Ignore your father! That’s just his way!
Thinking back, Harry realised that this was something Robin had said a lot. He was a police detective; his whole life had been about finding the truth from people who would seek to deflect it. You didn’t just walk through your front door and switch that off. His daughters had often been the subject of his questioning: boyfriends, living status, study — for him it was all about knowing the truth so he could keep them safe. It was because he cared. But neither of his children wanted to be sat down with a light shone in their eyes and questioned about their day-to-day lives. Without Robin, his relationship with both daughters had quickly deteriorated. They were all that he had left and he was more terrified of losing them than he could even comprehend. They pushed back. Harry wasn’t used to that. When their mother died they were both studying at university and they lived away. It was easy enough to cut him off and he didn’t chase them. He didn’t know how.
Today, on a cold park bench and now in a crammed coffee shop he hoped that he could at least make a start — with one of them at least. Mel had finished university early. Officially she was ‘taking a year out’, but that had already run into two and she wasn’t showing any signs of wanting to go back. The university was accommodating: in the circumstances, they had told her that her place was there when she wanted to finish the course. But Harry was no longer sure she wanted to. At first, he was disappointed and angry, but he had quickly come to realise that she was suffering, that she simply wasn’t able to finish her studies right now and that this was his opportunity to show understanding of his daughters’ needs.
‘You speak to your sister?’
‘Of course,’ Melissa snapped, as if it was a stupid question. It was too. There was twenty-two months between them and they had always been close. When they lost their mum, they had become closer still.
‘She okay?’
‘She’s Faye. She’ll always be okay.’
‘Did you tell her you were meeting me today?’
‘Yeah. We got together actually, to sort your birthday. Half each.’ She reached down to her bag and lifted out a small box wrapped in brown paper, impossibly neat with string tied off in a bow. Robin had always loved a traditional wrap; it was just like how she would have done it. She’d always spent a lot of time and effort getting it just right. Melissa pushed the box towards him. He rested his palm gently on the top and ran the rough string between his fingers. He didn’t want to unwrap it.
‘You didn’t need to bother,’ he said.
‘It’s your birthday, Dad. Of course we needed to bother. Open it!’
He felt the string for the last time before pulling it apart. The paper followed. The white box underneath had a picture of a watch on the front.
‘A watch?’ He hoped he had hidden his disappointment. He had a watch. Robin had bought it for him, twenty years or more since. It looked a little worn out but it was simple and functional. It suited him.
‘A smartwatch. It links to your phone, so when we send you a message you’ll get an alert. When me and Faye talked, it was the only thing we could think you needed. It might mean you actually respond to us!’
‘I forget to check it. I’m not a fan of the things.’
‘I know that. This way you only need to check it for the important stuff. Like when me or Faye call or text!’
Harry nodded. He recognised the symbolic nature. At least it showed that they wanted to speak to him. Just a month ago that wouldn’t have been the case. ‘Well, okay then . . .’
‘Just give it a try, okay? The instructions are in there, but it’s easy. I’ve got one, too!’ She pulled up her sleeve to show a sleek-looking black watch. It didn’t look at all simple or functional.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘No problem. But you might need to work on that fake gratitude!’ She chuckled but she eyed him closely.
‘I’ll bear that in mind! I am grateful. You know me and new things. I’m happy that you want to be talking to me though. I’m just happy to see you, that’s enough.’
‘Well, now you have a watch, too.’
Harry sat back. He tried to form words but abandoned the attempt in favour of a swig of his coffee. He couldn’t think how to start. Melissa picked up on it.
‘What’s the matter? It’s okay, you know, if you want to take it back. I won’t take offence.’
‘No! It’s not that at all.’
‘There is something then.’
Harry licked his lips. He put his drink back on the saucer and fixed on the dirty brown liquid that picked up the light as the surface rippled. He had always been fine with breaking news, good or bad. You learned it quick in policing — just get the news out, hard and fast, then deal with the aftermath gentle and slow. Delaying only made it worse. But this was new to him. This was his own family.
‘He’s getting out.’ He had to force the words, but finally they came. It was out in the open. He almost felt a little relief.
‘What? Who?’
‘The man who . . . the man who was driving the car. He’s getting out.’
‘He’s getting out? How can he be getting out? It’s four years — not even four years! He got twelve!’ Her chest was heaving.
‘I know . . .’ Harry hesitated. ‘Good behaviour.’ He knew it was a mistake the second the sentence fell from his lips. He knew how it had made him feel when DCI Julian Lowe had told him. If finding out the man who killed your wife is getting out of prison after just four years was a blow enough to knock you to the floor, the phrase good behaviour could kick any remaining oxygen from your lungs. Melissa couldn’t even repeat it.
‘Good . . .’
‘I know.’
Her chair scraped and she stood up. It was as if her own reaction caught her by surprise and now she didn’t know what to do. She dropped back into her seat, her face flushed. She wiped a hand over her eyes and sniffed.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you at first — I mean it changes nothing. But I thought you’d want to know.’
She jerked a nod and sniffed again. ‘Yeah. I guess we should know. Better that than just bump into him one day, eh?’
‘I guess so. And for all I know it might appear in the media.’
She looked at him intently. ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m delighted. I was told on Friday. My first reaction wasn’t good, but I’ve had some time. Whether he’s in prison or not, it changes nothing. It doesn’t bring your mother back.’
‘Or take her further away.’ Melissa’s voice broke. A thick tear ran down her cheek and she wiped it away. She looked around to check that nobody was watching.
‘No, it doesn’t do that either.’
‘Good behaviour!’ She snorted a laugh. ‘Fuck!’ Her eyes flicked up, they were ringed-red and watery. ‘Sorry . . .’
He waved her away. She could have that one.
‘Will you get to know where he is?’
Harry stalled with a sip of his coffee. ‘They haven’t told me.’
‘But you could find out?’
‘I could.’
‘Are you going to?’
He paused. ‘No.’
‘You had to think about that! I remember what you said when he was sentenced. I can’t have you doing anything stupid, Dad. I can’t lose you too.’
‘Don’t be silly. It was an emotional time.’
‘And now isn’t?’ She wiped a fresh tear.
‘We’ve had some time. Even if I found him, what would I do? He was a junkie. He was the getaway driver for another junkie who was also a petty shoplifter. His life was nothing. He was nothing. So he comes out of jail? He’ll still be nothing. A bottom-feeding scumbag spending every moment trying to get his fix. Not a life any of us would choose. He’s got what he deserves.’
‘Has he?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I can’t worry about him. All I care about is you — you and Faye. We need to make sure we’re alright.’
‘Th
e Blakers against the world, hey?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Those of us that are left.’ She eyed him closely again.
‘I guess so. I suppose what I’m really worried about is that . . . that this might set you back.’
‘Set me back?’ Melissa’s cheeks dimpled when she bit down on her jaw. It was something her father had come to recognise as a warning. ‘You mean what with me self-harming an’ all that?’
Harry raised his palms and bowed his head. He wasn’t here to have a go at her. Not this time.
‘Yes. I know how this has made me feel. I just don’t want . . .’ He ran out of words. He’d practiced this, too. He’d reckoned he knew just about what to say but the words had gone now. All that was left was a lopsided smile and a guttural sound as he tried to find a word that worked.
‘I’m fine, Dad. I told you, I’m getting over it. I haven’t had a down day for a little while now.’
A down day. Harry almost smirked. That was just about the understatement of the century. Harry had seen depression come and go in colleagues, or at least he had seen them come and go from the workplace with it. What he had never seen, what he had never really understood, was just what it was like to be around someone under its dark blanket. To love someone who was so down and listless it was as if death itself was quietly and silently consuming them. Harry could still remember the terror every time he had turned up at her house. He’d had his own key and would let himself in. He’d find her in bed and would take her a cup of tea. Every day for weeks, he’d just prayed that he’d find her still breathing. The self-harming part he had coped with better. But the depression . . . Robin had kept the worst of that from him, but with her gone he was aware of it constantly.
Melissa stood up, smiling. It looked like she was doing her best to be reassuring. It was the sort of smile he should be giving her. Harry leaned back to peer up at her. He couldn’t remember just when the roles had switched in this relationship, when she had become the one protecting him from the harsh realities of the world, buying him watches so she knew he was safe.
‘I need to get back to it. It was nice to see you, Dad.’
Harry rose to his feet and pecked her on the cheek. ‘You too.’
‘We’ll do this again soon. I think Faye will come along. She’s back for Easter.’
‘That would be great.’
‘Okay then. I’ll send you a text.’
Harry lifted the box with his new watch, ‘And I’ll see it straight away.’
Melissa smiled. He watched her leave. He remained standing, stock still among the bustle of the coffee shop, even after she was out of sight.
Chapter 4
Rain had been a feature of the day but it seemed to have come on stronger for the night. The windscreen wipers did their best but the deluge was too much. Oncoming vehicles were just blobs of distorted lights in the film of running water and he held his breath as he turned right, across the fast-moving carriageway and onto the hardstanding that made up the car park for the Ports Café. He was more than a little relieved to feel the terrain change under his wheels as he made it across. The Ports Café was situated between the towns of Langthorne and Ashford and it doubled as a truck stop, providing a place to park and twenty-four-seven services for lorry drivers. It was ideally situated and aptly titled, being just off the M20 motorway and twenty minutes from the main ferry port that linked the UK with mainland Europe. The Channel Tunnel was closer still at just a five-minute drive.
The hardstanding was a large area, but the torrential rain made everything blur together so it looked like almost every inch was covered in dark outlines of HGV’s resting in silent formation. Some had interior lights visible under pulled curtains where their occupants were still up and awake, others lay in darkness. It was late, nearly midnight. He was right on time for his meeting.
His car bounced and lurched over the rutted surface and filthy, black water burst from the potholes when his wheels dropped into them. The terrain was made up of grey grit, but the forty tonne lorries and their slow manoeuvres had churned it up, gouging out holes and scars for the rain to dance in. He found a space of sorts and turned off the engine. The sound of the rain was suddenly louder and, with the wipers stopped, the windscreen had become a slow-moving blur. He pushed up the hood of his top.
As he stepped out, the rain was so hard he could feel the strikes against his head and shoulders despite his layers. The water bounced off the ground all around. He was drenched almost instantly. He locked the car and ran across the hard standing. The rain blew into his face and he could barely see the café entrance. A heater blew searing air at him the second he stepped through the door. He dropped his hood and wiped his feet, taking a moment to scan the interior. He didn’t know who he was looking for. The message had just said that he should order the pancakes with a coffee and he would be found — whatever that meant. He stayed at the door. He could feel his excitement increasing. It was mixed with a little anxiety but overall he felt alive, adventurous. He was about to pass the point of no return. Up to this point, it had been a bit of a game, but once he sat down and uttered his order, things would get a lot more real. It had been hard work getting to this point but it had been worth it. Finally he felt like he was a significant part of the world. He had worth, value; he was part of something — or on the cusp of it at least. He just needed to sit down and make his order.
‘In for a penny . . .’ he muttered aloud.
‘You okay?’ The woman’s voice from behind him made him jump. He turned to see a thirty-something waitress looking him up and down with her hands on her hips. She gave him a smile but it looked a little empty. He thought it might be a pretty smile when she meant it. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I er . . . I just wanted some pancakes . . . and a coffee,’ he blurted out. He had been practicing it in the mirror ever since he had seen the message. It had seemed cooler in his bedroom, more natural. He scolded himself; he needed to be calmer. These people were the real deal. They would see right through him.
‘Okay then. Did you want to find somewhere to sit? You should find somewhere!’ The smile was more of a flicker now as she gestured at the interior of a café that was largely empty. Three tables were occupied by single, male occupants, all of whom looked like lorry drivers. He chose the table furthest away from any of them in the opposite corner to where he had entered. The café had windows on three sides and the counter was to his right. He sat facing the door with the parking area beyond. He had to strain to see through the swathes of rainwater. He was trying to see a car — some movement . . . anything at all.
He jerked to the noise of the door opening. A man in a long, black coat stepped in. He wore it open and a black hood rose out the back and over his head. His pale skin was emphasised by the harsh lighting on a face made reflective by a layer of moisture, and there were bags under his eyes that seemed to almost glow red. He was looking down, shaking his jacket free of loose water. His eyes snatched up suddenly.
The coffee arrived and he was glad of the excuse to look away. The woman seemed to linger on him. He waited for a question. It didn’t come. When she moved away the man in the long, black coat was closer. He took the seat opposite.
‘I’m J-Jack,’ he spluttered. He was caught out, a little panicked, the intensity in the man’s stare making him feel intensely uncomfortable. He stood up to shake hands and cursed himself for the nervous enthusiasm in his voice. He had knocked his coffee, too, enough for it to slop over the sides.
The man ignored his hand. ‘Your name means nothing. We don’t use given names. You will earn your name.’ His voice was a low hiss, his teeth clenched. Jack slowly sunk back into his seat and swallowed. The man glanced around the café and then returned his gaze to Jack. He had a tired-looking face, like someone who hadn’t slept for days, but the eyes that beamed out from it were a bright blue and it was a struggle to break away from them. Up close, Jack could see that the man’s skin was pitted and a
round his mouth was a red rash, as if he might have shaved with a blunt razor. He had a small tattoo on the side of his neck: three curious symbols in a row, maybe four; it was partially hidden by his chin most of the time but Jack could see it all now that the man had his jaw jutted towards him, doing nothing to conceal his disgust. His hood had fallen back a little, enough to reveal red hair that was shaved close and receding in a V shape. His forehead was slick with moisture, and he wiped it away with a hand that was tightly bandaged. Jack saw a flash of red on the palm side, as if it still covered a fresh wound. He tried not to stare.
Jack cleared his throat, which suddenly felt a little dry. It had all been a bit of game to this point, an adventure, something he could stop. This had been the point of no return. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t crossed it.
‘Sorry. I . . . I guess I need to get used to the rules, right?’
The woman returned and pushed the pancakes in front of him. The movement made him jump again. He sat back and thanked her. She moved away without asking his guest if he wanted anything. Jack watched her.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ the man said.
‘Yeah. Well, I think so. I know that I’ll be matched, that though I’ve proved myself with the solo challenges, there are now tasks I have to complete with someone else—’
‘With me.’ The man leaned forward and his eyes seemed to increase in intensity. ‘This is a test. We have tasks to complete. We pass or we fail — together. You understand what I am saying?’
‘I . . . Yeah, I mean, I know that bit. I saw that on the—’
‘I have been failed once. The fact that the cause of the failure was not mine is the only reason I get a second chance. I will not get a third. I will not fail again. Do you understand?’
HE WILL FIND YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 3
