Over Your Shoulder

by C J Carver

  ‘How’s the hangover?’ she asked.

  I blinked. ‘Er… better, thanks.’

  ‘You can’t remember, can you?’ She sounded amused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You rang me when you were at the pub.’

  ‘I did?’ I had no memory of it.

  ‘You were hammered.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I felt abashed.

  ‘After you’d hung up, I called Charley. He said Etienne looked after you.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  There was a pause. I heard her talking to someone her end but it was muffled. I thought I heard her say, Two minutes, and then she was back on the line.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t have much time. Shall we talk at home tonight? Unless there’s anything urgent I need to know now?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Quickly,’ she said, ‘just so you know, I saw DI Barry Gilder earlier. I showed him my badge. He’s agreed to team up. He won’t make it official, so we’re safe for the moment. He’s pretty okay, I think. He’ll help, where he can.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  ‘One thing though. I didn’t tell him who Rob used to work for.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Let’s keep it that way for a bit. See what he comes up with for us first. Gotta go, handsome.’

  ‘Love you.’

  She was gone.

  I spent a couple of hours that afternoon at work, trying to pick up the threads of the HAPS account, but it was difficult to concentrate, so I didn’t hang around and headed home just as it was beginning to get dark.

  I was climbing out of my car – an ageing BMW that was going to become a classic one day soon – when a huge shape appeared at the corner of my vision.

  ‘Christ!’ I leaped back, heart pounding.

  The man held up his hands as though to show he wasn’t armed, wasn’t going to hurt me. He said, ‘I bin waiting.’

  The man was the size and shape of a hay bale and wore a white shirt beneath a jacket that bunched beneath his arms. Short-cropped brown hair. Reflective sunglasses. He looked like the elder brother of Tommo, the man who’d accompanied the Saint at Clara’s. I was tempted to ask if they were related, but decided I didn’t have the guts.

  ‘Waiting?’ I echoed. My heart was still galloping like a demented horse.

  ‘Got here at seven. Bin waiting all day.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I caught the six-twenty train this morning.’

  ‘Shit. I was told you didn’ move till eight.’

  I felt a tap of dismay beneath my breastbone. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You get up at eight, normally. Right?’

  ‘I’m being watched?’

  He didn’t reply. Gave a shrug of his hay-bale shoulders as if to say, Yeah, sure, but don’t gripe to me about it.

  ‘Jesus.’

  He held out a hand.

  I said, ‘What?’

  ‘Your phone.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He reached up a hand and opened his jacket. He showed me a gun sitting snugly in its holster. ‘It’s loaded.’

  ‘You’ll shoot me for my phone?’

  ‘Stop being such a dick and just fucking hand it over, would you? The boss wants to see you and he doesn’t want you to have your fucking phone on you.’

  ‘No.’ I stood my ground. I wanted to see what he’d do.

  He looked at me but since I couldn’t see his eyes it was hard to tell his expression.

  ‘Open the car,’ he told me.

  ‘No,’ I said. Then, ‘Why?’

  ‘Jesus, you are a pain in the backside. Throw your phone inside. Lock the car. Then we’re all happy.’

  I thought it a decent compromise so I did as he said. I chucked the envelope with Jane Doe’s pictures inside as well, but I didn’t leave the phone in view in case it tempted a passer-by to smash one of my windows and steal it. I tucked it under the driver’s seat.

  The thug indicated a silver Mercedes parked down the road. ‘Get in.’

  ‘Look, I’m dying for a piss. Could you–’

  ‘Get in or I’ll thump you so hard you’ll see fucking stars for a week.’

  No negotiation then.

  The Merc whisked me northwards. Along the M3 and around the M25. We exited at junction eighteen and after Chorleywood and Little Chalfont, swept through the pretty market town of Old Amersham, its main road lined with ancient timbered coaching inns and several old pubs, all lit up and looking cosy and friendly in the wintry dark.

  Then we were winding our way through the Chilterns, along narrow country lanes, the car splashing through muddy puddles. We climbed up a long hill and then the Saint’s goon swung left to pause in front of a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. He wound down his window, pressed a button, and as the gates swung open, dozens of artfully hidden lights came on, illuminating the way ahead.

  The drive was lined with beech trees, trunks shining black in the rain. A few yellow leaves clung on but mostly the branches were bare. CCTV cameras took in our progress. I turned in my seat, looked through the rear window, but nothing was there. Just tall trees, dripping rain. I faced forwards, my palms damp, my stomach filled with dread.

  Chapter 41

  As we swept through a garden – lots of topiary and box hedges – I saw Tommo’s brother, or whoever he was, glance at me in his rear-view mirror. He’d taken off his dark glasses and I was surprised to see he had a pair of large round brown eyes, like a deer.

  The Saint’s house was a stunning Queen Anne-style country mansion in fine red brick with tall, elegant windows and four whopping great chimney stacks sprouting through its roof. Twin cedars flanked the building, accentuating the symmetry of the design. I was dropped outside the front door, where a man in smart trousers and jacket ushered me inside. A huge stone fireplace gave off a welcoming glow and the air smelled sweet, as though someone had been baking biscuits.

  I caught a glimpse of a red-velvet dining room on the right, a green and gold drawing room on the left, where a woman sat with an iPad on her knee. Round spectacles. Late fifties, faded curly red hair. Overweight. As I passed, our eyes met in the briefest of glances. She looked sad.

  I was led past a grand staircase and along a narrow passage into a library. One wall was adorned with photographs of the Saint with his family. Tony as a toddler, as a man. Two daughters. I recognised the sad-looking woman as his wife. Books lined the two other walls. Another fire glowed in another huge fireplace. Deep leather chairs, lots of dark wood, crystal decanters and glasses. Very old school. Very classic. Which was why I was surprised when I saw the dog. I would have expected a wolfhound or a Labrador, but instead a small hairy creature with a pushed-in snout, bulging eyes and stained beard came over to sniff my trousers.

  ‘She’s a Brussels Griffon,’ the Saint said.

  Knowing how proud people could be of their dogs, I said, ‘She’s cute,’ even though it had to be the ugliest dog I’d ever seen.

  ‘You should be a diplomat, artist,’ he said. His mouth twisted. ‘Now, before we get down to business, I want to show you something.’

  He took me to a cabinet at the far end of the room, away from the fireplace. Inside, to my astonishment, lay a selection of highly collectible comic books, including early editions of Batman, Captain America and the Fantastic Four.

  He tilted his head, awaiting my reaction.

  I licked my lips. ‘Wow. They’re in incredibly good condition. They must be worth a fortune.’

  He opened the glass lid and withdrew the Batman comic, passed it to me. Sweat trickling down my back. I handled it reverently, carefully.

  ‘It’s Catwoman’s first appearance,’ he told me.

  It would be worth thousands. He wanted me to look through his collection, obviously proud, and very much an enthusiast. Normally I would have enjoyed talking about how each artist developed the characters, the storylines, over the years, but my mouth was dry, my heart fluttering. I
was in the lion’s den and nobody knew I was here. The Saint could have me murdered and buried beneath one of his box hedges and nobody would know.

  ‘So, artist.’ He returned the comics to their cabinet and closed the lid. ‘It seems nobody’s telling me anything. I’ve already had to chastise someone for not volunteering information, and now I’ve got you.’

  ‘Me?’

  He tilted his head again. ‘You were at the scene of Arun Choudhuri’s murder, and you didn’t think to tell me?’

  I opened and closed my mouth.

  ‘Come, come, artist. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I didn’t think.’

  The Saint drew his lips back over his teeth in a humourless smile and I felt my lungs contract. ‘You didn’t think.’

  I didn’t know what to say or do to diffuse the sudden penetrating menace in the air, so I remained silent.

  ‘Please tell me you won’t be so stupid again.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Promise?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So, artist, who killed my faithful ex-employee?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He did the head tilt again. My sweat poured harder.

  ‘What about Robert? Your brother? Where’s he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear it.’

  ‘You’re not much use, are you?’ he said, baring his teeth once more.

  I wanted to ask him about the woman in the photograph I’d seen that morning, lying alongside Tony with her face smashed in, but after Roger Marshall’s warning about besmirching Tony’s memory, I didn’t know how the hell I could.

  ‘You saw Missing People today,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ I saw no point in not admitting it since I appeared to be under surveillance.

  ‘Why?’

  With a surge of annoyance, brought about by sheer fear, I said, ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Ooooh.’ He flung up his hands. ‘I’m scared. Big scary Nick Ashdown grows balls. Now that’s a headline.’

  He held my eyes, dropping all pretence of humour.

  ‘Why. Did. You. See. Them.’

  ‘I, er… I don’t know if you know… that, er… there was a woman with, er…’ I frantically licked my lips. ‘Tony, er, that night…?’

  It was as though a switch had been flicked. The Saint’s moderately frightening expression vanished and in its place stood one far worse. Pure rage.

  ‘How the fuck do you know that?’

  He took a step forward and I couldn’t help it, I cringed.

  ‘Someone, sent me something. Anonymously.’

  ‘Show me,’ he snapped.

  ‘I don’t have it with me.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Photographs.’

  ‘Of what?’

  I looked away.

  ‘Of what?!’ he screamed. His face turned purple. His fists bunched.

  ‘Tony,’ I blurted. ‘And… her.’

  The Saint was breathing heavily. His nostrils were dilated. ‘You saw them. Together?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You saw the murder scene?’

  Dread sat like a stone in my stomach. I nodded again.

  He took several breaths, obviously trying to get himself under control.

  ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I gulped. Dragged my courage up from my boots. ‘Who’s the woman?’

  For a moment he stared at me. He was, I realised with shock, surprised.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  He gave a choked snort which I took he meant to show he found this funny, but there was no amusement in his eyes which remained as flat and cold as slate. ‘She was your brother’s girlfriend.’

  My jaw softened. Rob was cheating on Clara?

  ‘You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?’ he said pityingly.

  I decided there was no point in answering that one and remained silent.

  He put a finger on his lips, as though he was in deep thought. ‘If you didn’t know she was his girlfriend, I suppose you know jack shit all else.’

  ‘Who was she?’ I asked again. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ He flung his hands in the air. ‘Some bint who had the morals of a cat and if she wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her myself. Because it was your fuck of a brother who followed this bint of a girlfriend to my son’s office and when he saw them, what they were doing, he killed them both in a fucking jealous rage.’

  His voice grew louder again, his colour rising.

  ‘What happened to her body?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t ask that question again.’ He gave me a look that sent an ice pick to my core.

  I tried to hold his gaze, but my eyes slid away and when they did, he walked over to me. Stabbed my chest with an iron-like forefinger. ‘You dare mention the situation in which my son died to anyone else and you’ll regret it. I do not want Mrs Abbott’s memory of the son she adored dragged through the mud by a little worm like you. The same goes for my daughters. It would kill them. And I’ll come after you, and I’ll slice you open and let you die trying to stuff your entrails back into your body. Understood?’

  I nodded. Unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth. ‘C-can I ask…’

  He surveyed me at length. Finally gave me a curt nod.

  ‘W-where did m-my brother get the g-gun?’

  My legs were feeling shaky, so I put a hand on the back of one of the leather armchairs to steady myself.

  ‘Fuck knows.’ The Saint turned away as he shrugged. ‘From the street, from the Blood fucking Family in Spain, eBay, Amazon, take your pick. He was a drug runner. He could have picked it up anywhere.’

  ‘He ran drugs for you?’

  ‘Are you hard of hearing or something?’

  Through my fear, my brain was overloading with conflicting information. Rob, running drugs, working undercover for MI5. Rob the jealous boyfriend, cheating on his wife. Rob who’d vanished to keep himself safe. Rob, who I had to see to get some fucking ANSWERS.

  ‘Oh,’ the Saint suddenly remarked, sounding startled. ‘Look at that.’ He strode to the window, clicked his fingers. ‘Come and see, artist.’

  On unsteady legs, I walked over. He was looking outside and pointing. I saw a soft shape move on the lawn, just outside the arc of light shining from our window. It was a badger.

  ‘You’ve brought me luck.’ To my astonishment, he beamed at me. ‘I haven’t seen a badger in ages.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I seemed to have lost the power of speech. I didn’t say another word, not when he ushered me outside, nor when Tommo’s look-a-like dropped me off at home.

  I had to drink two whiskies before I could speak to Susie, and when I did, it took an immense effort not to cry.

  Chapter 42

  A strong wind came in just after dawn. Susie had already left for work, planning to spend the rest of the week in London, and I lay for a while listening to the rain rattle the windows, the wind whistling around the eaves. I felt snug and secure beneath the duvet, and I had to force myself to get up. Normally I’d head straight for a slash and a shower, but after the previous day’s revelations, I peeked outside to see if I could spot anyone watching me.

  No silver Mercedes, which was a relief, and as far as I could tell, the parked cars appeared to be empty. I studied the street, looking for anyone twitching their curtains or blinds, but all I could see were endless puddles and lashing rain. Trees swayed in the wind, yellow and brown leaves gusting through the air. That the Saint was watching me, I had no doubt. He wanted my brother. What easier way to find him than keep tabs on me?

  While I showered, I tried to make a plan but my head was muzzy, my brain having trouble computing everything I’d learned. My body felt tired, from all the adrenaline flowing the previous day probably, and I was toying with the idea of going back to bed and pulling the duvet over my head, when the landline rang.

  ‘Nick,’ said Ronja. ‘You
’re at home.’

  ‘Yes.’ I was about to say I was going to come into the office – I felt as though I needed a dose of normality – but she interrupted.

  ‘I need to run something past you. About the HAPS account. Put on your coffee machine. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes, okay?’

  ‘But I was going to–’

  She hung up before I could finish my sentence. I tried to ring her back but her phone went straight to voicemail. What was going on? Was it really to do with work? Unnerved, uncertain, I paced the cottage until the doorbell rang.

  I scooted to the kitchen window but since whoever it was stood on the porch step, I couldn’t see who it was. I went to the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ I called.

  ‘Ronja.’

  I opened the door a crack, keeping it on the chain. Not that it would hold if a large shoulder smashed against it, but at least it would give me a couple of second’s warning. I paused, trying to see past her rain-spattered raincoat. She was holding a folder over her head in a vain attempt to keep her great mane of wind-whipped hair dry.

  ‘Come on, Nick. I’m getting soaked out here.’

  I quickly unlatched the chain and opened the door. She stamped her feet on the mat, then kicked off her boots. Dumped the folder on the hall table. Fluffed out her hair.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. She never came to my home. We normally met at a pub or café if we saw each other out of working hours.

  ‘I’m your boss, remember?’ She gave me an arch look.

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I told you to put the coffee machine on, yes?’

  Yes, Herr Commandant. I refrained from saluting and led the way into the kitchen area. Put the machine on. Brought out a couple of cups. Made the coffee. Gave her a cup of Rosabaya, which I knew she liked. Made myself an Indriya, super strong. I thought having too much caffeine in my bloodstream was the least of my concerns.

  ‘So,’ I said.

  ‘So,’ she repeated. ‘I want you to listen to me, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘I don’t want you looking out of the window or making any phone calls, or doing anything out of the ordinary. I’m here as your boss. I brought a folder to do with work.’