by Tom Bale
‘How … how long will this go on?’
‘As long as I want it to.’
The door shut with the usual terrible finality, and silence returned as other questions gathered in her mind, jostling like passengers denied access to a rush-hour train. Tired, angry, bitter. Self-pitying. Jaded. Suicidal.
Jenny fought them off. She’d survived this long: she wasn’t going to throw herself on the tracks now.
He told you it’s the next morning. Get your calendar started: from today at least.
First she switched on the torch and examined what he had brought her. A large bottle of Evian water. A couple of bananas and a big bar of Galaxy chocolate. The soap he’d referred to was a bottle of antibacterial hand soap, operated with a plunger. Better than nothing.
If she was going to scratch out the passing days, she needed a tool. But what? The bucket was plastic: even the handle was plastic.
There must be something, she thought. The cell seemed empty, but she hadn’t conducted a really thorough fingertip search. Hadn’t wanted to waste the batteries, but now she had a spare set. If she could find a nail, a pin, even a tiny stone …
Enthused, she set to work. She was brisk but methodical. She checked every inch of the cell floor and didn’t find a thing. Then she moved on to the walls.
And that was when she saw the blood.
Forty-One
SATURDAY MORNING, JOE’S alarm went off at seven. He silenced it, then immediately fell deeply asleep for another ten minutes. Woke with a jump and thought: work.
Staying in bed had its appeal, but another part of him relished the fact that he had a reason to get up early. He spent a minute or two pondering the importance of routine; the reasons why human beings seem to crave it. Felt himself drifting off again …
He propelled himself out of bed and opened the window wide, letting the cold sea air shock him awake. There was a promising blue sheen to the hazy dawn sky. No sign of rain.
Washed and dressed, Joe crept downstairs. He opted for a quick breakfast: fruit juice instead of coffee, cereal rather than toast. He’d just finished when the back door opened and Diana came in, wearing her gym gear. She looked great: eyes bright, a ruddy glow in her cheeks. ‘I woke at six. Couldn’t get back off, so I decided to be virtuous.’
‘You’re putting me to shame.’
‘It was also a form of punishment, for one glass of wine too many at bridge.’ She lifted the kettle. ‘I fancy a pot of tea. Do you have time?’
‘Not really.’ But he lingered for a minute or two. It felt rude to rush off, especially when they’d had a similarly brief contact the night before.
‘Glenn seems like a nice guy,’ he said. ‘Pretty nifty with the DIY, if the decking at Leon’s house is anything to go by.’
Diana nodded. ‘He renovated this place, too. He used to have his own building firm.’
‘So what prompted the change of occupation?’
‘I’m not sure. Leon made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, I suppose.’
‘And is that how you two met? When he was working here?’
Diana was suddenly awkward. ‘Probably. I can’t honestly remember.’ She busied herself with the tea, then said, ‘Do you want anything in particular for dinner tonight?’
‘Ah, actually, I’m eating out.’
She looked at him, intrigued. ‘Lovely. Who with?’
‘Ellie Kipling. The woman from the library?’
‘Oh. I see. Good.’ She turned away from him, fixing her gaze on the tendrils of steam rising from the kettle. Joe thought he heard her make a noise in her throat.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ Diana waved him away. ‘Go on, you’ll be late for work.’
He left the house, puzzled and disturbed by her reaction. He wasn’t sure how long they could both maintain the pretence that all was well.
At Leon’s place he was greeted by the red-haired guard, Kestle, who showed him into the living room. There was no offer of refreshments, no enticing smell of bacon frying. Maybe Pam didn’t work weekends.
‘You’re in the Citroën Berlingo. It’s okay, but the clutch can be a bugger.’ Kestle handed Joe the details. ‘Devon today. Only a couple of calls, so you’ll be back for lunchtime. Then we’ll get you sorted for this afternoon.’
‘Where am I going this afternoon?’
‘Dunno yet. No one’s told me.’
Joe was heading for the front door when he heard movement behind him. He looked round to see Leon Race padding downstairs, barefoot and wrapped in a dressing gown. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven, his chubby features made vaguely sinister by the presence of stubble: like a corrupted baby.
‘Settling in?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Thought you would. And I’m not often wrong about people.’
Leon turned towards the kitchen: Joe’s audience with the boss was over.
The Citroën was a pig to handle, but once Joe got used to its idiosyncrasies he settled back and enjoyed the drive. This early on a Saturday the roads were quiet, and he made good time to the distribution centre in Tiverton. It was the same routine as yesterday: loading up stock, magnetic signs attached to the van, and he was away with his list of deliveries.
Mid-morning, finding a place with a signal, he called Ellie and told her that the pub was fully booked.
‘That’s unusual, at this time of year,’ she said. ‘Shame.’
‘Is there anywhere else you’d recommend?’
‘Nowhere as nice as the Crow’s Nest.’ She thought about it, then added wryly, ‘Might as well come to mine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s perfectly safe. I won’t molest you.’ She laughed. ‘Or poison you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘But it was supposed to be my treat.’
‘That’s all right. You can bring the wine.’
Leon spent all morning on the phone. There was a lot to organise: a lot of sweet-talking, a few palms to grease. Fenton worked alongside him, chipping in with advice when he had something useful to offer, keeping his mouth shut when he didn’t. It was the secret of their successful working relationship.
And Fenton was buzzing with excitement, too, Leon thought. He was just better at hiding it.
‘What d’you reckon?’ Leon asked during a lull in the calls. He sat back, lacing his hands behind his head.
‘It’s a masterstroke,’ Fenton said, quite sincerely.
‘There’s no way he’ll see it coming?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, neither of them will.’
‘Mmm, I don’t know about Joe. You got to remember he was a cop. He’s a pro.’
Fenton shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, in any case.’
‘Yeah. But my bet is that he’ll sniff it out.’
Then Glenn phoned and – as was so often the case with Glenn – managed to put a severe dent in Leon’s mood.
‘You’re not gonna believe this bloke. Jesus, what a deadbeat.’
‘What?’
‘He’s been on the move for an hour or so, right. We’re in Stoke-on-Trent—’
‘We?’
‘I had to get Reece to help. I’m in the car, and Smith’s on foot. He keeps stopping at bus stops, train stations. I’d have lost him otherwise.’
‘So what’s he doing?’
‘He’s been to a couple of houses, one of them quite decent. Wasn’t there long, and he came out looking shifty, you know? Then he heads straight to a fucking pawn shop.’
‘What’s he doing in a pawn shop?’
‘Like I said, you’re not gonna believe it. I think he’s trying to raise the cash for the journey.’
‘You are shitting me.’
‘I wish I was, Leon. Honestly, he’s totally skint.’
‘So it could all go belly-up because he can’t afford to get here?’
‘Looks like it. But I can hardly chuck him a few quid, can I?’
Leon was shaking his head. Far
too soon to be building a rage, but he couldn’t stop it. Fenton caught his eye and made a pushing gesture, palms facing down: Calm.
‘Stay on him. If he takes a train or a bus, get Reece to follow. You and Todd do the house.’
‘But I’m not a burglar,’ Glenn protested. ‘I’m a builder.’
‘Yeah. So you know about locks and stuff. Perfect.’
Leon ended the call before Glenn could make him any angrier. Turned to Fenton and opened his hands in an appeal for understanding.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Fenton said. ‘Let’s not get overly concerned.’
‘Why did the stupid twat agree to come here if he couldn’t afford it?’
‘Because he’d be scared of appearing so weak. If you knew he was penniless, you’d never have agreed to fifty thousand in cash.’
Leon sat bolt upright, coldly furious now.
‘He pushed me up to fifty grand, when he’d probably have settled for five hundred quid and a fucking bus pass.’
Fenton nodded, very tight-lipped, like he was just possibly biting back a laugh.
‘That lousy fucker made a fool of me. He’s gonna pay for that.’
It was a couple of seconds before Fenton replied. First he took a deep breath and made strange twisting motions with his jaw. The humour in his eyes vanished when he saw the way Leon was staring at him.
‘He was always going to pay, Leon.’
Forty-Two
JOE’S DELIVERIES TOOK him north across Exmoor, to Lynmouth, then east to Bridgwater in Somerset. He was tantalisingly close to Bristol: a couple of hours there and back, maybe.
Tempting. Only he didn’t have a couple of hours. The roads were becoming increasingly choked with day trippers, tractors and the occasional out-of-season caravan, slowing him to a crawl.
He set off for Trelennan, vowing that he’d make the detour the next time a delivery took him out this way, even if it meant getting his wages docked. If he could recover the money he had stashed in Bristol, he wouldn’t necessarily have to work for Leon: he’d be back in control of his own destiny.
He didn’t reach Trelennan until two-thirty. Kestle opened the door and tutted.
‘Thought you’d be here at lunchtime.’
‘I was delivering in Bridgwater,’ Joe said. ‘Short of taking a helicopter, I don’t know how I could’ve done it any sooner.’
Kestle snorted. ‘Drive faster. Work harder. That’s what the boss tells us.’
Joe didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Where next?’
‘Make a sandwich or something. You can have twenty minutes, then there’s some local trips.’
‘Okay,’ Joe said. ‘Pam not here today?’
‘No point when there’s hardly anyone around.’
‘So where are they all?’
Kestle shrugged. ‘They don’t have to tell me. Why would I tell you?’
Left alone in the kitchen, Joe made a ham sandwich and ate it standing at the counter. Drank a glass of water, used the toilet in the hall, and he was ready to go. The sooner he got back to work, the sooner he’d be finished.
The living-room door was open, but the room was empty. He checked the cupboard and saw several clipboards with worksheets on them, but he had no idea which one was for him.
Back in the hall he paused, listening. Aside from the usual ticks and groans of an old house, there was nothing to indicate another human presence. He called out: ‘Hello?’ and his voice echoed back at him.
Remembering the bank of monitors, he tried that room next. It was empty, although one of the swivel chairs had a jacket slung over the back of it. Kestle’s, probably. He must have popped out somewhere.
Joe examined the monitors. Each one was receiving a live feed from several cameras. Some were mounted on the outside of the house, overlooking the drive and the gardens. One showed the decking, and Joe spied a couple of guys smoking on the viewing platform. Maybe everyone took it easier round here on a Saturday.
The other cameras were in a variety of locations, some of which seemed familiar: shops and offices in the High Street, and a few private homes. One looked down on a yard with a hearse in it.
Another showed the coast road and a sliver of the promenade by the harbour wall. Joe made a note to check the cafe the next time he went past. He wondered if this was how Leon had known who Joe had been speaking to on Wednesday.
No wonder Alise and Patrick Davy had been so paranoid.
Joe returned to the hall. There was one room he hadn’t tried: the office.
He knocked and waited, but he knew the room was empty. Over the years in the police he’d developed a sixth sense: an awareness of the vibrations that betrayed a human presence.
He knocked again, then tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and leaned in. Empty. There was a laptop on the desk, the screen facing away from him. He could hear the quiet whir of the fan. A stack of paperwork next to it, and a plate bearing the remains of what might have been a croissant. Folded over the back of the sofa was a blazer that by its size could only belong to Fenton.
Joe was curious to explore, see what was displayed on the laptop, have a look through the paperwork, but the room had a bizarre Marie Celeste feel about it. Where was everybody?
The answer – two words – popped into his head and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Watching you.
There were cameras everywhere. Who said there wasn’t one in here, concealed in a light fitting or a smoke alarm? Or a clock.
He concentrated on the desk. There was a small digital clock next to the laptop. Had that been there on Wednesday?
Shrugging to himself, as though baffled to find the room empty, Joe shut the door and returned to the kitchen. Ran himself another glass of water and heard footsteps. Kestle materialised, blushing slightly.
‘All set to go?’ he asked.
‘Ready when you are.’
Upstairs, in one of the guest bedrooms, Leon, Fenton and Venning were watching the images transmitted from the covert cameras: a wall clock in the kitchen, smoke alarms in the living room and the hall, and a clock on the desk in the office.
When Joe checked out the office there was a chorus of gasps, followed by groans from Fenton and Venning as Joe changed his mind, shut the door and walked away.
Leon didn’t groan. He said, ‘Told you. He’s rumbled us.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fenton said.
‘Yeah, he has. Shame.’ Leon gazed at the empty office on-screen. ‘I tell you what – tonight had better be a damn sight more successful than this.’
They’d had another update from Glenn. With Victor Smith safely installed on a train to Cornwall, via Birmingham, Glenn and Todd had broken into Smith’s flat.
‘I was right. He hasn’t got two sticks to rub together.’
Leon hadn’t heard the phrase before, wasn’t totally sure that it was a proper phrase, but he got the gist. ‘Definitely the right flat?’
‘Oh yeah, no doubt about that. There were clothes and stuff. But no furniture. A ratty old mattress and a couple of blankets, a little transistor radio that looks thirty years old, and that’s it. No cooker or fridge. No chairs to sit on. Not even a fucking bath.’
‘You what?’
‘There’s broken tiles and cobwebs and shit where the bath used to be. The floorboards beneath it are all rotten. All the pipework’s gone, of course. Just a sink and a toilet left. A load of newspapers next to the toilet, and most of ’em weren’t readable any more, if you get my drift. I wouldn’t shake hands with the guy if I were you.’
He paused, maybe expecting a laugh, but Leon wasn’t amused. In his view, this was just more evidence of Victor’s nerve. Temerity was the word Fenton used afterwards. Taking the fucking piss was how Leon saw it.
Glenn coughed, a bit embarrassed, and went on. ‘No sign of a mobile phone. He might have one with him, but there was no charger, either. I reckon he’s been using a call box.’
‘Well, that would be something, at
least,’ Leon said. Accentuate the positive.
The fewer traces that Victor left in his wake, the better.
Forty-Three
THE AFTERNOON’S DELIVERIES weren’t for the vending business. Joe was given half a dozen thick brown envelopes and told to deliver them to various private addresses in Trelennan and some neighbouring towns: Port Isaac, Camelford, Boscastle.
From the feel of them, the envelopes contained thick bundles of paper that could, in Joe’s estimation, be money. Strips of transparent tape had been used to seal them, but one or two had loose edges that could perhaps be prised open without causing any visible damage.
He thought about it as he drove to Port Isaac, but concluded that this bore the traits of another test. It would be simple enough for someone to booby-trap an envelope with flour or ink. Not worth the risk.
At each address he had to wait for the householder to collect the package by hand. In every case Joe had the feeling that the delivery was expected. Four men and two women took the envelopes from him with little more than a grunt of acknowledgement.
He was back at Leon’s by a quarter to six, and was relieved to see Fenton waddling across the hall. Joe was given his wages in an envelope identical to the ones he’d just delivered, albeit much thinner. That answered the questions in Joe’s mind. He had been delivering cash, and it probably had constituted another test.
By his reckoning he’d worked approximately eighteen hours over the two days. At ten quid an hour, cash in hand, he was expecting a hundred and eighty pounds. But Fenton – or Leon – evidently thought otherwise. They had paid him two hundred.
It was a pleasant surprise; totally unexpected in the light of the mostly negative things he’d been told about Leon Race. Then again, it chimed with what Carl Ennis had said. Work hard, and they’ll look after you.
Diana was busy with housework when Joe got in. He felt a twinge of guilt as he set down the bag containing the wine he’d bought for this evening.
Upstairs, he found her running a brightly coloured Dyson along the landing. She saw him and started, one hand clamped to her chest. He yelled an apology, and she nodded.
‘It’s all right. I’m done now.’
