by Tom Bale
‘Well, yes, I wouldn’t dream of—’
‘My rates aren’t up for discussion. That needs to be very clear.’
After a little more bluster, Gerard agreed, and without saying so in explicit terms, they arrived at a mutual understanding that Dean had to be silenced at all costs. Did that objective take precedence over recovering the grandson, unharmed? Gerard weaselled out of a definite answer, but gave Stemper enough leeway to rely on his own judgement.
‘My role is to eliminate any threats to your reputation and your liberty, and that’s what I’ll do,’ Stemper told him.
He ended the call and started the car. He had a long drive ahead.
Gerard put the phone down, smarting over the demand for more money – even though it was peanuts in the scheme of things. More importantly, he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what had been agreed.
Upon reflection, he decided he preferred it that way. As a man whose occupation was built on a certain degree of distortion, he knew that believing what he said was the crucial first step. Now he merely had to persuade himself that what he’d striven for was the best possible outcome for his family – for himself, Freddie and Charlie – and were anything to go wrong, the consequences were out of his hands.
A minor wobble, perhaps, when Hugo Hamilton’s words came floating into his mind: Let a creature like that off the leash, and you can’t always put him back on.
Well, it was too late now. Accidents, tragedies: they were an unfortunate fact of life. Everyone knew that.
61
The journey went smoothly for all of forty minutes, until they reached a notorious stretch of the M25, near Chertsey in Surrey. Then: gridlock.
‘Gonna be like this from here till the M40,’ Freddie muttered, and he was right. For the next hour they were trapped among thousands of other motorists, all competing to inch forward in a series of stop-starts that made them both half crazy with frustration.
At last they reached the M40, which was running smoothly and allowed Freddie to take the Mercedes up to eighty for a while. Jen finally got her thoughts straight, and was able to reveal that Dean had phoned her this morning, and would be calling later with the address. ‘I also spoke to Charlie,’ she said.
‘What?’ Freddie almost lost control of the car. ‘Is he all right? What did he say? Are you sure Dean hasn’t hurt—’
‘Freddie, please. I don’t know. He sounded. . . okay.’
‘Only “okay”?’
‘It was hard to tell. At the time I suppose I was so relieved just to hear him, but now, going over and over it. . .’ She shuddered, still struggling – or reluctant – to put it into words. ‘I keep trying to imagine what it must be like for him, after all the turmoil of me being arrested, you flying back early from Greece, and then suddenly he’s in the care of somebody he doesn’t really know – that none of us know – and now they’re driving right across the country. . . It must be terrifying.’
‘Yeah.’ Freddie brooded for a moment. ‘Though kids are resilient, you know? And Charlie has your sense of adventure. I bet that’s why he made the decision to sneak out and talk to this guy in the first place. And if he’s getting McDonald’s, and toys bought for him, he might not be as unhappy as you think. . .’
They’re superficial treats, Jen thought, but she couldn’t say that without touching a nerve. ‘Are you sure you’re not clutching at straws?’
‘Probably – and why not? One way or another, we’ve got to hold it together till he’s back with us.’
‘True.’ She let out a deep sigh. ‘I’m also worried about Russell Pearce.’
‘The guy that killed his wife?’
She told him about the bloodstains that the police thought might belong to Russell, an indication that he’d been injured or attacked prior to his wife’s murder. Freddie didn’t seem to appreciate the significance, even when she recounted what Dean had said: You don’t have to worry about him. ‘To me, that suggests he knows Pearce can’t be a danger.’
‘What, because Dean’s killed him?’ Freddie shook his head. ‘I’m not gonna buy that, just because of a throwaway phrase.’
Clutching at straws, Jen thought again. Which, as options went, probably beat worrying yourself sick about something that was impossible to determine.
Except that wasn’t the only thing bothering her. I gave him Kwells, isn’t that right? Dean had said about the sickness tablets. Kwells Kids was the brand that Jen used. There was a box in the bathroom.
Did Dean know that because he’d been in her flat? Yesterday he’d strenuously downplayed his part in the operation against her. It might be only a minor thing, but it gave her another reason to doubt he could be trusted completely.
More congestion slowed them on the M42, but the M6 toll road offered some respite and they were able to make up a bit of the lost time. They were still behind schedule, but Jen agreed to Freddie’s suggestion that they stop to grab some coffees and switch seats, though she had to remind him that she wasn’t insured for this car.
‘So what? It’ll be Pa who has to cough up if there’s a problem.’
They pulled into the services at Norton Canes and separated outside the toilets. When Jen emerged from the ladies’, there was no sign of Freddie, so she wandered over to the small retail area while checking her phone for messages. Nothing from Dean, but she had an email from her mother: We should catch up soon – it’s been too long. Are you in trouble? Xx
Jen frowned. The sensible thing would be to ignore the message, but she felt a sudden, primitive desire to hear her mother’s voice.
The call took a few seconds to connect, and then rang four, five times: not going to ans—
‘Darling, what is it?’
‘N-nothing, Mum. I just got your email.’
‘Oh, that. I sent it a couple of hours ago, but there can’t have been a signal. I wondered if your dad was trying to spook me – he kept insisting you were fine, to the point where I became convinced that you weren’t.’ She was talking very rapidly, and sounded harried; Jen could hear voices and traffic in the background.
‘No, I’m doing okay, honestly.’
‘That’s a relief, if you’re sure? Sorry, darling, but I’m late for a presentation. I’ll be home Monday – no, Tuesday, I think – so let’s meet up later next week. I’ll have time for a real heart to heart, and we’ll get to the bottom of whatever it is, even if it’s nothing!’
With a jaunty laugh she was gone, leaving Jen feeling more bereft than if they’d never spoken at all. She felt her stomach twisting with negative emotions, and quickly phoned her dad. ‘I just spoke to Mum. I think you worried her.’
‘I know. I only mentioned that you’d paid a visit, and somehow she deduced that you were in terrible trouble.’ He paused. ‘How are things now?’
Bad. As bad as they can be. . .
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Honestly. I’d better go, I’m in the middle of something. But Mum suggested meeting up next week.’
‘Lovely, let’s do that – if she doesn’t jet off somewhere else. Hey, and send my love to kiddo.’
‘I will.’ Jen rang off, unsure whether to laugh or cry. It’s only Mum, when she makes the effort, who can see that I’m too proud to ask for help and support – and it’s only Dad, who respects my independence more than he should, who can give me that help and support.
62
Gerard couldn’t be bothered to cook lunch, so he took a wander to the Carluccio’s in the Brunswick Centre and had a seafood linguine. No one bothered him in the restaurant, but on the short walk back he had to sign two autographs and ignore a group of students who yelled from across the street that he was a ‘fascist twat’. About par for the course.
Having consumed half a bottle of red wine with the meal, he felt sleepy enough to take a brief nap, and then finished off his column. After despatching it to his agent for a once-over, he returned a call from a TV producer who’d invited him to app
ear on a panel discussion show about the upcoming American election. The producer, an excitable female who sounded about seventeen, actually laughed when he mentioned the positives they could expect from a Trump presidency.
‘Listen, love,’ he snarled, ‘the world’s changing, and I’m giving your crappy little show a chance to be ahead of the curve.’
And then Freddie rang. It was just after three o’clock. ‘Thought you’d be here by now. Is the Merc all right?’
‘I’m not coming back yet. I’m taking Jen to the Lake District.’
For a moment Gerard couldn’t remember if he was supposed to know their destination. ‘Why?’ he asked carefully.
‘To get Charlie back, what do you think?’
‘So you know where he is?’
A pause, then Freddie spoke, sounding testy. ‘Jen talked to Dean this morning. I only just found out.’
‘What did Dean say? Did he tell her where he’s going?’
‘The guy’s not stupid. He knows you’re trying to trace him. He’s gonna call again later.’
Gerard tried to sound conciliatory, while planting a doubt or two. ‘If you weren’t present for the conversation, then you can’t be sure what was said. Jen might already have the address. Even the name of the town would be very useful. That and his phone number. . .’ Gerard could hear Freddie breathing hard, as if struggling to contain his agitation. But was he tempted? ‘Please, Freddie—’
‘Listen. The police told Jen that the neighbour, Pearce, was injured before he killed his wife. Now she’s got it into her head that Dean might have been involved. What do you know about that?’
‘Nothing! Why would I?’
‘Because it’s down to you that Dean came into this in the first place. You’ve got people hunting for him, and probably looking into his background. If you have any information that could help us. . .’
‘I don’t. But I’ll say again, Freddie, that you should not be going anywhere near this man. Get that address for me, and I’ll deal with it.’
‘Oh yeah? How?’
‘You don’t need to know that. But we’ll get Charlie back, I guarantee.’
Freddie made a scoffing noise. ‘You think Jen’s gonna trust you for a second after what you’ve done?’
‘I don’t give a damn what she thinks, and you shouldn’t, either. What else is she keeping from you? She sees you as a useful idiot, and always has. Just get that address – and if she still insists on going it alone, let her take a train or a bus and you come back here.’
‘So then I’m your useful idiot?’
Gerard thought it wiser not to answer. When Freddie spoke next, his voice was not quieter so much as smaller, somehow. Diminished.
‘I called you in good faith. I thought Charlie mattered to you.’
‘And he does, don’t be so fu—’
‘No. All you care about is covering this up. Protecting yourself. You don’t give a shit about any of us.’
He was gone before Gerard could form a credible response.
Jen found Freddie in the queue for coffees. She had the impression he was upset about something, but it wasn’t until they’d left the building that he admitted it.
‘I just spoke to Pa. I wanted to see if he’d heard anything from these guys who work for him. Instead he kept drilling me about Dean’s address. He didn’t believe me when I said we don’t have it.’
‘Was it you he didn’t believe – or me?’
A snort. ‘He thinks you might know more than you’re letting on. I’m supposed to wheedle it out of you, then let him take over.’
She absorbed this information slowly. ‘And were you tempted to do that?’
A moment’s hesitation. ‘I’m disappointed you took so long to tell me about speaking to Charlie. But I’d never agree to what he wants.’
‘He really thinks we’d just stand by while some other stranger goes for Charlie?’
‘It’s worse than that. He basically said I should abandon you and come home. And that’s. . .’ Shaking his head. ‘I’m done with him, Jen. Finished.’
With a diplomatic shrug, she said, ‘At least you weren’t able to give him anything. And I’m sorry – I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know myself what to make of the call.’ She briefly laid her hand on his shoulder, the first affectionate contact between them in many, many months.
Freddie acknowledged it with a quick, distracted smile. ‘Even if he doesn’t have the address, I’m worried. He’s planning something, I’m sure of it.’
Gerard deliberated for a short time, then phoned Stemper. When he answered, he was on a speaker, with the rumble of traffic in the background.
‘I think Cumbria was a good call, but there’s a complication. Jen is heading for the Lake District, and my son is with her.’
‘I see.’ Stemper sounded unruffled. ‘And do they have an address for Dean?’
‘Freddie claims they don’t, but whether that’s just because she hasn’t told him. . .’
‘I have a good idea where Dean might be. Let’s hope I can get there first.’
‘You know where he’s hiding?’ He waited for Stemper to supply the details, but there was only silence. Off-balance, Gerard stammered, ‘S-so you don’t think it’ll be a problem?’
‘I hope not, though it would be useful at this point to hear your vision of the ideal outcome.’
Cautiously, Gerard said, ‘We’re talking on a purely hypothetical basis?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Well, I’d want Charlie to come out unscathed. And Freddie, I suppose. As for Dean. . . he wouldn’t be as fortunate, I think we agreed on that?’
‘Absolutely. And Jennifer?’
‘Hmm. If a tragedy were to occur, perhaps in such a way that Dean was held responsible. . .?’
Stemper said he could make no promises, though he appreciated the stakes were now very high indeed. Then he warned that the conclusion, when it came, might be ‘messy’.
Gerard said, ‘I understand.’ But as he put the phone down, he wondered if that were true. Had he really just agreed to let matters unfold in a way that could lead to death or serious injury to members of his own family?
He ruminated on that for a while, and decided it was time to recognise that he had, in effect, lost his grandson already. If Jen survived this, she would have his nuts in a vice. Once she’d gained custody on her terms, that would be the last he ever saw of Chip.
Painful, but sometimes you had to harden your heart. Wipe the slate clean and move on.
He turned to his computer and browsed through the cinema listings for the West End. Over the next few hours some form of diversion might be welcome, and a movie was just the thing.
I explicitly told Freddie to dump Jen and come home, he thought. If he doesn’t listen, it’s on his head.
My conscience is clear.
63
For an hour or more the motorway unrolled before them, the traffic busy but flowing freely enough for Jen to maintain a speed of seventy to eighty miles per hour.
It still didn’t feel fast enough. She was possessed by the grim, apocalyptic certainty that her faith in Dean was misplaced, that something terrible was going to happen to Charlie and it would be her fault, all her fault. . .
She tried to focus on nothing more than driving, and some small talk about music. They were listening to one of Freddie’s playlists, and after Jen commented favourably on a bluesy ballad by a Sussex artist called Rag’n’Bone Man, he muted the volume and said, ‘Try this.’
Tapping out the beat on his thighs, he began to sing a sweet, soulful love song with a great chorus and a clever little rap that he couldn’t quite pull off in conjunction with the main vocal – as he explained, it was designed for two voices.
‘You mean you wrote that?’
He nodded proudly. ‘Finished it in Greece.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Jen felt glad that she didn’t have to exaggerate, as had sometimes been the case in the past. She’d alw
ays thought Freddie would do well on one of the TV talent shows – for his looks and charm as much as anything – though she doubted if he’d ever get to the final stages.
Unfortunately Gerard was of the same opinion, and had made it clear that he would withdraw all financial support if Freddie were to apply. Gerard’s fear was that anything less than a place in the final would be used to deride him: Columnist’s Son Flops on X Factor.
As if reading her mind, Freddie said, ‘Probably just stick it on YouTube or something. Nowhere else I can go with it.’
‘It’s a fantastic song. What about offering it to an established artist?’
At first he scowled, then brightened, hummed a few notes from the bridge and murmured, ‘It’s an idea.’
They cleared the West Midlands and crossed the whole of Cheshire, into Lancashire, and then ran into trouble. Jen had noticed a lot of traffic leaving at the exit for Lancaster. As they rolled past the junction they began to see brake lights flashing up ahead. A moment later the radio broadcast a traffic update: major problems on the M6 northbound near Carnforth, with driver reports of an overturned caravan.
Jen groaned. ‘I bet that junction was our last chance to take a detour.’
All three lanes came to a halt, and within two or three minutes the motorway had become a car park. Another fifteen and it was a picnic area. Many of the cars and caravans around them were piled high with luggage: families returning from summer vacations.
Several emergency vehicles eased past on the hard shoulder, and for a minute Jen was sorely tempted to weave through the gaps and follow them. Then a white van tried to do just that, only to be caught by a police car and directed back into the queue.
A second police car slowed, the driver speaking to a motorist who quickly spread the word: probably an hour or so till the breakdown truck could remove the obstruction. Thankfully no one had been hurt.
