Over Your Shoulder

by C J Carver

  ‘I still can’t believe he got an office job.’ I could feel my mouth twist wryly.

  ‘I didn’t think he could either.’ Her brow cleared. ‘He showed us photographs of boats and trips he’d done. He was a bit of a risk-taker, wasn’t he?’

  Now, I wondered if he’d taken a risk at work that had backfired for some reason.

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’ I asked Clara.

  ‘Enemies?’ She looked incredulous for a moment, but then gave my question serious consideration. Eventually she shook her head. ‘Do you know, Nick, I can’t really remember. Honey was a toddler and into everything, and Finn five years old – you couldn’t keep him still. I was permanently knackered and all I cared about was when he could come home and take Finn off me.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry. It makes me sound really awful, doesn’t it, but it’s true.’

  I racked my brains, trying to think back to what Rob had said about his work, but I couldn’t recall any details. All I could remember was his gloating about delivering fabulous boats around the world, usually twelve-metre-plus sailing boats with all the bangs and whistles. He’d delivered boats from Alicante to Auckland, New York to Martinique, all expenses paid and flights thrown in. He’d helped sail a super yacht to the Mediterranean once, a monster vessel with a swimming pool and helipad.

  ‘The men who visited just before he vanished… were they from the yachting world maybe?’

  She frowned. ‘I couldn’t say. They weren’t wearing oilskins and sailing wellies if that’s what you mean. Do you think they had something to do with his disappearance?’

  ‘No idea. But I’d like to talk to them since they could be some of the last people to see him. Were they English?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very much so.’ She was still frowning, trying to remember. ‘They all drank tea and sat around, waiting. They weren’t in any hurry or anything. No stress. I just kept on with what I was doing, I can’t remember what. Making more mini shepherd’s pies probably.’

  For some reason, their quiet patience gave me the creeps.

  Chapter 9

  I looked outside, at a robin sitting on a branch, its feathers puffed out and turning it into a brown and red ball. ‘How were you doing for money then?’ I asked.

  She opened her mouth to answer, but then paused. ‘Do you know, I was going to say crap, but actually we were doing pretty well when he… I was going to say died. Jesus Christ.’ She pressed her fingers against her eyes. ‘I can still barely believe he’s alive. What the hell, Nick… When he went, it was the end of my world. It was like having my emotions stripped out of me, my veins filled with cement. Nothing meant anything. I had to drag myself out of bed. Sometimes I couldn’t even get up. I just wanted to disappear. But Finn wouldn’t let me. Nor would your mum and dad.’

  I’d forgotten how grief had prostrated Clara, laid her flat. How she’d stopped eating and turned into a ghost almost overnight. How we’d all stopped smiling. How sorrow had strangled my usual good nature and joy of life. How every day seemed grey, even when the sun was shining.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for the kids I don’t think I could have gone on. It was awful, trying to move past the pain. Trying to forget. Trying not to miss him every day.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers. ‘How could he, Nick? He lied to me. How could he put me through such a terrible thing?’

  I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘That’s what I want to find out. Can we talk a bit more about his work? Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She brought out a tissue and blew her nose. ‘But I’m not sure if I can tell you anything new. All he cared about was paying for his sailing habit. You know how obsessed he was, how much the water meant to him.’

  ‘But it doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘The amount of times I made spag bol, I can’t tell you.’

  Cheap food, but in the hands of a decent cook like Clara, delicious and nutritious.

  ‘But yes, things had changed,’ she added. ‘We could afford things we couldn’t before. Like the occasional babysitter. Being up to date with the mortgage – that was such a relief I can’t tell you – and he started bringing takeaways home. Really nice ones, not rubbishy pizzas or anything. One time he came back with a bag from Harrods Food Hall. My God, it cost a fortune but it was as good as any restaurant. Beef Wellington, stuff like that.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was looking past me, at the memories in her mind. ‘For the first time, I really thought we were on the up. He talked about getting a bigger house. Buying a boat of his own, a cruiser we could all sleep on, maybe sail to France and Spain, and keep the skiff for the kids.’

  ‘What was the last big sailing job he did?’ I asked. I didn’t think it relevant, but you never knew.

  She put her head on one side. ‘Do you know, I wish I could remember but I haven’t a clue. You’d be better off asking Etienne. You know how they were thick as thieves.’

  Etienne was French, the same age as Rob, and Finn’s godfather. Etienne and Rob had met crewing a boat from Gibraltar to the Canaries. I remembered the trip because I’d been green with envy that while he was sailing into the tropics, having an adventure, I was slaving away at my graphic design degree. I also remembered Mum telling me to stop being so grouchy about it. She’d been quite snippy, saying I could be doing the same thing if I wanted, but deep down I knew that lifestyle wasn’t for me. I loved sailing, but I wasn’t a wanderer. I liked my life more ordered, more secure.

  ‘Do you have a contact number for Etienne?’ I asked.

  As she went and fetched her phone, I realised darkness had fallen, which meant it was after 5pm and I hadn’t done any shopping for supper yet. I’d grab something from the Co-op on my way back. I checked my phone to find a message from Susie.

  Hope you’re ok. Am on earlier train, bringing a bit of Arabia with me.

  I smiled. No need for me to go to the Co-op after all. She was bringing a takeaway home, much as Rob had done for Clara all those years earlier. I texted her back.

  Now I know why I love you. I’m at Clara’s, home at 6. Any baklava, perchance?

  Of course. x

  I stuck another log on the wood burner then checked my emails. I heard a door close somewhere and glanced up, expecting Clara, but all was quiet. My phone pinged, alerting me to an incoming email and I answered one from Ronja about HAPS and another from a toy shop client before I realised how much time had passed.

  ‘Clara?’ I called. ‘It’s time for me to make a move.’

  I rose, put my phone in my pocket. Walked into the corridor. Although I could see a crack of light coming from the sitting room, it was dark, and as I reached for the light switch above the hall table, I saw a shape moving towards me, not slowing, and before I could raise my hands it had grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the wall with such force that I heard the crack echo down the corridor and my vision exploded into stars.

  I couldn’t help it – my legs collapsed. I thought he hit me again but I wasn’t sure because a roaring started in my head and grew louder and louder until it seemed as though I was falling head first into a tunnel filled with the roaring of a million trains.

  Chapter 10

  Susie put away her phone, relieved Nick seemed okay. She could always tell his mood by his appetite, which was prodigious. She’d never known him to go off his food except when he had flu, and the only other time had been when his father had been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack. The fact he’d mentioned baklava in his text – he loved the syrup-drenched pastries – meant he was coping pretty well.

  She alighted from the train, briefcase in one hand, a vivid yellow Selfridges Food bag in the other. Her neighbour in the train had spent a full five minutes studying her, obviously trying to work out what she did ever since he’d taken in her Prada reading glasses and burgundy leather briefcase with her initials embedded in silver just below Aspinal of London. He’d surreptitiously trie
d to read her laptop screen, but since she never worked on anything sensitive in public all he gleaned was that she might be a lawyer, or a high-powered exec of some sort, which suited her fine.

  Susie liked being looked at. But only on her own terms. She could vanish in a street in a second, slip on a wig and a pair of trainers and turn into the plainest of plain Janes where nobody gave her a second’s glance, so she revelled in the attention when it came.

  She loved labels, showing off her wealth, her power. Thanks to Victor – she still struggled with calling him Daddy, she was an adult for Chrissakes – she had a generous trust fund which gave her an annual income a family of four could live off comfortably. Rob was utterly unaware of this. He knew she came from money – how could he not, when she had a wardrobe full of designer clothes and an apartment worth over two million pounds – but he didn’t know how much money.

  She’d considered telling him, even offering to sub him so he didn’t have to keep working with the dreadful Ronja, but Susie was smarter than that because although some men would have jumped at such a chance, Nick wasn’t one of them. He might think he’d like being a kept man – he joked about it from time to time – but deep down she knew he’d hate it. Nick was a traditional sort who wanted to be able to provide and protect his family, not become some kind of lapdog to his wife.

  So Susie kept her wealth quiet and everything trickled along just fine.

  Beeping open her car – a nice anonymous Audi but with a beefed-up turbocharged petrol engine and fortified wheels – she put the shopping in the footwell, her briefcase behind the driver’s seat. Then she climbed inside, brushing droplets of rain that clung to her shoulders and hair.

  She switched on the wipers, then flicked the heater to demist, and pulled out of the car park, checking her rear-view mirror and side mirrors, the pedestrians, the people on the opposite side of the road waiting for a bus – always checking her surroundings, always vigilant, always alert. It wasn’t a conscious thing, her preternatural awareness. It had simply grown like a soft carapace over the years and most of the time she didn’t even know she was conducting light surveillance.

  Luckily, Nick had never noticed, although on one of their early dates he’d baulked at sitting in the back row of the cinema, her preferred spot because she had a clear view of everything and everyone, with easy access to the door.

  The cottage was dark when she arrived. Although Nick was usually prompt about timings, he’d obviously got caught up with Clara. Not surprising given the shock of Rob’s arrival into their lives. She still found it hard to believe, and had run and rerun the news clip dozens of times at work, but each time she looked into Rob’s eyes, she felt a punch in her gut that told her again and again that against all the odds, it was him.

  Susie let herself into the cottage, already warm thanks to the central heating, timed to kick in at five thirty in readiness for Rob’s homecoming after work. Kicking off her shoes, she padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. She felt like she needed it. Looking for Nick’s brother on top of her current workload wasn’t the best of situations, but she had to admit that it wasn’t unusual to have an extra case file shoved on her desk.

  Where was Rob?

  She let her mind continue to chew over this question as she sipped her wine and unpacked the Selfridges bag. There had been nothing after that first sighting. Not a whiff of him on any CCTV cameras, and nothing on the ground. He’d vanished like a pro and when she got her hands on him, she’d kill him very slowly for putting her and the team, as well as Nick and his family, through this.

  Where was he? Which hole had he crawled back into? Or had he decided to do something else? Like plan his resurrection? Nick’s family wouldn’t just kill the fatted calf when he returned, but the whole damned herd. They’d be eating meat for years, oblivious of the prodigal son’s infamous stupidity.

  She leaned against the worktop, sipping her wine and wondering where Rob would be sleeping that night – whether he was sleeping rough, or tucked up with a friend or a lover – some poor sap who didn’t know what a monumental pain in the arse he was.

  Her mind suddenly gave a shiver.

  Had Rob contacted his family? Was he in Bosham? Had he contacted Clara? Was that why Nick was delayed?

  No. She took another sip of wine, shaking her head. Rob would never come home. Not just because of the shame he’d bring with him, but because he’d do anything to protect his family. That was why he’d disappeared. Wasn’t it?

  Chapter 11

  I came round to find myself sitting on a kitchen chair, my hands tied behind me.

  Clara sat opposite.

  Her arms were also tied to a chair. A gag covered her mouth. She was chalk-white, tears pouring down her cheeks, but she didn’t appear to be injured.

  ‘You okay?’ I choked.

  She nodded.

  I looked up as a man stepped between us. He was tall, well over six feet. Late fifties or so, with thick white hair. He wore a beautifully tailored herringbone overcoat with a black velvet collar. Nice shoes. Black leather gloves. A long face like a chisel. Expressionless. He reeked of wealth and menace.

  He said, ‘So, you’re Robert Ashdown’s brother.’

  He looked me up and down.

  ‘You don’t look much alike.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked. My voice was remarkably calm considering my pulse was through the roof.

  He frowned.

  ‘I’m known as The Saint.’

  When I didn’t react, a spasm of irritation twitched his lips. He didn’t like not being recognised.

  ‘I gained my nickname,’ he added, his ego obviously getting the better of him, ‘from The Saint of Killers in the book series Preacher.’

  I licked my lips. ‘You read comic books?’

  His eyes held mine. Hard, grey and shiny, like wet quartz. ‘You have a problem with that?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m actually doing some work for Top Dog Comics at the moment.’

  He stared at me. Although his facial muscles hadn’t moved a millimetre, I got the feeling I’d surprised him.

  ‘What kind of work?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m an artist,’ I added.

  Long silence while he continued to survey me. I guessed whatever was on his mind was something that he hadn’t bargained for, so I decided to press what could be an advantage. Don’t they say that when you’re kidnapped you should make friends with your abductor?

  ‘I’ll look out for Preacher,’ I told him. ‘Do you think I’d like it?’

  A flash of amusement crossed his face. ‘If you like comics full of profanity and graphic violence,’ he said, ‘along with death and redemption packed alongside sex, booze, blood and bullets. Oh, and angels, demons, God, vampires and deviants of all types.’

  ‘Sounds like it packs a punch,’ I said agreeably.

  ‘It’s gripping,’ he said. ‘The graphics aren’t as sophisticated as some comics but they’re attention-grabbing, lots of energy. What’s your style?’

  ‘Kind of similar,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some panels on my phone. Would you like to see?’

  Interest flared in his eyes but then he glanced back at Clara and then at his watch, and I knew I was losing him.

  ‘My phone’s in my back pocket,’ I said.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ He reached inside his coat and withdrew my phone. Brought it over and held it in front of me so the face recognition kicked in. I didn’t protest. I thought keeping him on side more important right now. I talked him through my files. Finally, he had the set of panels I’d done to introduce Colossal, a character one of Top Dog’s writers was working on.

  His eyebrows rose. ‘These are really good.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why don’t you do this full time?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Money,’ he said, nodding as though he knew all about my business, bank balances and paltry pension plans, which maybe he did.

  ‘Money,�
�� I echoed, unable to think of anything else to say. Plus of course, it was true. If I had a million pounds in the bank I would love to spend my days in my studio being a comic book artist.

  He looked at the pictures some more then turned and put the phone on the kitchen worktop. When he turned back, any semblance of friendliness had gone.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘And I’m not just saying that. I really don’t know. I swear it.’

  He raised his hand slightly and another man stepped into view. He was built like a wrestler. Lots of muscle as well as fat. Thick arms, wrists and neck. I recoiled slightly: I hadn’t realised there were two of them.

  ‘Now,’ said the Saint. ‘I’d rather not ask Tommo here to get physical with you. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate, but with you being of a profession I admire greatly, I think we can make an exception. I shall ask again: where is your brother?’

  I held his gaze with all the self-composure I could muster against the terror sitting in my stomach.

  ‘W-why do you want him?’

  He paused. He was looking at me but I had no clue what he saw. Anger? Fear? Determination? He looked at Tommo the muscle man, then back at me. ‘You have no idea, do you?’

  Not knowing what he was referring to, I just stared at him.

  His eyes went to the ceiling. I saw him take a long breath. He began tapping the sole of his leather shoe lightly against the stone floor.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  What was he thinking? Whether to set Tommo on me? Smash me into a pulp? The tension in me rose to fever pitch and when the tapping stopped, I couldn’t help my flinch. He looked straight at me once more.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  To my horror, he put his glove back on and pulled out a knife. Then he stepped to Clara and grabbed her hair in his fist and twisted it, forcing her head back. His other hand encircled her exposed throat.