by Tom Bale
But she was gone. Harry stared at the phone, urgently mumbling to himself – ‘Beech House, Mercombe Lane, Cranstone’ – over and over, while a new sense of resolve began to harden in his mind.
Whatever the reason for Ruth’s sudden reappearance, Harry was certain of one thing. She was damn well going to help him now.
Alice moved again, lugging the stolen money with her. By the time she found a stronger signal she’d accepted that it made no sense to call Harry back, no matter how much she wanted to hear his voice. Before the battery went flat she ought to phone her mother, as promised.
She dialled the landline, aware that Mum often ignored her mobile if the caller’s number was unfamiliar. But it was answered immediately, as if the handset had been snatched from its cradle. Her mum had lost her husband at a tragically early age, and there’d been no one else since, so the fear of losing her daughter and youngest grandchild must be unimaginably traumatic.
Alice felt tears in her eyes: she’d just about held it together when speaking to Harry. Could she do it again?
‘Mum, it’s me. I’m all right.’
There was a brief but deafening shriek; other voices in the background, questioning, concerned, hardly daring to interpret the reaction as good news.
‘Harry?’ her mother said. ‘Did he—?’
‘He’s fine, too. So is Evie.’
‘Oh, thank heavens.’ She gasped for a breath. ‘Jill and David are here now, waiting for news.’
Harry’s parents. So he hadn’t been exaggerating, Alice realised. They really had thought the worst.
She said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. It’s been a terrible misunderstanding.’
‘So Harry’s there with you? Jill’s desperate to speak to him—’
‘Mum, please. I need you to do something for me.’ She used the stern tone reserved for patients who’d ignored all previous warnings about the calamitous state of their teeth and gums. ‘No questions, no arguments: just do it, please.’
Fifty-Three
It was five to twelve when Harry turned into King Street, passed the church and almost immediately found the statue of the great radical thinker, Thomas Paine. It was positioned in front of an imposing Georgian building that now housed the town council. There were benches either side of the statue, but Harry was too restless to sit down and wait for Ruth.
He should have been elated at the thought of being reunited with his family, possibly within just a couple of hours. And yet he had a lingering fear that it wouldn’t work out the way he hoped; a suspicion that Alice, once again – and no doubt with the best of intentions – had failed to tell him the full truth.
He’d wandered up the steps into the car park of Kings House when someone whistled. He turned as Ruth emerged from the churchyard, and had an unsettling thought that somehow she had followed him.
‘Harry.’ She wore her customary half-smile: a little weary, a little impatient. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come.’
He nodded, deciding to say nothing and see if she offered an apology.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re mad at me. Okay. The reason I ran out last night—’
‘I’m sure you have a very good explanation, but I probably won’t believe it.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘So Keri changed your view of me? I thought she would.’
‘Yeah, but that’s irrelevant now. I need you to drive me somewhere.’
‘Oh?’ Now her expression changed: wary, but interested.
‘I’ve heard from Alice. We’re going to get her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Gloucestershire. Where’s your car?’
‘Off Magdalen Street. It’s not far.’
She led the way at a pace that was just short of jogging, the two of them weaving in and out of the shoppers along the pedestrian thoroughfare. Ruth had a barrage of questions: how and when had Alice been in touch? Was she still with Renshaw? Where exactly had they chosen to hide?
Harry ignored them all, fighting his natural instinct to be helpful, until Ruth began to fume.
‘I get that you’re sulking, Harry, but this isn’t a very mature att—’ She broke off and slowed at the same time, causing him to bump against her shoulder, then nudged him and increased her pace. ‘Hurry.’
‘What was it?’
She indicated a side street to their left. ‘I saw a car down there. It looked familiar.’
‘Were you followed here?’
‘I didn’t think I was. Come on.’
The car park was a small open space tucked between two rows of rear gardens. It had room for no more than twenty-five or thirty cars, and was about half full. There was no one in sight – or so he thought.
Ruth’s Corsa was parked at the far end, in the shadow of a couple of overhanging trees. It took Harry a moment to see the man standing just beyond the car.
DI Warley. At least, that was the name he’d given Harry on Thursday evening.
Ruth swore softly under her breath and broke into a run. Warley hadn’t yet seen them approaching, but he turned at the sound of the bleep that unlocked the car. Ruth was sprinting towards him with the keys in her hand, Harry trailing in her wake.
‘Ruth!’ It was all the warning he could muster: he didn’t have time to point out that Warley might be armed.
‘Just get in,’ she shouted. Warley had moved to intercept her but she seemed undeterred, running to face him head on. He looked bemused by her decision, grinning slightly, his hands curling into fists.
She was faster than he could have expected. In a blur of movement her foot caught Warley on the knee, her hands struck him in the stomach and neck and then somehow she was behind him, forcing his right arm behind his back, his injured leg buckling. She dragged him out of sight between her car and its neighbour, then grabbed the driver’s door as Harry ran round to the passenger side.
‘Is he … ?’
‘He won’t stay down for long. And he’s not alone, remember.’
She slotted the key into the ignition and started the engine, pulling on the seatbelt with her left hand.
‘Buckle up. This won’t be pretty.’
The Corsa lurched backwards, skidded to a halt, then stuttered in a half circle as Ruth used a couple of empty bays as a small short cut to the exit. She had to brake sharply as someone stepped off the pavement into her path. Harry was thrown forward, hands slamming on the dashboard, then they were moving again, with Harry struggling to fit the seatbelt into the clasp. He glanced back and saw Warley making a stumbling run towards them. A Mercedes had turned into the one-way street and was slowing at the entrance to the car park.
Harry gasped. ‘I think they’re in a Mercedes.’
‘Better get a move on, then.’
They turned right into Castle Street, back to the roundabout they’d just passed on foot, took a right and then a sharp left, into a narrow road that didn’t look as if it went anywhere much.
‘You know where you’re going, yes?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she snarled. ‘Now let me concentrate, will you?’
The road widened a little, which Ruth took as a cue to drive recklessly fast. Then they reached a junction with a much busier road and were forced to slow down.
Harry looked back once or twice and saw no sign of the Mercedes. That might have been a small mercy but Harry, once he’d recovered from the initial shock, was furious.
‘How the hell did that happen?’
‘I don’t know. I thought I’d managed to stay under their radar.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me, I’m certain of that.’ He twisted to look behind him. ‘Are they following?’
‘Not so far.’
‘We’ve got to be sure, for Christ’s sake. We can’t afford to lead them to my wife.’
Ruth began to speak, then thought better of it. Harry let her drive in silence for several minutes. He adjusted the wing mirror on the passenger side so he could keep an eye on the road behind. They passed through a couple of traffi
c light controlled junctions; on the long straight stretches in between Ruth overtook whenever she had a chance.
‘Where did you go last night?’ he asked.
Ruth shook her head irritably. ‘Not now.’
‘I want to know how they found you. They just tried to attack us back there, and you’re not even—’
He broke off and turned to stare at her. Ruth went on looking at the road ahead. He reviewed the fight he’d just witnessed; the speed and elegance of it, like a perfectly choreographed setpiece …
‘This is bollocks.’
‘What?’
‘You’re lying to me. You’ve probably been lying to me the whole time.’
‘Not all the time.’
‘But this? The fight back there …’
A reluctant nod. ‘Staged. He’s not coming after us, because he doesn’t have to. There’s an Audi waiting for us up ahead.’
‘So you were told to come this way?’ Harry realised that he was gripping the edges of his seat, as if he expected Ruth to crash the car on purpose.
Thank God he hadn’t revealed Alice’s location.
‘I’m sorry. I had no choice.’
‘You’ve lured me into a trap?’
Her silence confirmed it. She accelerated up to a roundabout, and Harry saw a blue Audi parked up on the grass verge to his right. The driver was male, unfamiliar. The woman in the passenger seat was possibly the other fake detective, Sian Vickery.
‘So what happens now?’ he asked.
‘It depends,’ Ruth muttered, as though the question didn’t particularly concern her.
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’re any use to me.’
Fifty-Four
For what seemed a very long time, Michael couldn’t move at all; not even when the slaughterhouse smell of the kitchen became overpowering. What held him in place was a concept, a single word, blaring out like some lurid headline:
BLOODBATH!
This was a bloodbath. A victim whose head had been smashed to pieces, causing the grisly contents of the skull to explode across the kitchen. The sight of it left Michael shaky, cold inside, his limbs rubbery and useless. There was a strange prickling inside his head, blurring his thoughts, a little like the prelude to a bad case of flu.
He expected his mother to be similarly disorientated, and yet Nerys looked only mildly perturbed, as if a pigeon had shat on her clean washing.
‘The stupid bloody pillock,’ she muttered. The vehement tone brought out her native Welsh accent. ‘To go and blackmail a man like Laird, and then try to drag me into it with him. The stupid, stupid pillock.’
Michael had to make a huge effort not to spill his guts, even while his mind was in disarray. ‘I assume we’re not going to … report it?’
A snort. ‘You want to dial 999, do you?’
‘No. But if it’s what you want. I mean, you could claim it was self-defence. If I wasn’t here, say, and he got violent with you …’
Nerys grinned slyly, as if she saw what he was really getting at. If I wasn’t here …
‘I’m not trying to get out of this. I’m just saying, it’s an option.’
‘No, Michael. It isn’t. Look at him. You think a jury’s going to believe this was self-defence?’
She was right, of course. Michael’s shoulders sagged. He hadn’t felt this slow-witted in his mother’s presence since he was about six years old.
‘So what, then?’
‘Cover our traces, first of all.’ She moved around the table and inspected his clothes. ‘You’re clean, I think. Best go and fetch your car.’
He tried to object but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Mine’s too small to fit him in the boot.’ She studied the body again. ‘Before you do that, have a look in the garage for me. I’m sure I’ve got extra strong bags for garden waste. And there’s a set of overalls I bought for Clive and never threw away …’ She paused briefly; refocused: ‘Get the car, then change into the overalls. I’ll run your clothes through the machine, just in case.’
Michael’s attention wavered at the mention of Clive Saunders. He had been Nerys’s second husband for less than a year when he died of a heart attack, only a matter of weeks after the death of Michael’s father. He was recalling how, at the wake, he’d remarked on the unfortunate timing: the fact that Clive hadn’t lived to share the financial bonanza that was coming Nerys’s way.
‘Shame,’ she had agreed at the time. ‘But that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’
Now he stared at her, barely able to believe what he was about to say.
‘Have you done this before?’
She looked askance at him. ‘Oh yes, I make a habit of bludgeoning people to death in my kitchen.’
‘I don’t mean this method, specifically.’ He held her gaze for long enough to see the warning in her eyes: Don’t ask. He added, ‘I’m not judging you. If anything, I think I’d be … reassured if you had. And very impressed.’
His gambit failed. She said coolly, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Michael. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘All right.’ He turned away, murmuring to himself: ‘Garden bags. Overalls. Fetch the Range Rover.’
Nerys too was almost speaking to herself. ‘We’ll clean up the worst of it, then fetch the girls …’
Michael frowned. Girls? For a dreadful moment he thought she was referring to her granddaughters.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he whispered. ‘Alice.’
Fifty-Five
Her mother listened to Alice’s request. She was happy to comply, but it wouldn’t do any good.
‘The detective made it quite clear, he needs to speak to you himself. I’ve got his mobile number here.’
Relenting, Alice agreed to try. At least it gave her an excuse to terminate the conversation before Harry’s parents came on the line.
She rang the number, and the signal cut out just as she got a connection. She had only a sliver of battery power left.
On the second attempt he answered straight away. ‘DI Thomsett.’
‘This is Alice French. I understand you’re worried about me.’
‘And your daughter.’ His voice was warm, concerned, and Alice felt a sudden irrational urge to cry.
‘Evie’s fine. We both are. There’s just been a … a misunderstanding. Harry hasn’t harmed either of us. He wouldn’t do that. So you can call off the search for him … please.’
‘We’d like to, Alice. Just one thing: the number you’re calling from isn’t the one we have for you.’
‘No, I had to borrow this phone. From a friend.’ The word caught in her throat. ‘Mine’s out of power.’
‘I see.’ Still cautious. ‘The problem, as I’m sure you appreciate, is that I have to be sure I am actually speaking to Alice French.’
It made her gasp, this glimpse of a detective’s worldview: the idea that Harry might not just do away with his wife, but also arrange for an imposter to throw the police off the scent.
‘I’ve just spoken to my mother. She’ll confirm that I’m the real Alice.’
He chuckled lightly. ‘Of course. And may I ask where you are?’
‘In the Gloucester area.’
‘Staying with a friend?’
‘Yes.’ She heard a wobble of uncertainty in her voice and knew he wouldn’t miss it. ‘Look, are all these questions necessary, because I’m low on battery?’
‘We have to be certain. I’m afraid I need you to call in at the nearest police station, along with Evie. And take some form of ID.’
‘What?’
‘So we can be sure you’re not speaking under duress. It’s a formality, I assure you.’
Alice sighed. It made perfect sense, and he had her best interests at heart: but still …
‘Look, I’m planning to be back in Brighton this afternoon.’ She wanted to add that Harry might be with her, but feared it would provoke questions about his whereabouts.
‘Are you? That’s even bette
r. Call me when you get home, and with any luck we’ll have this wrapped up by tonight.’
‘Thank you.’ To her relief, Evie squealed loudly enough for Thomsett to hear. ‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’
Thomsett said goodbye, adding that he hoped to hear from her again soon. Alice rocked Evie back to sleep, wondering if she’d done enough to keep Harry out of custody. Her mother would corroborate her identity – although, Mum being Mum, she’d probably complicate matters by declaring that Alice didn’t know a soul in Gloucestershire.
She decided to return to the clearing. Waiting this close to the field made her uneasy. If someone came past and started asking questions about what she was doing here, or what was in the bag … She imagined having to tell Renshaw that she had been mugged: his precious money gone. It almost made her smile.
With the cloud thickening, it was gloomier now under the trees, the air damp and chilly. A bird was chirping from not too far away, but otherwise there was silence. Alice stashed Renshaw’s bag behind a tree stump and attempted to sit down. She had to descend in extreme slow motion, hoping to fool the built-in altimeter that woke her daughter whenever you tried to rest while holding her. The instant she made contact with the seat, Evie opened her eyes and gave her an accusing stare.
‘All right.’ Sighing, Alice stood up again. Evie shut her eyes and went back to sleep.
A gust of wind blew through the trees, causing dry leaves to lift from the ground and settle back, like soil being scattered on a coffin. Alice shivered. Checked the phone and saw that the battery was all but dead.
It was gone twelve. He ought to have been here by now.
‘Hurry up, Renshaw,’ she whispered. ‘Hurry up and get me out of here.’
Fifty-Six
Harry stewed, impotently, while Ruth drove at a steady fifty in a line of traffic on the A11, level fields and thin woodland on either side of them. The Audi kept on their tail at a relaxed distance, six or seven cars back. Harry knew that what he’d said to Keri still applied: he was in a position where he had no alternative but to trust Ruth – consider trusting her, at least – or go it alone.
