by Tom Bale
An afternoon nap hadn’t done much to improve Leon’s state of mind. Sitting in the office with Fenton, Cadwell and Glenn, toying with the CCTV feed on his laptop, he could feel the distant pulse of another migraine, like a storm gathering over the horizon. He wasn’t sure now if he could trust any of them.
Even Glenn had a question mark over him. He’d done plenty of building work for them both over the years. Fenton in particular had wanted Glenn to remodel his entire house, despite spending most of his time here.
‘It’s essential to get this right,’ Fenton kept saying. ‘We mustn’t overplay our hand the way Victor did. Equally, we mustn’t fail to exploit the full potential of this opportunity.’
‘Got to be worth a million or two,’ Glenn said. ‘The Mortons are loaded, I take it?’
‘Not officially,’ Fenton said. ‘They have a network of shell companies. Perfectly adequate,’ he said with a sneer, ‘but not as sophisticated as our own set-up.’
‘That won’t stop them from treating us like yokels,’ Leon said.
‘All the more reason to present ourselves as professionals. Ambitious, not greedy.’
‘Rather than just cash,’ Cadwell interjected, ‘what about going for a stake in their operation?’
From the exaggerated way that Fenton was nodding, Leon guessed they had discussed it in advance. He gave a thin smile as Fenton said: ‘It’s an option to explore, from a tactical viewpoint if nothing else.’
‘How do you mean?’ Leon asked.
‘If they baulk at paying out so much cash, we suggest an equity deal. Suddenly our original request doesn’t seem so unreasonable.’
‘I like that,’ Cadwell agreed, wagging a finger. ‘That could work very nicely.’
Leon had to choke down a sarcastic comment. Glenn, who looked every bit as bored with it all as Leon, scratched his head and said, ‘So who’s going tomorrow?’
‘Me, you and Clive,’ Leon said. ‘We need some muscle with us as well.’
‘Not Reece,’ Fenton said. ‘He flies off the handle at the slightest provocation.’
‘Could show them we mean business …’
Fenton shook his head. Leon sensed that Cadwell agreed but had suddenly gone shy.
‘It’s your decision, obviously,’ Fenton said. ‘But Morton, by all accounts, is a volatile individual. The last thing we want is an all-out war because Reece didn’t like the way someone was looking at him.’
‘And they probably will try to intimidate us,’ Glenn added.
‘Maybe Bruce, then.’ Leon winced at a spasm of pain. Shut his eyes.
‘Sore head?’ Glenn enquired.
‘Migraine.’
‘Another one already?’ Fenton said.
Cadwell tutted. ‘You ought to go to the doctor.’
‘One day.’ Leon spat the words out. All this fucking advice, he’d never really seen it for what it was: manipulation. Pushing and pulling and nudging him into the position that suited them best.
He willed the pain away. Opened his eyes to find Joe Carter, caught on CCTV as he parked the van.
‘Keeping him busy?’ he asked Glenn, who nodded, still sulking over this morning’s confrontation.
Leon switched cameras, followed Joe into the house and studied him carefully as he talked to Kestle. At least Joe’s body language was relaxed: that was one good thing.
He didn’t have a clue, Leon thought.
Sixty-Three
ON TUESDAY JOE woke to light but steady rain. Once again, he came down to find Diana already busy in the kitchen. Only a week and they were settling into a routine.
Last night he had told her that he would probably revert to his original plan and leave at the end of the week. Diana had dismissed his fear of reprisals. ‘They wouldn’t be that stupid.’
‘Has Glenn been in touch since Sunday?’
‘He keeps calling and texting.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve ignored every one of them so far.’
With no sign of the rain letting up, she insisted on driving him to Leon’s. He was wearing the jacket he’d bought in Bristol, and for good measure he had the cap with him as well: a disguise for his return to Lindsey Bevan’s.
Kestle had his paperwork ready. There was no sign of Pam – or anyone else, for that matter. ‘They’re out today. Big meeting somewhere.’ Then he clammed up, perhaps aware that he’d said more than was advisable to a colleague who was still far from trusted.
Before Joe left, Kestle popped into the comms room, came out with a newspaper and offered it to Joe, who shook his head.
‘Not to my taste, thanks.’
‘Leon’s orders.’ Kestle slapped it into his hand. ‘Everyone gets a copy.’
* * *
One of Leon’s cast-iron rules was that any vehicle he travelled in wasn’t to exceed the speed limit, particularly outside of their local area. It was because of something he’d been told about Al Capone, how after years of criminal activity he’d finally gone down for tax evasion. Same with keeping the fleet roadworthy, properly taxed and insured.
‘If they can’t get you on the big things,’ he’d been warned, ‘they’ll be just as happy to get you on the little things. All they need is a way in.’
Today, with Bruce behind the wheel of a brand-new Range Rover, there was a constant danger that Leon’s rule would be broken. He got tired of reminding him to slow down, and the others got tired of hearing it.
‘I don’t reckon you should worry, not now.’ Glenn was on the back seat, next to Fenton. He tapped the newspaper spread out over his knees. ‘If the cops pull us over, you just have to show ’em this. You’d get away with anything.’
Leon snorted, trying not to show how pleased he was. Since receiving an advance copy of the article on Sunday, he’d already memorised the key phrases.
The town that puts ‘Broken Britain’ to shame: he liked that.
He’s an unlikely-looking saviour, the article began, then spoiled it with a snooty put-down of his dress sense before going on to say: but this rough-and-ready bruiser from the wilds of Cornwall could teach us all a lesson about the creation of a safe, family-friendly society.
There was a giddy atmosphere as they pored over the article, reading sections aloud to each other and mildly taking the piss out of the photos. Leon thought they were superb: a nice big portrait of him out on the veranda, and then the photo-op from last week, cropped to show just Leon, some mayor in a dodgy toupee, and the chief constable.
Glenn quoted the caption beneath the portrait. ‘Leon Race: A shining example of the Big Society at work.’
Leon scoffed. ‘Don’t have a clue what that means.’
‘I could explain, but it’s horribly dull and a lot of nonsense,’ Fenton said.
‘Services coming up,’ Bruce announced.
‘Hope you got a pen on you,’ Glenn said.
‘What?’
‘For the autographs.’
‘Ha, ha.’ Leon made a play at leaning into the back and swatting Glenn, but they could all tell he was delighted by the idea.
Joe decided it was a good omen that Leon was away from Trelennan. With any luck he’d sneak over to Bristol for a couple of hours and no one would be any the wiser.
After loading up at the depot in Glastonbury, he studied the delivery route and decided to make the detour from his fourth call of the day, in Trowbridge. He was thrilled by the prospect of regaining his possessions; being able to make plans for the future.
Tonight, when he saw Ellie, he would have to tell her that he was leaving soon. Not without regrets, because there was no denying the attraction he felt towards her. But he was never going to be settling down to a life of domestic bliss in Trelennan, not least because – as Ellie had pointed out – at heart he was still married.
And he wasn’t a delivery driver. He wasn’t a painter and decorator, a hotel porter, a farm worker, or any of the other roles that had sustained him over the past few years.
He was a police officer. A detective. An undercov
er cop. He was a man who had flourished in a world of lies and deception. That was why he had gone to work for Leon Race. That was why he continued to pursue the mystery of Alise’s disappearance. A sucker for lost causes, perhaps.
Because he was a lost cause himself …
His phone buzzed. He was on the A303, doing a steady forty in a line of traffic stuck behind an Eddie Stobart truck. He glanced at the display. An unfamiliar number, from a landline. The area code was 01503. Not Trelennan.
There was a junction coming up, bordered by a wide grass verge. Joe swung the van off the main road and bumped up onto the grass, fumbling with the phone before he lost the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Joe? Is that you?’
The voice was female, but low-pitched, guttural, as though the caller had a bad throat infection. He wouldn’t have identified her, had it not been for the accent.
‘Alise?’
Sixty-Four
SILENCE.
‘Alise?’ he said again. ‘Are you there?’
What he’d taken for the buzz of static was her breathing, close to the mouthpiece.
‘Joe. Will you help me?’
‘Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’ He was trying not to sound exasperated, but a hint of irritation must have shown. She gave a sob.
‘They take my phone. I had your number in my head, but I could not call. I was in hospital until last night.’
‘Hospital? What happened?’
Another sob. ‘It was Leon. Leon tried to kill me.’
The meeting wasn’t until two, but Leon had insisted on an early start. The migraine had receded overnight and he didn’t want to give it any reason to come storming back. That meant a nice steady journey. No stress.
That was the key thing today. The newspaper article had lifted his spirits, and after a greasy, overpriced breakfast he settled back and let the motion of the car lull him into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness.
As they skirted around Reading the rain petered out and the clouds thinned to a pale grey membrane stretched across the sky. Leon roused himself, sat up straight and had a few gulps of water from the bottle that Glenn carried.
Time to focus. Like an actor, Leon had to think himself into the part he was playing. The main thing to remember, he told himself, was that he held the winning hand.
The hotel was set in acres of manicured grounds, complete with its own golf course. It was accessed via a private road, lined with mature trees ablaze with autumn colours. Leon wasn’t normally one for nature, but even he was impressed by the dazzling reds and golds.
The lawns were like the baize on a snooker table. In the distance he spotted little white carts trundling back and forth, golfers in their ridiculous costumes ambling across the greens.
The hotel itself was like a palace from a fairy tale, a sprawling white building with towers and turrets galore. Bruce parked as close to the entrance as he could get. Leon opened his door and stepped down onto the gravel. The air was rich with wood smoke, but what it truly reeked of was money.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Leon took against the place at once.
At Fenton’s suggestion, to save them from rushing back, they’d booked rooms at another hotel nearby. Once the deal was concluded they could retire for a celebratory dinner. The champagne would be waiting on ice when they checked in.
Leon wasn’t fussed either way about that, but he was glad they’d chosen another hotel. He hadn’t even set foot inside this place and already he was eager to get away.
They clustered at the rear of the Range Rover, keyed up, anxious to project the right image. As a concession, Leon had worn jeans and a shirt with a collar. Fenton and Glenn were in suits, while Bruce had gone for cargo pants and a tight muscle vest that advertised his brute strength.
It was one-thirty. Leon rubbed his hands together. His palms were slightly damp. This felt like a job interview, or a court appearance. Something to be endured.
‘Ready?’ he said.
There were nods, a few encouraging murmurs. For a second he thought of getting them all to bump fists or high five, like a sports team before the whistle blew.
But that was all bollocks. It would either go well or it wouldn’t.
‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
Joe had been heading towards Wincanton when Alise called. It turned out she was in Looe, over a hundred miles south-west of him – and in the opposite direction to Bristol. Going to see Alise now would mean abandoning the chance to retrieve his possessions.
He wasn’t conflicted for long. Dreaming up an excuse took even less time. He rang the number he’d been given for Leon’s home. Kestle answered, and Joe gave him a convincing account of a mysterious engine failure.
He claimed to be near Yeovil, in case they sent someone looking for him, and said a local garage was sending a breakdown truck. Kestle started on about one of their guys in Shaftesbury who might be able to help, so Joe pretended the signal was failing. He cut the call and switched his phone off.
The route to Looe was simple enough: a succession of A roads with stretches of dual-carriageway. The downside was that the rain hadn’t let up, and in places the road surface was treacherous. Joe had to find a delicate balance between driving safely for the conditions while also urging the most speed he could get from the tired, noisy van.
It took him nearly two and a half hours, with only a swift toilet break at the Harcombe Cross services. He drove with his full attention on the road, deliberately refusing to let his mind wander; not brooding or speculating on anything.
Descending into the Looe valley, between undulating hills of woodland and fields, he was struck by the contrast with the wild and rugged north coast of Cornwall. The landscapes in the south seemed gentler, more tamed, but in their own way just as beautiful.
Looe consisted of two settlements either side of a river mouth. Despite the dreary weather, Joe’s first sight of the wide tidal estuary took his breath away. Nestled snugly in its valley, the town had the feel of a natural sanctuary from the world; by contrast, Trelennan crouched on its wooded slopes like something lying in wait for the unwary.
He followed the directions he’d been given and parked close to the railway station in East Looe. Then a short walk to the seafront, through a maze of narrow streets filled with gift shops and restaurants.
It was half past one when Joe entered a large, characterless cafe close to the beach. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but what appetite he had vanished the moment he set eyes on Alise.
He had to stop and stare before he was sure it was her. She was in a booth, sitting tight against the wall, her handbag and a menu placed strategically on the edge of the table, as if to shield her from the other patrons. She was wearing a grey roll-neck jumper and a white knitted beret, as well as a comically large pair of sunglasses. Retro style, he guessed.
As Joe approached, she glanced round, smiled weakly and removed the sunglasses. There was nothing comical about what they had concealed.
Her face was a mass of bruises and abrasions. A large swelling around her left eye caused her temple to bulge outwards, the skin black and purple, stretched so tightly that it looked like it was about to burst. There were scabs on her lip and a laceration on her chin that had needed half a dozen stitches: he could see the raw pinpricks where they had recently been removed.
Alise rose to her feet, as frail and unsteady as a woman twice her age. Her hands were scratched and bruised. She embraced Joe, clutched him tightly and thanked him. Joe brushed off her gratitude as unneeded, almost inappropriate.
He wouldn’t say it out loud, but what he thought was quite straightforward, and totally resolute.
Thank me when I’ve dealt with the men who did this to you.
Sixty-Five
LEON HUNG BACK in the hotel lobby, content to let somebody else go to the desk. He felt excluded enough without having the staff looking down their noses at him.
Fenton returned wit
h directions and led them into the depths of the hotel. It was all marble floors and chandeliers and statues; an atrium with a bloody great fountain. Leon tried not to notice because he knew he was supposed to be impressed, and he didn’t want anything in here to impress him.
He found he was clawing at his leg as he walked, literally trying to get a grip on himself. A voice chattering nonsense in his head, like a madman in the corner of the room.
What was wrong with him, for Christ’s sake?
Morton had hired one of the hotel’s conference suites. In similar rooms they glimpsed rows of sad suits, hypnotised by spreadsheets on a whiteboard. Fenton and Glenn were joking about ‘death by PowerPoint’ but Leon growled at them to shut up. It was white noise, and all it did was draw the next migraine a bit closer.
The anteroom outside the Branson Suite was guarded by two men in suits. Not the usual gorillas: they were smaller than Glenn, let alone Bruce, but they had a quiet, purposeful manner that conveyed a lot of menace. Leon could see a slight bulge in their jackets, about where a shoulder holster would be.
He felt his mouth go dry. He turned to gauge what the others made of all this, but no one would meet his eye. Then Fenton was handing him a phone, though Leon hadn’t even heard him take a call. What the hell …
He grabbed the phone, backing away from the guards. ‘Yeah?’
It was Kestle. ‘Thought you should know, boss. I just got a call from Joe. The van’s broke down on him and he can’t make his rounds today.’
‘What?’ Leon must have shouted: everyone was staring at him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Yeovil. Says he’s been on to a garage and he’s waiting for them to come out. I’ve tried ringing back to find out more, but his phone’s off.’
Leon groaned. He didn’t have a single clear thought that made any sense. At the door, Fenton was talking quietly with one of the men. Glenn, listening in, turned to Leon and shrugged a question. As though Leon was a bloody mind-reader.
