Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied, ‘from KT Engineering Systems.’

  ‘Of course,’ Carson said, trying to affect embarrassment. ‘This is a little awkward,’ he said, ‘but may I check your invitation? We’ve had a few problems.’

  ‘Sure ...’ Flustered, the man pulled a neatly folded card from his back pocket. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Carson smiled wearily. ‘Miscommunication,’ he said. ‘Please wait here; I won’t be a moment.’

  Carson hurried away with the air of a harried junior official, and approached the gate. He handed a young hostess the man’s ticket.

  ‘Right through the doors into the waiting area,’ she said. ‘The presentation will begin in just a moment.’

  Carson glanced into the reception area of the pavilion. It was a small holding pen, with two sets of double doors, which led into the theatre. ‘I think I’ll look around first,’ he said.

  ‘You haven’t much time,’ she warned.

  He shrugged and moved towards the display of heavy armaments. Glancing over the barricade, he made eye contact with the troubled-looking man whose ticket he had stolen, and held up a finger: one more minute, just sorting things out ...

  He knew that the staff entrance was around back. Weaving through the displays of missiles, jets and an enormous mock-up of an aerial reconnaissance craft, he slipped towards the back entrance. It was propped open for ventilation.

  He stepped in and found himself in a short, narrow hallway. The walls had been painted with vertiginous maroon-and-white stripes.

  To his left, Carson heard the muffled strains of Wagner competing with the murmuring of a waiting crowd. Suddenly, the music cut out, the voices dimmed to a murmur, and the soundtrack of a corporate PR film began. Carson dashed up the hallway until he came to a door. He could hear the sounds of the film behind it.

  For a moment, his hand wavered at the handle. The summer had been so unreal, such a flurry of reaction that, after he had determined his incredible course, he had seldom questioned himself. Now his legs were rubbery, and he felt like a frightened child. There was still time to turn and leave. To do anything else would certainly mean capture – at the very least.

  He blanked all thoughts from his mind, steeled himself, and opened the door.

  ‘Rhoddo?’ Sara said, still gasping for breath. ‘Why would he be after Rhoddo?’

  Ceri had managed to shuffle her from the kitchen to the living room, and had placed her in the corner chair. Eldon’s chair. ‘We just don’t know what he’s trying to achieve,’ she said, ‘but he doesn’t stand a chance. The Met’s been in touch with the Hampshire police, and they’re going to get Rhodri out of there. We’ve also sent them the CD Fit of the suspect. He won’t even make it onto the grounds.’

  Ceri looked into Sara’s worried eyes and smiled reassuringly. ‘You have to admit, an international trade show for the defence industry is a stupid place to try an assassination.’

  ‘Where’s Jamie?’ Sara asked abruptly.

  ‘The station,’ Ceri whispered soothingly. ‘He’ll be here as soon as he can.’

  Sara stood. ‘I’ve got to call him.’ she said.

  ‘Who? Jamie?’

  ‘No! Rhoddo.’

  Ceri smiled indulgently. ‘He’s being well protected, Sara. He’s got every police officer in Hampshire looking after him.’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to him,’ Sara cried, leaping from the chair and dashing to the kitchen for her phone. She swiped the screen furiously, and stabbed at Rhodri’s name.

  From the next room, Ceri listened wordlessly as Sara uttered a savage oath. ‘Voicemail,’ Sara snapped. ‘What is the point of having a mobile if you didn’t leave it on?’

  She looked at the clock: Rhoddo had turned off his phone because he was already making his presentation. Desperate to know what was happening, she closed her eyes and stretched her mind, reached out ... and a warm fog began to descend over her. Sara was hit by a wall of confusion – interference like a radio band pulling in too many signals at once. Yet, she sensed that Eldon was in there, somewhere – a vague impression. She could read fear, single-mindedness, grim determination ... and danger. Hopeless, unavoidable danger. But for who, Rhodri or Eldon?

  Sara’s head grew heavy and fell forward.

  ‘Sara!’ Ceri cried.

  Sara jerked herself awake and cursed. Ceri was at her side, arms around her. ‘Come and sit down,’ she whispered.

  Tears began to well in Sara’s eyes. Danger. She could sense no more than danger. And she was helpless to do anything about it.

  Carson found himself backstage. A large white screen separated the space from the small stage, and, beyond it, the audience. Carson could see the reverse image of the video projection on the screen; it threw colours against the plasterboard wall at the back of the room. He smelled the sweet chalk of special-effects smoke, which welled from machines as the video reached its triumphalist conclusion. The smoke began to spill backstage, and Carson could see it welling at the bottom edge of the screen, around the legs of two silhouetted figures hunched at its side in stiff anticipation.

  One of them was Rhodri Jones.

  Carson started to breathe heavily, and groped for the knife in his boot.

  ‘Sir?’ said a voice in an insistent stage-whisper. ‘You’re not supposed to be back here.’

  Carson saw a uniformed Thorndike employee bustling towards him. Over the loudspeaker, he heard the dramatic opening strains of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.

  She placed a hand on his elbow. ‘Let’s go into the hall.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Rhoddo’s,’ he said, motioning to Rhodri. ‘He said I should wait for him.’

  The smoke drifted in wispy tendrils and a pre-taped announcer’s voice boomed through the hall: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Chief Executive of Thorndike Aerospace, Mr Rhodri Jones.’

  The crowd applauded dutifully.

  Carson looked up sharply to see Rhodri disappear around the screen. Carson flung the woman’s arm back and she stumbled. He reached into his boot and withdrew his knife. At the side of the screen, Andrew Turner turned in surprise. Carson dashed towards the stage, knocking Turner and leaping into the thick fog.

  Carson heard Rhodri’s amplified voice sound through the hall as he leapt from the smoke onto the platform. The lights made spots well before his eyes. He located Rhodri gripping a lectern at the far side of the stage. Suddenly, two sets of doors at the back of the hall burst open, and a string of armed police officers charged down the stairs towards him.

  Rhodri’s voice faltered in confusion. Nervously, he adjusted his microphone. Feedback wailed as Carson leapt for him, and in a single movement clutched him to his chest, pressing his knife to Rhodri’s throat.

  The herd of police stopped, and jerked their weapons towards the pair. People in the crowd shrieked and tried to scatter. ‘I’ll cut his throat,’ Carson screamed. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

  ‘Just relax, son,’ Rhodri muttered in a steady and remarkably calm voice. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  ‘Have you heard from Glyn Thomas lately?’ Carson muttered under his breath.

  Rhodri’s facade of composure broke. ‘What?’ he gasped.

  ‘Drop the knife!’ an officer bellowed. ‘There’s no way to get out of this.’

  ‘Glyn Thomas, remember?’ Carson said. ‘Your old friend.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Rhodri whispered.

  ‘Look at me,’ Carson said, and eased the knife’s pressure on Rhodri’s throat. Rhodri eased his head around slowly, straining to see his assailant. His brow furrowed, then recognition flashed in his eyes. ‘You!’ he said. ‘You were at my sister’s house. You were ... who are you?’

  Carson smiled sardonically. ‘I’m your just desserts,’ he said, and jerked his knife upwards to Rhodri’s throat.

  Rhodri took advantage of the looser grip to throw himself backwards; his assailant had barely sliced into his flesh before the snipers responded to the gap Rho
dri had made.

  The first of many bullets shattered Carson’s ribcage, and he was blown backwards towards the white screen, now marred by bullet holes and spattered points of blood.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jamie Harding strode through Sara’s kitchen; she had leapt off the love-seat before he had made it to the living room.

  ‘Jamie!’ she cried, dashing towards him.

  He caught her in his arms; she was gasping for breath, her muscles twitching from tension. ‘Where is he?’ Sara wailed. ‘What’s happened?’

  Jamie squeezed her tightly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just heard Rhodri is fine.’

  Sara registered this fact with relief, but realised she had not meant her brother.

  ‘The killer,’ she blurted. ‘Was he ...?’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Jamie held a finger near her lips.

  She felt herself go limp in his arms and began to sob. ‘He didn’t show?’ she asked with desperate hope.

  ‘Oh, he was there, all right,’ Jamie said. ‘Our message was almost too late. The MoD police couldn’t prevent Rhodri from taking the stage.’

  He looked into Sara’s anguished face and realised she was in no condition to hear the details. ‘I’m not sure what happened,’ he lied, ‘but they stopped him.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried. ‘The killer!’

  ‘The Armed Response Unit got him.’

  Sara released low groan. Oh my God, she thought. ‘You mean he’s ...?’

  Jamie squeezed her even tighter. ‘That’s right,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘It’s all over now.’

  Sara tossed her head back and released a loud wail. The bright Indian-summer sun glared through the window into her eyes and she clenched them, causing stars to sparkle. Her head swooned, and she felt herself falling, falling against Jamie’s chest, into blackness.

  ‘You shouldn’t be alone this evening,’ Ceri said, as she bustled about Sara’s living room, straightening things she had already straightened. It was two hours after Sara had come round from her blackout. Jamie and Ceri had both stayed with her, bringing her tea, trying to get her to eat, and making countless telephone calls to determine what had happened at the Hampshire air base. Rhodri, they had learned, had been treated for a flesh wound by an on-site doctor, and had refused to go to the hospital. He had spent time with the police, giving them a statement, and then demanded a Thorndike town car to take him home.

  ‘I could stay,’ Jamie offered, too quickly. After a second’s hesitation, he added, ‘That is, if you want me to.’

  Sara took a sip of tea and shuddered. Ceri had turned on the heating, even though the early-September afternoon was warm. The room smelt of hot dust. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but no.’

  Jamie gave her a parental look that asked, Are you sure that’s wise?

  At the same moment, Ceri frowned and said, ‘I think you’re in shock.’

  ‘I really want to be alone,’ Sara insisted to Jamie, then smiled bleakly at Ceri. ‘And who’s the doctor here?’ she asked.

  ‘You should have company,’ said Ceri.

  ‘I should have a hot bath,’ Sara replied. ‘Then I’ll ring Rhoddo. I really don’t want you breathing down my neck when I talk to him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jamie said, taken aback.

  ‘Right,’ Ceri added sympathetically. ‘Of course. We’ll leave now – and then I’ll look in on you later.’

  ‘If you do,’ Sara said, ‘I won’t answer. I’d really like to be alone.’

  Ceri opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

  Sara stood, and kissed both friends on the cheek. ‘Thank you for looking after me,’ she said with finality, ‘but I’ll ring if I need you.’

  Jamie and Ceri left with muttered admonitions to take care of herself. Sara assured them that she would, and watched their cars move in a slow convoy down the potholed track.

  When they were gone, she picked up her purse and grabbed her car keys.

  Sara drove south through the Brecon Beacons. This mountain route was fussier than the coastal road, but never as busy – and far less likely to maroon her behind a slow-moving farm vehicle. Getting out of Wales was never easy.

  Traffic on the M4 was flowing well that evening; Sara made good time, pushing her BMW well beyond the speed limit and trying to feel for the presence of police with her mind. As she passed just south of Reading, the sunset was turning the sky crimson. It reminded her of blood, and – not for the first time this evening – images of what Eldon’s body must look like now flooded through Sara’s mind like nausea. She thought about how easy it would be to veer onto one of the A roads and head towards Weatherby, where Eldon lay.

  And then what? Ask to visit his corpse?

  It was not until Sara got past the M25, just before 10 p.m., that her journey slowed to a crawl. Getting into London was as hard as getting out of Mid Wales. By the time Sara was edging along the Hammersmith Flyover, she had more or less banished all of her imagined images of Eldon’s bloody body on a mortuary slab. And yet, she admitted to herself, she was not driving to Rhoddo’s house out of concern for her brother’s well-being – doctors had already said he was fine – but simply to find out everything she could about Eldon Carson. After all, Rhoddo knew how he had died, as well as what he had said before he’d died. He might even know why Eldon had targeted him in the first place.

  God knew, Sara couldn’t intuit any of the answers, no matter how hard she had tried on her journey.

  She was, she told herself, a pathetic psychic.

  Certainly, her psychic powers had not allowed her to foresee the van that was ahead of her on the Marylebone Road. Sara remained unaware of its presence until the very moment she slammed into its rear bumper. The left front side of her car crumpled, and she felt the airbag slam against her like a wrecking ball.

  Sara cried out and struggled from the car. Looking at the vehicle she had hit, she was at first relieved to see that she had only damaged the bumper. Then her heart sank when she noticed she’d hit a white van. Every middle class prejudice Sara held about men in white vans kicked in, and told her that she was in for a time-consuming fleecing.

  She stared at the driver’s door, which glowed orange under the streetlamps, and waited for him to emerge. Cars honked and swerved around her.

  Sara felt a momentary flutter of hope when a middle-aged woman climbed down from the cabin. The woman looked nice enough, with her neatly-ponytailed hair and her pretty knit jumper. Then she spoke.

  ‘What the fuck?’ White Van Woman shouted.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Sara hollered over the din of the street; they stood in the left-hand lane as traffic funnelled around them. ‘I simply didn’t see you.’

  ‘No shit,’ the woman said. She looked Sara over, then squinted at her crumpled BMW. She made a calculation, and suddenly her hand shot to her neck. ‘Bloody hell, I think I’ve got whiplash!’

  Sara groaned: oh, please don’t. The woman tried to gauge her reaction to this performance.

  Sara raised her voice: ‘Are you really going to do this?’

  ‘I’m injured,’ the woman insisted.

  Placing her hand gently on the woman’s arm, Sara guided her across the bus lane to the pavement alongside Baker Street Station. She leaned in close to the woman’s ear. ‘I don’t have time for you to have whiplash,’ she explained. ‘I need to be somewhere.’

  White Van Woman blinked incredulously and gestured to their vehicles. It was going to take quite some time to sort out this mess, regardless of personal injury claims.

  But Sara had been telling the truth; she did not have the time to do this. ‘Do you have an Uber app on your phone?’ Sara asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘An Uber app.’

  ‘Er – yeah.’

  ‘Then here’s what we’re going to do,’ Sara said. ‘You’re going to find me an Uber – I need to get to Islington.’

  The woman began to object. Sara silenced her with a raise
d finger. ‘While you do that,’ she continued, ‘I’m going to fetch the title to my car and sign it. When the Uber gets here, I will give you the title, and leave.’

  The woman shook her head, as if she didn’t understand.

  ‘You will own my car – but you will have to get it off this street. Do we have a deal?’

  White Van Woman squinted at Sara suspiciously. Even second-hand, the BMW was worth more than ten grand, and the woman was trying to guess the nature of whatever con Sara might be running.

  ‘You’re going to give me your car?’ she asked.

  Sara moved back onto the road, wrenched open the passenger’s door and removed the title, as well as a pen and her purse, from the glove compartment. ‘Here is the title,’ she said, returning to the pavement. Opening her purse, Sara rifled through the cash. ‘And here is two hundred and forty pounds. That’s all I have, but it should cover the towing. You can pay for the repairs yourself.’

  Sara heard a police siren in the distance and wondered if it was heading towards them.

  ‘One more thing,’ she added. ‘When I leave here, our business will be done. You can tell the police whatever you like, and if they ring me, I’ll back you up ... but you will not claim to have whiplash.’

  The woman pondered, and her suspicion eased in the face of this bizarre good fortune. She shrugged and said, ‘Go on, then – fill out the title.’

  Producing her phone, she added, ‘You’re going to Islington, right?’

  The Uber took Sara to the pavement in front of Rhodri’s house. She stabbed the buzzer and rapped her knuckles on the black, high-gloss wood.

  There was no answer.

  She tried again; Rhodri did not respond. Sara frowned, tried to stretch her mind through the wooden door, through the cold, empty halls ... she was certain he was home, more certain than she had ever been about anything in her life.

  She glanced up at the bedroom window. ‘Rhoddo!’ she called.

  After another moment’s hesitation, Sara dug in her handbag for her cluster of secondary keys, and isolated the three necessary to enter her brother’s house. Inside, the foyer was cool. Rhoddo’s burglar alarm did not trill. All Sara could hear was the strong, precise clacking of the grandfather clock, and the wild thudding of her own heart.