entered a fairytale world: enchanting, outwardly benign, but with just a hint of menace below. Menace that could be expressed in one simple question: Would she be permitted to leave?

  A knock on the door made her jump. Remembering her reluctance to answer the night before, she swallowed, moistened her dry lips with her tongue and called out: ‘Yes?’

  The door opened, Nerys pushing it with her hip because she had a mug of tea in one hand and a large plastic bag in the other.

  ‘Not too early, I hope?’ And when Alice frowned, Nerys saw the baby was still asleep and whispered, ‘It’s about ten past eight.’

  Alice gave a start. ‘Oh my God! Really? Evie’s never slept that late before.’

  ‘Ah, but this room is special. Didn’t I tell you my grandchildren love it here?’

  She put the tea down, then showed Alice the contents of the bag.

  ‘Michael called in last night with some outfits for the little one. I came up, but you must have been out cold by then.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Alice lied. ‘I was exhausted.’

  ‘I thought you might be glad of a change of clothes yourself, so I’ve sorted a few things. And feel free to have a bath, if you want.’

  Alice nodded and thanked her. Nerys was gazing, rapt, at the sight of Evie. ‘Isn’t she just perfect, the little poppet. Oh, Michael brought you some formula milk, just in case stocks are running low!’

  She laughed gaily. Alice forced a smile. ‘I’m fine, I think.’

  ‘Good. Well, in that case, it’s you that needs refuelling. And having guests gives me the perfect excuse to make eggs and bacon, the works. How does that sound?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Alice, thinking: Anything to make you go away. ‘But is it all right if I have a bath first?’

  ‘Of course. And don’t rush. Enjoy the lie-in while you can, that’s what I’d do.’

  She shut the door quietly behind her, and Alice realised that something about the woman made her tense, even when Nerys was radiating good cheer.

  Evie was stirring. After taking a sip of tea, Alice wriggled back down in the bed, placing her face close to Evie’s so that she wouldn’t miss a moment of the waking ceremony. It was a precious experience to observe the little frowns and twitches, the gentle exhalations and pursing of lips: the infant equivalent of a warm-up routine.

  Smiling down at her, Alice was reminded that the official advice cautioned against co-sleeping: Harry’s mum thought that was a lot of nonsense, while her own mother said it was for the best. Welcome to motherhood, where everyone has an opinion on everything.

  There had been a few instances – especially at first, in the hospital – when that had fazed her; Alice was in no doubt that some of her confidence had ebbed away, which she put down to the absence of the day-to-day challenges and interactions of her job. The period at home before the birth had been a strange and difficult time, a kind of frustrating ‘phony war’ when she’d burned through a lot of energy doing nothing: like an athlete who has prepared too early for a big race.

  It had made her appreciate how much of her self-esteem was derived from her career, and that in turn fuelled concerns about the effects of a prolonged spell at home. She feared that her new, more insular existence could become so comfortable, so familiar, that one day she’d wake to find she was willing to settle for being – as she guiltily put it – ‘just a mother’.

  Nothing wrong with that, except that she’d worked hard to qualify as a dental hygienist. It was a role that carried many of the risks and responsibilities inherent in dentistry (albeit with a fraction of the prestige) and she took pride in her ability to do it well. It required a strength of character to work in such close proximity to strangers, delving into one of the most intimate parts of the body. And you had to be emotionally robust, as well – in the deprived area of Brighton where she’d first practised, she had regularly inspected the mouth of a new patient and seen immediately that half their teeth were beyond saving. On other occasions, working in tandem with the dentist, she was able to alert patients to the suspicious red or white patches that could be the pre-cursor to oral cancer. It was a job that made a difference to people’s lives, and she didn’t want to let it go.

  But there’s also you: after a tiny burp, Evie’s eyes prised open, recognised her mother’s face and lit up with a pure, instinctive joy that was just about the most beautiful thing Alice had ever seen. She blinked away sudden, silly tears. Tears of love and guilt.

  When you’ve been blessed with a beautiful, healthy child, wasn’t it unspeakably selfish to mourn what you might be losing of yourself?

  Michael left the house at seven-fifteen, having constructed a story that there was more paperwork to review before they could reply to the Revenue; not only that, but his mother was coming down with flu, felt sorry for herself and wanted him there for the comfort, blah blah blah.

  Robyn gave no sign that she doubted his word: she was accustomed to him skipping out on the flimsiest of pretexts. In many ways her passivity was a blessing, and yet there were times when he longed for her to rant and rage, to accuse him of something. Give him a reason to fight back – or save him from himself.

  He promised to be home to take Chloe to football training, but he’d already decided to avoid that as well. By then Robyn would be at Betty’s Saturday drama school, taking Junior with her, but he was sure one of the other parents would come to the rescue. Only Jay had the privilege of sleeping the morning away before his guitar tutor came to the house for his midday lesson.

  He arrived as Nerys brought in the day’s eggs from the chicken coop. She’d already been in to see Alice, but hadn’t woken Renshaw, preferring to wait until she and Michael had discussed tactics once again.

  ‘I need to be certain that you’re happy to go on with this.’

  ‘I am. Don’t worry.’ He gripped his mother by the arms and kissed her firmly on the cheek. ‘A challenge will do me good. Life’s been too easy since the old man popped his clogs.’

  She nodded. ‘Alice will be expecting Renshaw to organise her train home. We have to convince her to hold off till the afternoon, at least.’

  ‘I can help there.’ Michael set out his idea while Nerys made him coffee. They agreed that she should take tea up to Renshaw and talk to him privately.

  ‘I get the feeling he’s wary of you,’ Nerys said. ‘He’d have been expecting to find me here on m
y own. Vulnerable.’

  Michael couldn’t help raising his eyebrows. As if his mother was ever vulnerable, alone or otherwise.

  ‘And you’ll talk to Laird this morning?’

  ‘If I can. More likely his lieutenant, Vickery.’ She paused. ‘The other issue, if we’re going to meet him, is where we do it. I don’t want him knowing where I live.’

  She left him with that thought, and he couldn’t help marvelling at how swiftly they’d adjusted to the roles of co-conspirators. Just like the old days, really, when he’d fooled his father into believing that Nerys no longer featured in his life. Since then, what risks he’d taken had been confined mostly to matters of personal gratification. The little empire he’d inherited had flourished without the need for any questionable activity – thankfully, since everything was too drearily well-regulated nowadays to make it worthwhile. So this was probably the closest he’d ever been to such overt criminality, and he congratulated himself on how well he was adapting to it.

  Nerys was back a few minutes later. She winked.

  ‘He’s happy to go with our plan. He can’t seem to look ahead more than a few hours at the moment. If you ask me, he’s completely deluded, thinking he can get away with this.’

  ‘Suits us. The more deluded, the better.’

  ‘Oh, and he says he slept like a baby, isn’t that sweet?’ A derisive laugh as she took a bagel from the breadbin and stood it upright to cut it open. In a deceptively offhand tone, she said, ‘Ronald’s holiday home at Symonds Yat, you haven’t sold it, have you?’

  ‘You know I haven’t.’ Michael felt wounded by the suggestion that he’d do such a thing behind her back.

  ‘It’s nice and private, that’s what I was thinking. But is there anything that could link it to me?’

  He considered. ‘No. The holiday home is officially owned by the business, whereas for here I used a shell company. Completely anonymous, the way you wanted.’