Rollover

by James Raven

  ‘But what if he doesn’t?’

  ‘Then you tell him he has to. You’re the boss, don’t forget.’

  Max was Laura’s imaginary friend. He’d appeared about a year ago and she’d named him after our pet cat that died about the same time. Maggie was less concerned than I was over the strange, invisible companion who had moved into our house. A child psychiatrist told us it was pretty common and not to worry. She’ll grow out of it, he said. Just give her time.

  But I’d never been comfortable with Max. I didn’t like laying an extra place for him at the table or listening to Laura talk to him like he really existed. To me it was all pretty creepy. Still, Laura seemed happy enough so I played along in the hope that she would soon grow out of this phase in her life.

  Maggie leaned over and gave Laura a loud, wet kiss on the cheek. ‘Just think what it will mean for this one, Danny. If Vince is going to share his winnings with you then she’ll never have to worry about money or getting on the ruddy housing ladder. She’ll be set up for life.’

  It was a comforting thought, but one I was still reluctant to entertain. I needed rock-solid confirmation before I would allow myself to get too carried away.

  ‘Don’t call anyone,’ I said. ‘Not yet anyway. Let’s just wait and see.’

  Maggie nodded. She knew what I meant. The temptation to spread the news would be unbearable during the next fifty minutes, which was about how long it would take me to get to Vince’s place in the forest.

  ‘Don’t forget to call me as soon as you’ve seen the ticket,’ she said.

  ‘Of course I will, but don’t be too disappointed if I have to tell you that we’re not going to be rich after all.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  I gave them both a hug and slipped out of the room.

  3

  Vince Mayo was indeed my best friend and partner. We’d known each other for fourteen years. He was a thirty-nine-year-old confirmed bachelor who had quite a serious addiction to gambling. He’d had a string of girlfriends, the latest the attractive daughter of a high-ranking police officer in Southampton, and he’d lost a small fortune in betting shops and casinos.

  We first met when I joined the Post as a reporter. He’d already been there two years, having moved from a local rag in Portsmouth where he allegedly got the married news editor pregnant. We got on well and from the start a rapport developed between us.

  Despite his laid-back attitude to life he was a fine writer and a diligent, hard-nosed journalist. But he lacked ambition and never felt inclined, unlike me, to make his name on a national newspaper.

  Even when I left to spend five years on the Daily Mail we stayed in touch. When I was made redundant he was there to console me. And he was on hand when my failure to get another job took me to the verge of depression.

  That was when we decided to pool our talents. He was ready for a change and took voluntary redundancy from the Post. I had nothing else to do so it seemed like a good idea to launch the Southern News Agency. It was hard work from the start, but fun. Rewarding in the sense that we were working for ourselves and chose what stories to cover and what features to write.

  We had an office. Two rooms and a toilet. Prime location in Portswood High Street, about ten minutes from Southampton city centre. We also had a secretary. Her name was Marsha Rowe and she was loyal and efficient and talked endlessly about her husband, who had a drink problem.

  But the money just wasn’t coming in. Selling stories was much harder to achieve than we had imagined it would be. Which was why I was still driving my five year old 3-series BMW. It was smooth and reliable, but in the past I’d always traded in my cars after three years.

  As usual it started first time, though. The tyres rolled over the asphalt driveway and out on to the road.

  Home is in a fairly upmarket area of Southampton known as Bassett. Quiet streets, neatly cut lawns, posh detached houses, many with two-car garages and ornate conservatories. It’s a ten-minute drive from the city centre and the route takes me past the house I grew up in.

  The old place has changed quite a bit since my parents sold it ten years ago so that they could emigrate to Australia. The new owners – a couple of retired doctors – had built an extension on the side and replaced the raggedy hedge at the front with a wrought-iron fence. They’d also put an enormous skylight in the sloping roof.

  But the place still evoked fond memories. It was where my father encouraged me to live his dream, the one he had never been able to realize.

  Josh Cain had been a successful businessman who always said he chose the wrong profession. His passion was for writing, but after leaving school he had a choice – to join the local newspaper as a trainee reporter on eleven pounds a week or go to work in his uncle’s building company and earn three times that.

  He opted for the money, and it was a decision he’d always regretted even though he had a long and successful career as a property developer.

  ‘I should have followed my heart instead of my head,’ he told me one time. ‘I may have earned good money but I was always bored and frustrated.’

  He would write endless letters to newspapers just to see his name in print. And he’d write short stories that never got published. He even tried his hand at a novel but didn’t actually finish it because he never had the time.

  Thanks to my father I gained an appreciation of books and newspapers at an early age. He helped me with my English homework and told me that if I wanted a job that involved excitement, and where no two days were the same, then I should become a journalist.

  And so I did. And he was right. I never got bored. I’d travelled the world, reporting on just about everything. I’d covered murder trials and celebrity weddings. I’d investigated corporate corruption and benefits fraud. I’d interviewed ministers of state and members of the royal family. I’d swum with sharks, albeit in a cage, and I’d travelled in Hugh Hefner’s private jet.

  I’d seen and done more than most people and I had my father to thank for it. That was one of the reasons I missed him so much. We stayed in touch, of course. My mother called once a week and they came to stay with us every other year. We’d been to see them just the once and that was two years ago, when Laura was four.

  They live in an apartment complex with a community pool and a view of the famous Sydney harbour. I fell in love with the place the moment I saw it and after I lost my job I tried to persuade Maggie that we should up sticks and move there too. But she wasn’t keen. She wouldn’t be able to stand the constant heat, she said, or the thought of leaving her mother.

  I was hugely disappointed because at the time I was struggling to come to terms with an uncertain future and I was convinced that we’d have a better life down under.

  As I drove towards the forest my mind switched back to the present and it was difficult to ignore the images that flashed inside my head: a luxury villa by the Med, a brand new car, a world cruise. They could all soon be within our grasp if we were about to get a slice of a mammoth lottery win.

  I took a deep breath and told myself to stop jumping the gun. This would probably turn out to be a shattering anticlimax. Instead, I concentrated on the road ahead and the city that surrounded me.

  Southampton lies on the south coast between Portsmouth and Bournemouth. It’s a short ferry ride across the Solent to the Isle of Wight. The New Forest national park is just west of the city, a great sprawl of ancient woods and open moors, where hundreds of wild ponies graze and attract the tourists.

  As it was a Saturday night the city streets were loud and busy. Soon they would be crawling with young people when the pubs turned out and the trouble started. I drove down past the docks and out across the Millbrook flyover towards the forest.

  The lights and traffic soon petered out. I cracked open the side window, breathed in the cool breeze that carried the scent of rich soil and pine.

  The forest got darker the deeper into it I drove. I skirted the town of Lyndhurst and headed towards th
e village of Burley. I stayed within the forty mph speed limit because at night you can’t see the ubiquitous New Forest ponies until you’re almost on top of them. They have right of way and I’m sure they know it. Cars and headlights no longer intimidate them. They move at their own steady pace, which is only slightly faster than a tortoise.

  I’ve always liked the feel of the forest. Day or night you can’t help but be touched by its sense of history. It’s been an ancient hunting ground for kings of England since just after the Norman conquest and as a boy I’d often come here with my father. We’d walk the vast expanses of heathlands and explore the small villages and towns which to this day bask in legends of witches and smugglers.

  The road crossed over a small river where in the summer we took Laura for picnics and paddled in the cold, shallow water. I passed a couple of pubs and a winery, then came to the familiar ruins of an old Norman church. I noticed a car on the grass verge in front of it. I thought I glimpsed someone behind the wheel, but before I could be sure I was turning into the narrow, unlit lane opposite.

  It was more a track really, the surface rough and pitted, a mixture of mud, rocks and shingle. On the left a row of tall conifers. On the right two detached cottages, one of which belonged to Vince.

  His cottage was at the end of the lane, set back and pretty secluded. I pulled to a stop on the short, paved driveway and killed the engine. His silver Range Rover was parked outside the garage but his house was in darkness. Not a single light burned beyond any of the windows. And that struck me as odd.

  It was a small picture-postcard cottage with a thatched roof and whitewashed walls. Even though it was a hundred years old it had been well maintained and Vince adored it. He’d carried out a great deal of renovation inside and in so doing had increased its value by many thousands of pounds.

  I switched off the engine and climbed out. The moon looked swollen, fit to burst, and the stars were a blazing trail across the sky. A gentle wind nudged the branches of a nearby tree.

  I waited for my eyes to adjust, then walked up to the front door. I expected it to open the moment I stepped on the mat, but it didn’t. There was no sound from inside either.

  I rang the bell, which was horribly loud, but there was no answer.

  I took out my mobile, keyed in Vince’s number. A second later I heard the phone ringing inside the house. I waited for him to answer it, but the phone continued to ring until I ended the call.

  ‘What the hell is he playing at?’

  I had a spare key to the cottage on my chain because I’d been asked a couple of times to check the place over when Vince was away. I used it now to open the door.

  I stepped into the hall, which was really a small vestibule. The house was overheated and I could hear water gurgling through the pipes.

  I switched on the light, blinking against the sudden brightness. The living-room door was directly in front of me, the stairs next to it, the kitchen door to my left.

  ‘Vince, where are you?’ I shouted. ‘It’s me. Stop messing about.’

  I stood stock still for several seconds, but the house was as silent as a vault.

  I opened the kitchen door. Walked in. Realized that something was out of place even before I flooded the room with light. There was a dark shape on the floor in the middle of the room.

  The shape turned out to be Vince. He was lying on his back in a pool of his own blood.

  Maggie Cain paced up and down the length of the living room, barely able to contain her excitement. Could it be true? she wondered. Had Vince really won the big prize on the lottery? And if so how much would he give them?

  The thought of it made her blood tingle. A rollover sum of eighteen million pounds would give Vince plenty of scope to be generous. He’d told Danny he would make them rich. So what did that mean? A million? Two million? Maybe more!

  She found it hard to grasp what was happening and she prayed that Vince wasn’t having a lark. He wasn’t averse to playing practical jokes, especially when he’d had too much to drink. But surely this would be a step too far even for him.

  Danny should be at the cottage by now. So he’d be calling her any second. She tried to prepare herself for bad news. Told herself there was no way all their financial problems were suddenly going to be solved. Life simply wasn’t like that. They had got into a rut and they would not be wrenched out of it by a stroke of incredible luck.

  Or would they? It was about time some good fortune came their way. Things had been difficult. Their marriage was under pressure like never before. Maybe a windfall was the answer to all their problems.

  Suddenly the phone rang. Their landline. She answered it as quickly as she could, her hand shaking and her heart thumping.

  ‘Is Mr Cain there?’ a man’s voice said.

  She was taken by surprise. Had assumed it would be Danny. Her disappointment was almost palpable.

  ‘No, he’s just gone out,’ she said. ‘This is Mrs Cain. Who is speaking?’

  The line went dead and she was left staring at the phone. Who the hell was that? And why had he hung up? She didn’t dwell on it for long, though, because Danny often received calls from strangers. And besides, she was too excited to let it distract her.

  Instead she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She felt hot and sweaty. What on earth was keeping Danny? Why hadn’t he phoned?

  Just then their doorbell rang. Her heart heaved in her chest again. Was it Danny? Had he come back?

  She hurried to the door and pulled it open. She was confronted by a tall figure wearing a black ski mask. Before her brain could even register the danger he had stepped over the threshold and was pushing her back along the hallway.

  She started to scream but a large, gloved hand was clamped over her face and the man issued a chilling warning into her ear: ‘Make a noise and your daughter will be hurt.’

  Maggie had never known such fear. It was like ice-cold liquid passing through her veins. With a firm grip on her arm he marched her into the living room.

  ‘If you stay quiet and do as you’re told then you’ll be OK.’

  He took a roll of duct tape from his pocket and tied her wrists. Then he pushed her back on to the sofa and stood above her, his posture threatening. The ski mask covered his mouth so she could only see his eyes. They were so dark she couldn’t tell the difference between the irises and the pupils.

  The woollen cloth moved as he spoke. ‘I know that your husband has gone to Vince Mayo’s house. I also know about the winning lottery ticket. I now need you to tell me if anyone else knows about it.’

  The ticket! What was going on? How did this man know about the ticket? Who was he?

  He raised his voice. ‘Answer the question, Mrs Cain. Have you or your husband told anyone else about the ticket?’

  Maggie tried to swallow. She felt her throat lock up. The man reached out and grabbed her by the hair, pulling it until she yelled out in pain.

  ‘I warn you I will hurt you and your child if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’

  She managed to shake her head.

  ‘Danny told me not to tell anyone,’ she said. ‘So I didn’t.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, he let go of her hair.

  ‘Where is your phone?’

  She nodded towards the table. On top of it rested their landline and her mobile. He crossed the room and picked up the mobile.

  ‘What’s your husband’s number?’ he said.

  4

  For a long time I couldn’t move. The floor swayed violently beneath me and Vince’s body with it. In fact, the whole room seemed to be moving as though it were no longer anchored to reality.

  Eventually I staggered forward and dropped to a squat beside him. I knew Vince was dead, but I yelled his name anyway. His lifeless eyes bulged open and he stared at a point beyond me.

  His skin seemed somehow shrunken and his mouth was pulled back in a rictus of death, revealing those familiar yellow tombstone teeth. But the blo
od that had spilled from two gaping head wounds was cool to the touch. It soaked his hair and pooled inside his left ear.

  Tears blurred my vision but I could clearly see the two wounds. One was just behind the top of his left ear. It looked as though the blow had crushed his skull. His hair and his blood filled the chasm. The other wound was above his right eye. That too was wide and deep and had cracked open his forehead. Some of his blood had spattered over the kitchen cupboards and the inside of the door. It was also spreading out across the lino.

  I looked away as a rising tide of emotion and revulsion threatened to overwhelm me. Surely this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening.

  I looked around the kitchen. Above me the fluorescent strip light stuttered and hummed on the ceiling. Vince’s leather briefcase was on the floor next to the breakfast bar. There was a puddle of clear liquid around it. At first I assumed it was water, but then I saw an open bottle of champagne on the smart granite worktop and wondered if that had caused the mess. Next to the champagne something else caught my eye. A wad of cash. The top note was a twenty.

  What the hell had been going on here?

  The room suddenly started to move again and soon it was spinning around me. I shut my eyes and took deep, shaky breaths.

  Vince was dead.

  As I struggled to my feet the stark reality of what had happened hit me. My friend and partner was lying at my feet, soaked in blood, his head crushed.

  Murdered.

  The word slammed into me like a gust of cold wind. No way was this an accident. He hadn’t fallen over and hit his head on anything. That was obvious. Someone – some callous monster – had done this to him.

  Fear suddenly wrapped itself around my chest like steel bands.

  The killer might still be here, I thought. After all, Vince had been alive just over an hour ago when I spoke to him on the phone. Maybe that was why there’d been no lights on in the house. The killer – or killers even – heard me coming and switched them off.