Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  He finished the call. Tossed the phone to Fenton, who fumbled and dropped it.

  ‘Don’t ever play cricket, lardy,’ Leon muttered.

  At the front door, the red-haired guard was welcoming another visitor: a man in his late forties, slim and well groomed, slightly effete, with a distinct air of superiority about him. Joe heard Leon give a quiet groan, at odds with the hearty greeting that followed.

  ‘Giles! You’re back early. Hope you got the full tour?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Fantastic. Hey, say hello to Joe …’ He gripped Joe’s shoulder. ‘… Carter, isn’t it?’

  Joe nodded. He doubted very much that Leon had forgotten his surname.

  Leon went on: ‘Joe’s maybe gonna be the latest addition to the team.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Giles sounded enthusiastic, but there was boredom in his eyes. He shook hands limply but didn’t bother to introduce himself.

  ‘Be with you in a minute,’ Leon said.

  ‘You’re feeling better now, I hope?’ Giles enquired.

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Have you been ill?’ Joe asked as Fenton led Giles away.

  ‘Migraine. But I fought the bastard off.’ He spotted Joe’s bag of shopping, picked it up and peered inside before handing it to him. Smirking, he said, ‘Let us know when you’ve decided, yeah?’

  ‘I will.’

  Joe walked out and crossed the drive, resisting the urge to turn and see if he was being watched. All he could think was: What the hell just happened?

  He took the quickest route back into town. His phone buzzed as he reached the High Street: a text from Alise. She’d spoken to someone at the hotel in Piccadilly and identified the man that her sister had befriended. His name was Jamie Pearse, with a phone number and an address, not in the Cotswolds but in Poundbury, Dorset.

  Joe sent a brief reply: Thanks, Alise. This is a good start. Speak soon.

  He carried on walking, feeling strangely exhilarated. Almost tempted to whistle, but not quite. And still thinking: What the hell just happened?

  Twenty-Five

  THE FIRST ROOM off the hall was a boot room. When he’d seen it in the estate agent’s brochure, Leon had been astonished by the idea that some people felt they needed an entire room for their shoes and their coats. Madness.

  Once the house was his, the room had rapidly undergone a change of function. It was just large enough for a single L-shaped desk with half a dozen monitors, pulling in the feed from his network of cameras. A perfect command centre.

  Trusting Fenton to keep the journalist occupied, Leon started to open the door but met resistance. There was a muffled cry and Glenn stepped back, one hand cupped over his nose.

  ‘Clumsy arsehole,’ Leon said, without malice.

  ‘I was coming to get you.’ Glenn sniffed, examining his palm for signs of blood.

  ‘You’re fine.’ Leon looked at Derek Cadwell, loitering in the far corner like a sinister hatstand. ‘They’ve got her.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘They saw an opportunity and took it. But they’ll have to keep her till tonight. Can’t bring her here with Giles around.’

  Cadwell nodded, deep in thought. Glenn filled the silence with a question: ‘Is that right, you’ve offered Di’s friend a job?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leon kept a steady eye on Glenn. ‘Any problem with that?’

  ‘No, but … It’s risky, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why? We can control where he goes and what he does. And it’s the best way to keep an eye on him. Perfect, really.’

  Stepping past Glenn, he rubbed his hands together and addressed the fourth man in the room. ‘Show me the pictures.’

  The man at the desk was Phil Venning, a thin, morose Welshman. He had unusually tiny ears, of a completely different colour and texture to the rest of his skin, as though they’d been taken from a child and transplanted onto his head.

  ‘Got some lovely coverage,’ he said. He brought up footage of Joe walking towards the front door. Hit a button and showed him in the hall with Fenton. Then out on the deck, leaning casually against the rail.

  ‘The stills are even better,’ Glenn said, patting a Nikon DSLR camera that was linked to the computer by a USB cable.

  Venning opened a folder on another monitor. Leon crouched down and peered at the thumbnails, then selected the slide-show view.

  A head shot of Joe Carter filled the screen, captured with a long lens when he’d first been spotted on the path. Then came several taken from an upstairs window as Joe climbed out of the van. Lastly, a couple of him on the decking, again taken from an upper window.

  Leon tapped an image of Joe by the van. ‘This is the best one. Get it cropped and printed. I want all our people to have a copy. And email it to everyone we deal with, tell them to spread it round their networks. Somebody’s got to know who “Joe Carter” is.’

  ‘Do you reckon that’s his real name?’ Cadwell asked.

  ‘I doubt it.’ A pointed look at Glenn. ‘That’s your job to find out.’

  Glenn nodded. ‘I still think he’s on the run.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Leon said. ‘I saw the stuff he’d bought in town. Shaving gear, deodorant. He definitely left somewhere in a hurry.’

  ‘The question is, what’s he running from?’ Cadwell said.

  ‘Nah, the question is who.’ Leon grinned, sucking air between his teeth. ‘We find out who’s after him, and he’s ours.’

  The way Joe saw it, Leon’s proposal made no sense. If he suspected Joe of taking Alise’s side, why would he offer him work? Was it to sow confusion, or to force Joe’s hand?

  Either way, it suggested that Leon had nothing to hide – or nothing that he thought Joe could find. Joe should also take caution from the demonstration of Leon’s power: the fact that he already knew Joe had been speaking to Ellie and Alise.

  Joe would be mad even to consider the offer. So why hadn’t he turned it down flat?

  The answer was thrown into focus when he browsed a couple of charity shops in the High Street. Even most of their clothes were beyond his budget. He needed money.

  At the B&B there was no sign of Diana’s car. Joe let himself in, feeling like an intruder at first, made uneasy by the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house at rest.

  He put the coffee maker on and had just sat down with the newspaper when he heard the front door open. Diana called out a greeting and trooped into the kitchen, laden with shopping. She put the groceries on the counter, then handed Joe a carrier bag from a menswear store.

  ‘Hope it all fits. I had to guess.’

  In the bag he found a tailored jacket, jeans, a couple of shirts and some underwear. It had to be a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of clothes. He looked through them, touched by her generosity but also sick and furious with what he’d made himself: a charity case.

  ‘I’m going to pay you for these.’

  ‘No. They’re a gift. My way of saying sorry for how I reacted last night.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘I do.’ Diana poured herself a coffee and joined him at the table. ‘The thing is, a lot has changed since I last saw you. Not just losing Roy.’ She laced her hands together, nervously twisting her fingers. ‘God, I hate how this sounds, but I’ve moved on. I had to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Joe smiled. ‘I think I spotted your young man leaving the house this morning.’

  She looked mortified. ‘He hadn’t stayed over. He just called in while I was making breakfast—’

  ‘Di, it’s all right. You’re perfectly entitled to see whoever you want.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She unclasped her hands, examined them sadly, then shrugged. ‘Sorry. I’m not used to discussing relationships. It feels all the more awkward with you.’

  ‘Because I was friends with Roy?’

  ‘Partly that. But also …’ She reddened. ‘Oh, I know it was just a silly, drunken mistake. I regretted it straight away. I’m sure you did, too. But �
��’ She turned her face away from him, took a deep breath. ‘Part of me didn’t regret it. Part of me wished it had been more than it was.’

  Joe let the words sink in, aware that it would seem crass if he rushed his reply.

  ‘Actually, that’s pretty much how I felt about it, too.’

  Another significant pause. Then she laughed. ‘Oh dear, this is so embarrassing.’

  ‘Shall we change the subject? As it happens, I had quite an eventful day.’

  First he described the confrontation between Alise and Derek Cadwell, then his conversation with Alise. He was debating how to phrase a couple of awkward questions when Diana volunteered an answer to one of them.

  ‘She came here a few weeks ago, wanting to know if I’d had any guests who fitted her sister’s description. She showed me a photo of the girl, but I wasn’t able to help.’

  Joe nodded. Now came the really awkward one. ‘Did she ask you for a room?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Why?’

  ‘She told me she’d met some resistance locally. An unwillingness to give her accommodation.’

  ‘That’s awful. Of course, it might have been when I was full. I did have a busy spell in early September.’ Her voice wavered slightly; she cleared her throat.

  ‘You know she’s alleging that someone in Trelennan is responsible? A man called Leon Race.’

  ‘I had heard rumours, yes.’ She seemed about to elaborate, but clamped her lips together.

  Joe said, ‘Alise believes there’s a conspiracy at work, involving Leon and Derek Cadwell.’

  As a diversion, Diana had taken a sip of coffee. The cup shook in her hand as she set it down.

  ‘Leon Race is no saint. By all accounts he was a right tearaway in his youth, and he doesn’t mind who knows it. And Derek, what with the line of work he’s in, and his unfortunate appearance …’ She shook her head. ‘But they’re both very successful. I can’t see why they’d be involved in anything so dreadful. If this girl …’

  ‘Alise.’

  ‘If Alise had any evidence, the police would be all over it, surely? And if she doesn’t, harsh as it is, you have to wonder if she’s barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘That’s a strong possibility,’ Joe agreed. ‘In a way, I hope it’s true. Because I also had an interesting encounter with Leon Race.’ He explained how he’d been intercepted by a security patrol, and had decided it was an opportunity to form his own opinion of the man.

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘He’s obviously very bright. Streetsmart rather than classically educated. Strong. Charismatic. And not somebody you’d want to cross. I was chatting to a woman in the library – Ellie Kipling. She made it sound as though Leon rules the roost down here.’

  Diana had gone pale. It happened so abruptly that Joe had to force himself not to stare.

  ‘I know Ellie,’ she said, her voice stilted, almost robotic. ‘She’s a woman with a vivid imagination.’

  ‘All those books?’ Joe said, trying to make light of it. But Diana didn’t smile. Unnerved by the look in her eyes, he pressed on. ‘Leon offered me a job.’

  Another shock. Diana responded quickly: ‘You’re not going to take it?’

  ‘Don’t you think I should?’

  ‘I thought this was a place to hide. Isn’t the idea to steer clear of …?’ She shrugged, leaving him wondering what it was she couldn’t bring herself to voice. Trouble? Danger?

  ‘I know. Maybe it isn’t the most sensible thing to do. But I’m Joe Carter here. No one but you has any idea of my real identity. As long as it stays that way, I should be fine.’

  He waited for her objections. She was wrestling with something, but wouldn’t come out and say it.

  ‘It’s a question of priorities,’ he went on. ‘The safest thing for me is to leave it a while before I get my stuff from Bristol. In the meantime, I’m determined not to be a drain on your finances. I have to earn some money.’

  ‘Joe, how many times do I need to say it? You’re here as a friend.’

  ‘Even so, I don’t want to take advantage. Or make things awkward for you, especially with your new boyfriend.’

  Diana snorted. ‘That word sounds ridiculous. I’m fifty-one, for goodness’ sake. How can I have a “boyfriend” at my age?’

  ‘Because you’re never too old for a relationship.’ He smiled as he saw her relax, some of the colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Are you going to tell me about him?’

  Shyly, she said, ‘His name’s Glenn. He’s quite a bit younger than me, actually. Forty-three. He was a builder originally, but he had a change of career.’ She looked embarrassed but also, Joe thought, faintly amused.

  ‘Don’t tell me he became a cop?’ Joe said. Even as the words left his mouth, he realised the true answer was going to be very different.

  ‘No,’ said Diana. ‘Glenn works for Leon Race.’

  Twenty-Six

  LEON DIDN’T DELIBERATELY set out to lose his temper with Alise. He must have foreseen the possibility, though, because he chose to interview her in a room with bare oak floorboards. He had the sofas dragged aside, and a thick polythene sheet spread out beneath the plain kitchen chair on which she would sit.

  The journalist had been softened up with whisky, bullshitted until his eyes glazed over and despatched to his hotel for the night. Leon took another Maxalt and stole a quick nap. He woke when they were five minutes out, his head clear and steady. Stepping into the shower to freshen up, he realised he was getting hard just thinking about Alise tied to the chair, helpless.

  After the shower, he smeared hydrocortisone on a patch of dry skin around his groin. The cream felt deliciously cold, turning him on even more. He dressed in a T-shirt and a fresh pair of jogging pants, but stayed barefoot. He liked the tactile sensation of walking on different surfaces: carpet, wood, stone. Polythene.

  By the time he got downstairs they’d unloaded and set her up. She was conscious, her hair and clothes a mess, her face deathly pale, eyes large and bright with dark bags beneath them. Not a pretty girl, in Leon’s view. Her features were too large, too chunky. Not a face to earn a second glance, or linger in anyone’s memory.

  Her feet had been bound to the legs of the chair, her hands tied behind her back. Her mouth was covered with packing tape. She saw him in the doorway and reacted with horror, then a quick flash of something else: a desperate plea, directed not at Leon but at the man who’d appeared at his shoulder.

  It was Glenn, looking anxious. One hand shoved in his pocket, playing musical balls.

  ‘I’m getting off, then,’ he said.

  ‘You not gonna stick around, watch the fun?’

  ‘I’ve agreed to see Di.’

  ‘You’re well under the thumb.’

  Glenn scowled. ‘You want more information from Diana, don’t you?’

  ‘Why, are you gonna tie her to a chair as well? I’ll be there for that.’

  ‘Leave it out.’ Glenn backed away as Fenton waddled over, eager to take his seat in the front row.

  ‘Go on, run along to your little woman.’ Feigning concern, Leon checked the time. ‘In fact, you’d best get a move on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, she’s bound to be screwing Joe by now, isn’t she?’

  Fenton chipped in: ‘With any luck you’ll catch them red-handed.’

  ‘Red-dicked, more like,’ Leon cackled.

  They watched Glenn slope away, like the only kid with a curfew. Fenton rubbed his palms together, his hungry eyes glittering, and said, ‘Are we all set?’

  ‘Derek’s not here yet. We’ll start without him.’

  They entered the living room. Alise was being guarded by a couple of the team who had grabbed her, Reece and Todd. Leon signalled to Reece while Fenton settled on a sofa, shuffling his enormous buttocks until he was comfortable.

  The girl made an angry noise in her throat, which turned into a shriek as the tape was ripped away from her mouth.

  ‘You can stop that
fucking noise,’ Leon warned her. He knelt down on the polythene sheet, bringing his face level with hers. She flinched. The chair creaked and rocked, and he thought she was going to tip it over. From this close he could smell the terror on her. Could see her fighting to keep it in check.

  ‘You’re here because you keep spreading lies about me.’

  ‘It is not lies,’ she yelled. Then she spat at him: a gesture so defiant, so pointless, that it took him completely by surprise.

  It landed on his nose, his cheek; Leon could feel it cooling on his skin. The fury rose up like a sickness, overwhelming him. He drew back his fist and punched her full in the face.

  Roy Bamber’s retirement party had been held in the function room of a pub in Westminster. It was a night of wild and drunken revelry: precisely what you’d expect when a group of mostly old-time coppers gathered to celebrate the departure of one of their own.

  Midway through the evening, to howls of lecherous delight, a couple of strippers had materialised. The surprise had been arranged by a small band of Roy’s colleagues, notorious for their practical jokes. Needless to say, Diana and some of the other wives had been rather less impressed.

  Despite a vow to pace himself, Joe had ended up throwing shots down his throat. This was 2003, when his daughters were still toddlers and any kind of night out was a rare treat, easily taken to extremes. A last minute foul-up with babysitters meant that he’d come alone – although that, he thought later, was no excuse for what he’d done.

  It had happened shortly after Roy’s sentimental but touching farewell speech, during which he’d made it plain how glad he was to be leaving the force and embarking on a new life in Cornwall. Unfortunately he’d barely mentioned Diana: no reference to the support she’d given throughout his career, or the part she would play in this exciting new venture.

  The effects of the alcohol hit Joe suddenly. Seeking fresh air, he’d stepped outside and found Diana in tears. Joe couldn’t recall much of what they discussed, but one line had stayed with him through the years: ‘It’s his future, Joe, not mine.’