by C J Carver
She pulled out her mobile, made a call. She said, ‘He’s here,’ into her phone and then passed it to me.
‘Nick,’ a man said.
One word. That was all it took. I felt as though I was in an express lift with its cables cut.
‘You…’ I could hardly speak I was so flooded with emotion.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Fuck,’ I added. My tone was strangled.
I saw Ronja’s hands come up. ‘Be calm,’ she hissed. She flicked a look at the windows, then back. I struggled to breathe.
‘Sorry,’ my brother repeated.
Silence.
I was trembling but whether it was from relief, anger or fear, I hadn’t a clue.
‘I didn’t want it to be like this,’ he added.
All my emotions abruptly narrowed into a single laser beam directed at the source of all my trouble.
‘You little fuck, did you even think what–’
Ronja reached across and snatched the phone from my hand. She said, ‘We need you to be calm. We’re having a business meeting. We’re talking, not shouting.’
I said, ‘Ronja, for Chrissakes…’
Then I pulled myself together. Getting angry with her wasn’t going to do any good. And she was right, if anyone was watching, I needed to act normally. I must not let them think anything untoward was going on.
I held my hand out for the phone. She passed it back.
I said to Rob, ‘Sorry about that. I’ve been under a bit of stress lately.’ My tone was stiff, but at least it was calm, and although I wanted to add a sarcastic comment like, I wonder why? I refrained.
‘Understood,’ he said. ‘Let’s meet.’
Chapter 43
I wanted to ask Rob: Do I bring the family? Mum? Dad? Oh, and what about Clara’s husband? But I managed to desist. I could punch him on the nose when I saw him.
‘Where?’ I said, my tone only lightly curious, but my nerves were tightening, coming alert.
‘Remember that day with the Christophers? The trouble we got into? Let’s have a re-enactment.’
I glanced outside. It had to be force seven at least. A moderate gale.
‘What, now?’
‘No time like the present.’
I wanted to ask if he’d checked the tides, and also the forecast to see if things might deteriorate into more severe weather, but I didn’t want to give anything away.
‘See you there,’ I said.
He hung up.
I stared outside. The Christopher boys. I hadn’t thought of them in years. Like us, they were grown up, one a solicitor in Portsmouth, the other working for a sports clothing company out of Nottingham. We’d had a race with them from West Itchenor to Hayling Island. I’d been fifteen, Rob thirteen. The Christopher boys had been that little bit older than us, which made us all that more determined to beat them. It had been Rob, clever, cunning Rob, who’d noted the way storms the week before had changed some of the sea bed. He didn’t tell me though, or what his plan was. We were just about neck and neck with the Christopher’s yacht, clipping along nicely in a stiff breeze, when Rob suddenly screamed at me, Tack starboard, now!
He was at the yacht’s prow and I assumed he’d seen something dangerous dead ahead – some debris that might damage the boat perhaps – so I’d pushed the tiller hard and we swung round, cutting away fast, seemingly off course and making an error, and I was yelling at him, What is it? What’s wrong? when he grinned and pointed behind us. The boys were laughing, their yacht flying like an arrow for the island when suddenly their bow lurched and dipped and the boat slammed to a stop. It was as though it had hit a brick wall.
Both boys were flung violently forward. One broke his wrist, the other his collarbone. Their yacht had to be towed off the sand bank, and both boys sent to hospital. We’d got hell, but we’d won.
I passed Ronja her phone. ‘Thanks.’ Then I gave her a twisted smile. ‘I think.’
She didn’t smile back. ‘It’s okay.’
‘How did…’ I gestured at the phone, wanting to know how he’d contacted her, wanting the whole story.
‘He called me.’ She pushed one shoulder up in a hey-it-was-nothing gesture. ‘I’m easy to find. My phone number is on our website. He asked me to come here. He asked me to be careful. He wanted to speak to you. And he has, right?’
‘Right.’
She looked at me. A deep long look. ‘How much trouble is he in?’
‘Lots.’
‘I thought so.’
She came to me and put her arms around me and turned her cheek so we could hug. She squeezed me close, strong and firm and steady. A proper hug from a friend. A hug of compassion, of empathy. It felt good. I lowered my head a fraction so it rested against hers. We were nearly the same height, but not quite. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
She leaned back. Held my gaze. ‘You need me, ring.’
I watched her drive away, her Firenze-red baby Rangie splashing through the puddles. I could remember the day she’d taken delivery of the Range Rover Evoque. She’d driven it into the office car park as excited as a kid in a sweet shop, showing me all the gizmos, the parking sensors and cameras, the head-up display on the windscreen, lane-keeping assist, blah-blah. Pricey as hell, but even I could appreciate its design, and the fact she’d worked her socks off for it.
Before she vanished around the corner, I took the opportunity to casually study the street, but could see nothing to alarm me. It was odd because although intellectually I knew I was being watched, I found it almost impossible to believe. I couldn’t see anyone suspicious – I couldn’t see anyone at all – but Rob had taken precautions. He’d send Ronja with a phone call cover: I need to run something past you. About the HAPS account. And she’d brought a work-style folder with her. A prop to add to her deception. Which, I realised, she’d left behind.
I quickly closed the door. Picked up the file and had a flick through. Lots of pictures of bathrooms, boilers, flues and cylinders, documents drafting Our Products, Plastic Plumbing and Tools and Workwear. Dear God, when this was over, please could I have a sexier account? Something to do with Caribbean holidays at least, or luxury leather handbags, designer watches, anything that didn’t involve bifold doors, stopcocks, bib taps and draw-off fittings. I flipped through more achingly dull pages, nearly bypassing a photocopy of columns, but there was something about it that made me pause.
Name. Company. Visiting. Time In. Time Out.
There were twelve lines. The page appeared to have just been started and there were only three lines which had been filled in. At the top was the date. Friday twenty-third August. Twelve years earlier.
My ears rang.
It was the Mayfair Group’s reception folder.
Carefully, I looked at each column. The times spanned were between five fifteen and five forty-five. Three people had signed in, but hadn’t signed out.
Susie Fleming.
Danya Benesch.
Robert Ashdown.
I could feel the blood drain from my head but I didn’t move, didn’t do anything. I was like a statue. Cold as marble, as stone, as ice.
I stared at Susie’s name for a long time.
Chapter 44
I glanced astern and to starboard. Across a hundred feet of dirty grey water, the sapphire-blue bow of a boat called Jovial sliced into a dark wave and kicked water over her foredeck.
Jovial. Jovita. As Etienne had said, it was a nice little boat, twenty-five foot, six berths, and Rob seemed to have looked after her well because although she was no longer in her prime, her paintwork was immaculate and her hull was shining clean, no growth or slime to be seen.
The wind was blowing hard from the west, where bloated clouds came off the sea. Luckily the wind had come down from force eight, gusting nine, a big relief. I spun the wheel and Talisman’s nose turned through the wind. The aluminium boom clanked across, the jib sliding smoothly around the front of the mast. She leaned in again, to starboard, heading for J
ovial. I saw Rob’s mouth open, a wide grin splitting his face. The gap of water between our boats narrowed. Inch by inch, we were coming together.
Talisman’s nose dug up a lump of water and sent it down the deck into my face. It tasted flat and cold and salty. I looked around but couldn’t see anyone else out on the harbour, not surprising since it was such a shitty day.
As Jovial approached, Rob released his jib and main sail, depowering, slowing down. I did the same. Slowly, steadily, we slopped and tossed our way towards one another, our sails flapping and roaring. I was sweating with anxiety and tension, wondering how this was going to work. I could understand the location. We could see anyone approaching for miles, but how were we to have a proper conversation if we had to shout across the wind-capped waves?
Finally, we turned into the wind. We were barely six feet apart.
Then Rob called out.
A woman appeared at Jovial’s hatch, glanced my way. Curly yellow hair, a Norwegian fishing sweater, oilskins. Her face was expressionless. She skimmed around the boat like a professional, putting out fenders. Then she took the helm from Rob and eased Jovial toward me until we were nearly touching.
A puff of wind made Jovial’s slack sail jump and billow. The boat shuddered. Rob walked across the dipping heaving deck as though he was on land. The fenders squeaked against my hull.
‘Give me your hand!’ I shouted.
He ignored me and in three quick capable movements, he’d swung himself on board. Immediately, the woman tightened a sail and swung Jovial away.
For several seconds, we looked at one another.
‘Hey, big brother. It’s good to see you.’ He smiled at me, the smile I remembered of old, full of mischief and daring and joy.
‘You bloody bastard,’ I said.
He punched me on the arm, hard enough so it hurt, just as he used to, and then we were hugging one another and I was shouting you bastard! over and over and we were laughing, tears streaming down our cheeks, choking, yelling nonsense.
The deck surged under our feet, causing us to lose our balance and forcing us apart. I grabbed the helm, Rob the hatch.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. We needed to get some headway so we could stabilise the boat.
Rob went to the winches, tightening both sails and settling the boat into a steady cruise. The sound of the water against the hull, the cold wet air in my lungs, the sight of my brother on my boat. I could hardly believe it. It felt fantastic.
He came and stood beside me, bracing a hip against the gunwale.
‘So, who’s your friend?’ I asked.
‘Sorcha.’
‘A close friend, I assume.’
‘Yup. We live together. Have done for years. We couldn’t get married, obviously.’
‘She knows about Clara?’
‘Yup.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Sorcha knows everything.’ He faced forwards, his cheeks glowing apple red, his hair damp from the spray. ‘It was the only way.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘In rehab.’
I could feel my eyes bulge. ‘Rehab?’
He smiled, but it held a tinge of sadness. ‘I had a bit of a problem with drugs. I did some bad things, but I turned my life around and I’m all right now.’
‘Bad things?’ I repeated. Although my tone was relatively level, my blood pressure had begun to rise. ‘Does that include putting your family through hell and back? Crucifying Clara? Crucifying Mum and Dad…’ I had to lasso my emotions which were threatening to stampede for the horizon. ‘Jesus, Rob. What the hell did you think you were doing?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know?’
‘I hardly know where to start.’ My tone was biting.
‘Try the beginning.’
I noticed a bit of disturbance in the forward part of the mainsail, checked the telltales, and adjusted my course in order to increase the headsails’ efficiency.
‘I know you were running drugs for the Saint. That you owe that Spanish gang a million quid…’ The shock of it came at me anew and I said again, ‘a million quid. Jesus Christ, Rob, do you realise what trouble you’ve landed Etienne in? They’re squeezing his balls in a vice and he’s going insane trying to find you.’
‘Ah, shit.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘And you’ve still got their boat.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Nice little cruiser, don’t you think? We lived on her for over three years, until we managed to get it together to get a mortgage. Settled down like normal folk.’
I was overcome with questions – where did he live, did he have any more kids, what did he do for work – but before I could say a word, he said, ‘Come on, Nick. Tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks.’
‘You ran away to protect Clara and the kids, us, from the Saint. All very laudable but do you realise the hell you put us through?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I do. And I’m sorry, truly sorry, but there was no other way.’
We sailed on in silence for a bit.
I said, ‘Did you kill Tony Abbott?’
Chapter 45
‘No.’ Rob’s tone was firm. ‘I did not kill Tony Abbott.’
‘What about the woman who was killed with him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Was she your girlfriend?’
His head snapped around. ‘My what?’
‘That’s what the Saint told me.’
His colour paled. ‘You’ve met him?’
‘Twice.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘I’m so sorry. That’s the last thing I wanted.’
‘He wants your head on a plate.’
‘I know.’ Rob gestured around the wind-chopped harbour. ‘Why do you think we’re here?’
Jovial had eased in front of us and now she tacked, keeping away from the buoys ahead warning of low water.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Let’s tack,’ he told me. ‘We don’t want to end up like the Christopher boys.’
Talisman’s deck came level as I turned her nose through the wind. The boom went across, and the jib, accompanied by a spatter of spray as she leaned to port.
‘What else do you know?’ He was looking at me with an intense expression, penetrating, and I knew it was time to come clean, whether Susie liked it or not.
‘I know that you worked for MI5.’
For a moment, his jaw slackened. His eyes rounded into golf balls. ‘My, my. Wherever did you hear that?’
‘From an old colleague of yours. Susie Fleming.’ I took a breath. ‘She’s my wife.’
A minnow of caution swam briefly in his eyes.
‘Is she, indeed?’ he said. He stared at me for a long time. His expression had turned smooth, unreadable. It was a look I didn’t recognise. I’d thought Rob an open book, but he could be planning mass murder or buying a bunch of flowers for his Norwegian sweater-wearing paramour for all the emotion he showed.
He turned to face forward for a while, then he turned back to me. ‘What else do you know?’
I swallowed. Looked ahead and past the sails, at Jovita. Plucked up my courage, and looked back at him.
‘That she was there that night too.’
He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. This wasn’t the brother I remembered, who’d been a bit crazy, happy-go-lucky, everyone’s friend. This man was calm and self-possessed. Rational. In control. And at that moment, I could see him being an MI5 agent. I could see him being anything he wanted, and out of nowhere I felt something shift between us and it was as though I was the younger brother all of a sudden, and he the more experienced elder.
‘You were working together?’ I asked.
‘Is that what she told you?’
No, I thought. I just found her name on the company’s reception folder for that night. At that point, a thought crashed through: if she was there in an official capacity, would she have left her name, evidence she’d be
en there? Or had she been there in an unofficial capacity? Wouldn’t she have used an alias? Or had someone else put her name there? If so, why?
‘Nick?’ he pressed.
I wanted to say, I have evidence she was there, but I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true without a handwriting expert. Plus, I didn’t want to be disloyal. I wanted to talk to her first.
‘What were you doing there that night?’ I asked instead.
He considered my question briefly as though weighing things up, then he said, ‘I was there to bug the place.’
‘Ah.’
‘I was a trusted “employee” of the organisation. I’d been given some pretty high-end kit to use by the boys in blue. We knew it was risky as I wouldn’t normally be there, but someone had to do it and since I was the only person who might get away with it…’
‘Risky,’ I said. ‘Because if you’d been caught…’
‘I wouldn’t be here,’ he agreed, suddenly looking cheerful. ‘But as it is, everything went to rat shit and I scarpered, and now here we are.’
‘What was Susie doing there?’
‘I think you’d better ask that one yourself, don’t you?’ He raised his eyebrows at me.
‘You chased after a woman. You had a gun.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘You got the CCTV tape then.’
‘Who was she? The woman you chased after.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Why were you chasing her?’
His facial muscles didn’t change, but his eyes grew watchful. ‘Ask me another.’
‘No. I want to know. Were you going to shoot her? Did you catch her? What happened to her?’
He held up a hand. ‘Enough.’ His voice cracked like a whip.
‘You may not want to talk about it–’ my tone grew angry ‘but I do. Did she see what happened?’
At that, he gave a groan. The tension went out of his shoulders. He closed his eyes. He nodded.
‘So,’ I said. ‘She’s a witness.’
He opened his eyes and gazed across the water, expression closed. He didn’t confirm or deny it.
