I grabbed my jacket and ran down the spiral stairs, nearly slipping and breaking my neck. Behind me I could hear cries of “Bitch!” I left the front door wide open and ran to my car. Heavy snow had started to fall since I’d been inside Chapel House.
The car wouldn’t start. “Come on, you bugger!” I yelled at it, and on the third attempt the engine spluttered and turned over. I reversed into the track with the rusty gate, threw the wheel round and drove back towards Chapel House.
The farmer, dressed only in shirt and trousers, ran out of front door and straight into the road, only twenty metres ahead. I don’t know how long it took to make the decision — a matter of milliseconds. I pressed down hard on the accelerator. The car shot forward. The man froze, his mouth wide with shock. It took only another split second to cover the ground between us. In my mind I heard him scream, the crunch of bone. The broken body and all the terrible aftermath flashed before me. And inside my head I was yelling serve you right, you animal!
He was only a few metres away when I slammed on the brake. The car skidded wildly on the fresh snow, stopping only a couple of centimetres from impact. He flopped on to the bonnet as if the force that had frozen him to the spot had been switched off.
I reversed at speed, the rear wheels barely making contact with the ground. The man staggered backwards as his support was suddenly removed, revolving his arms like windmill sails to keep his balance. I wound the window down.
“Get out of my fucking way, or this time I won’t stop!”
The satisfaction I got from see him scuttle sideways with a scared look on his face was immense. I roared past him, not giving him another glance.
I screeched through the village and headed for home.
I drove as fast as I could in the worsening conditions. The Triumph didn’t like it, making unhappy grinding noises in protest. I turned the heater on full but all I got was a few chilly blasts. I swore at the car, telling it not to let me down now, or else.
I was shaking, but not entirely with cold. For a while back there I knew how Lara must have felt at the moment she realised her attacker was about to take her life. I never had any real fear the farmer was going to kill me — it was rape he had in mind — but for several long seconds I’d felt robbed of my humanity, my power of choice, and it was terrifying.
The snow was falling fast now. White flakes were performing a frantic dance on my windscreen. I switched the headlights on, but the reflected glare made visibility even worse.
There was something else, something even more disturbing. I understood the enormity of what I had done, or nearly done. Another second and the farmer would have been dead. I tried to find excuses — my snow-encrusted boot had got stuck on the pedal, or I’d got confused between the accelerator and brake. Whatever the cause, it would simply have been an accident. Who could blame me for driving badly after what I’d just been through? The trouble with the accident theory was that, for a millisecond or two, I really had wanted the bastard dead.
It seemed that Norman Foley was right. We all had in us the capacity to kill.
Snow was being blown off the hills and already drifts were building up in the dips and curves of the road. I had to slow down and concentrate. But I was distracted by the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Lara was there with me. I suppose it was the terror we’d both experienced, but I’d never felt so close to her.
Her murderer had hitched a ride too, not in the car but inside my head. For the first time in my life, I felt empathy with a killer.
Twenty-two
About three miles from Ravenbridge the grinding noises in the engine became continuous. I beat the dashboard, urging the car to carry on, promising that if it got me home I’d give it a hot bath, a slap-up supper, caviar and champagne, anything. Just get me there! I silently pleaded.
Shortly after, it jerked to a standstill.
“Shit!”
I got out. The wind cut across the open road like a razor. Cold white feathers fluttered against my face. The heavy pewter sky had lowered itself until it practically touched the hills, making the onset of dusk even earlier than usual. As best I could in the snowstorm, I checked the petrol, the fanbelt and, once the engine had cooled, the water and oil. Then I tried to start the car again. The key turned uselessly in the ignition.
I stood beside the car ready to flag down any passing motorist, but they’d clearly shown more sense than me by staying home. After twenty minutes not a single vehicle had passed in either direction. I was chilled to the bone and doing a fair impression of a snowman.
I got back in the car and slumped in my seat. I had set out to track down a murderer. It would be sadly ironic if I was found dead myself, killed by my own idiocy. What the hell was I going to do now? I needed to hear a friendly voice and someone to tell me I wasn’t a complete idiot.
I fished out my mobile and phoned Matt.
*
“It’s not even snowing here… Hold on.” Matt paused, and by the changing acoustic I knew he was crossing the newsroom to peer through the venetian blinds. “Tell a lie. It’s just started, but it’s only a sprinkle.”
“That’s surprisingly unhelpful information.”
“Do you want me to come and get you?”
“No, the conditions are terrible out here and getting worse all the time. I’ll hijack the next passing car and get a lift back to town. Just talk to me, tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s strange here without you, if that’s what you want to know. Photographic’s in a state of chaos. If you go in there you get shouted at, so I’m staying well clear.”
“Any developments?”
“About the murder case, you mean? Kind of. I’ve been interviewed by Detective Inspector Laverack.”
“What? Why you? You didn’t even know Lara.”
He coughed. “Actually… it was you he was asking me about.”
I was bewildered. “What did you tell him?”
“I tried to keep it tight… you know what the police are like. They twist your words. I knew exactly what he was up to, but when you’re actually being interrogated…”
“For god’s sake, anyone would think you told them I killed Lara.”
“Don’t be daft.” He laughed, and it may have been the poor reception but he sounded nervous. “Nothing like that. But he did kind of get the impression that you didn’t like her.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know. But they kept asking me what you’d said about Lara, and how you felt about Daniel.”
Now I was doubly bewildered. “This is ridiculous. But I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll straighten things out with Laverack when I get back.”
“You did once say you’d kill her if she broke Daniel’s heart.” He sounded sad, apologetic. I realised Laverack had wheedled that little gem out of him and then distorted it to fit his own version of reality.
I exploded. “I didn’t say that! It was something like I’d wring her neck if…” I stopped, appalled by what I’d said. Someone had wrung Lara’s neck. “It’s just a figure of speech. I didn’t mean it in that way.”
“I know. I tried to explain that to him. I’m so sorry, Jude. I didn’t intend to land you in it.”
“It’s not your fault.” I sighed. “I miss you.”
“Ditto.” His voice dropped. “Especially after what happened yesterday. Every time I go anywhere near the lift I start feeling randy.”
“I’ll be back soon and maybe…?”
“Sure. What were you doing out in the wilds anyway?”
“I went up to Chapel House in Gunnerston. It’s where Lara took her boyfriends, I’m certain of it.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I’m finding out a lot of stuff, Matt. I’m getting close, I’m sure of it. I’ll tell you when I see you.” A fluttery bleep on my mobile warned me that the battery was low. “I’ll have to switch off. If nothing comes by in the next half hour I’m going to start walking.”
“Don’t do that
, Jude. You know what they say, stay with your car and await rescue. Tell you what, I’ll ring a garage for you. It’s nearly dark. You shouldn’t be out there on your own.”
“OK. Try Raven Motors, the garage on Silver Street. They’ve got a big recovery vehicle.”
“No problem. We’ll soon have you back in civilisation.”
*
It was a good half hour before I saw the welcome sight of headlights. A rescue truck with a powerful winch, giant tyres that gripped in snow and a friendly mechanic.
“You were easy to spot,” he said, looking appreciatively at my bright red Triumph, the shark’s teeth glowing in the lorry’s headlights. He lowered the ramp, attached the car to a steel hawse and winched it on to the back of the vehicle with practised speed, clamping the wheels securely. Then we both climbed into the warm cab and set off for Ravenbridge.
The sprinkle of snow that Matt had mentioned had turned into a downy quilt, giving the town a quiet abandoned atmosphere. It was still snowing gently. A gritter lorry hurried past, heading for the ring road.
When we arrived at Raven Motors, my rescuer jumped out and detached the Triumph, guiding it into a service bay with the help of another mechanic.
“We’re pretty busy, love, so we won’t be able to fix it today.”
“No worries.” I gave him my phone number and he promised to try and get it up and running by tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ve never worked on an antique before,” he smiled. “I’ll use kid gloves, promise.”
“No need. It’s old but it’s tough. Just beat it into submission.”
It was dark when I walked out of the garage but there was enough light streaming out from the barn-like door to see the white car parked crookedly on the verge. I ran back inside.
“Who does the white Polo belong to?”
The mechanic emerged from under a bonnet lid, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “Why do you want to know?”
“Is it Lara Ramsey’s? The girl who was killed?”
“As it happens, yeah.”
“When did she bring it in? What’s wrong with it? Do the police know it’s here?”
“Whoa there, love. What’s your problem? Course I rang the police when I heard what had happened.”
“Have they looked at it?”
“Not yet. They said they would when they have time. They asked me to hang on to it for a while.”
“You keep a diary?” I asked, moving across to the beaten-up wooden desk.
“Course I do.” He grabbed it before I could, and pointed to one of the entries. “It came in late on Saturday December 30th. That’s why the police weren’t that interested. It was several days before she was killed. Just a regular repair job, nothing to do with the murder.”
“How can you be so sure?” I strode up and down the concrete floor. “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”
“Starter motor, most probably. That girl — Lara — she had it parked just around the corner from here while she was at work, and when she came to collect it, it wouldn’t start. I remember a couple of us pushed it here. She was a lovely-looking girl.” He shook his head sadly. “Who could do something like that?”
“Have you fixed it?”
“Well, no. What with the holidays, then when they found her dead — there didn’t seem any point.”
“Can you take a look at it now?”
His laughter wasn’t encouraging. But I was used to being discouraged.
“I’m a friend of Lara’s.”
“Bloody hell… sorry.”
I strode purposefully towards the door.
He sighed. “I’ll get the keys.”
“You’ll need a torch as well.”
“It’s usually the starter motor,” he told me as we walked towards the car. The bonnet opened with a struggle. “It’s been standing idle for days in this weather, see.” Once he’d cranked it into position he began examining the engine. “Could be the battery of course. Hold on…” He fiddled in the depths of the machinery, shining the torch beam on one spot in particular. “There’s a loose connection… yeah, looks like the solenoid wire.”
“Is that important?”
“When you switch on the ignition, the solenoid wire connects the battery to the starter motor, and that’s what gets the car up and running.”
“Just a normal breakdown, then?”
“Maybe… hold on, what’s this?” He shone the torch on the coil of wire. “See that? It’s been cut.”
*
I rang home as I walked through town. No answer. Daniel must be out. I tried his mobile. A continuous bleep, then silence. He’d forgotten to recharge the battery. I stood in the market square, dithering. I thought of going straight to the police but the mechanic had promised me he’d ring them himself. I looked at my watch under a streetlight. Twenty past five. I was tired and hungry, but the thought of returning to an empty house was far from appealing. With what was left of my battery I called Matt.
“Are you still in the newsroom?”
“I’ve just got home. It is Friday night. I’ve been working like a dog all week. I need a break.”
Music to my ears.
I explained about my car and the garage and the empty house. I didn’t mention I felt bloody miserable and lonely, but he picked up on the subtext.
“Why don’t you come over? Where are you? Shall I come and collect you?”
The snow had stopped but the roads were thick with churned slush that was rapidly turning to ice.
“No way. I’ll walk.”
“Good. That’ll give me time to go round with a duster.”
“You own a duster?”
“No, but I could improvise with a pair of dirty underpants.”
I laughed, feeling better already. “Can you give me directions to your place?”
“Sure, It’s Number 1, Raven Walk.” He outlined the quickest route.
“Got it. See you in ten minutes.”
*
We sat on a low squashy sofa and drank red wine, a full-bodied Shiraz that seemed to nourish and restore me as effectively as a three-course meal. Relaxing for the first time in what felt like years, I squirmed down into the sofa and told Matt about being pushed in the river and the dead ferret and the drunken farmer who tried to rape me.
“Christ almighty, Jude, that’s terrible! You were lucky to come out of the river alive. And the farmer — what were you playing at? You can’t go on with this amateur sleuth thing. It’s too dangerous.”
“You sound like Daniel.”
“He’s got the right idea, then.” He leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips. “What you need is some TLC, and I’m your man. Let’s have a bath together. Then I’ll give you a massage. I’m pretty good at it. I’ve got some great perfumed oil, and I know just where to stroke you, how hard and how soft…” His tongue brushed my neck. “Then we’ll get into bed and make love, very, very slowly.”
I didn’t answer. He began to undress me, tossing garments aside as if he was unwrapping a Christmas present, kissing and licking and biting each new bit of exposed flesh till my guts melted, and my blood turned to thick syrup. I pulled him up from the sofa. “Where’s the bathroom?” I demanded.
It was a tight squeeze, but after a lot of hysterical giggling we found the best way was to sit like spoons, me lying back against Matt in the deep hot soapy water. When we were lobster-red and wrinkled like prunes we got out and dried each other. Matt patted my cuts and bruises tenderly. Then we went into the living room and lay on the rug. Outside I could hear the sound of the river flowing over one of the weirs. Here it was a soothing sound, not a terrifying one. I rolled on to my belly and Matt massaged oil into my back.
“Nice tattoo.”
“Does it look like a leopard to you?”
“Of course not. It’s a tiger.”
I turned over and let him massage the rest of me. He played tease for what seemed like hours. When it got too much, I grabbed the bottle and ordered him to lie dow
n and did the same to him until we were both crying out for release.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it to the bedroom, do you?” I whispered.
Matt answered with a groan.
Afterwards he switched all the lamps out. “I like talking in the dark,” he said. “There are no barriers, no distractions coming between my mind and yours. We can be totally honest with each other.”
“Talk? I haven’t got a single active brain cell in my head right now.”
We lay on the floor for a long time, holding each other. I closed my eyes and let the sound of water flow through my head, cleansing it. Sometimes it was delicious not to think.
“I like it here,” I murmured.
“Me too. I was really lucky to get this place.”
“You haven’t got anything to eat, have you?”
“What do you like?”
“Something instant — fruit, nuts, crisps, anything like that.”
“No nuts, I’m afraid. I’ve got this allergy. There might be a manky banana or two.”
He got up and I heard him rooting about in the kitchen. He came back with a crinkly bag of sweets. “No bananas, in fact the cupboard’s pretty much bare. But I’m never without these.” He pulled the bag apart. “Chocolate raisins. I love them.” He opened another bottle of wine and passed me a brimming glass. We drank and munched until the bag was empty.
“Tell me about Daniel’s father.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to know about you. And I imagine having a child so young was a defining experience.”
“Yes, it was. I was only eighteen when I got pregnant, nineteen when the baby was born. But Daniel’s father… I don’t think about him much.”
“What was he like?”
“He was a bit older than me. Tall, dark and bloody good-looking. You get the picture.”
“How did you meet?”
I sighed. I hadn’t gone over this in a long time. It hurt too much. But Matt seemed genuinely interested and I owed him a lot for what he’d done for me today. And there was something liberating about the warm darkness and being naked in more senses than one.
If It Bleeds Page 20
