‘Wait a minute. Where are we going now?’
‘Not sure. But we should put as much distance between us and Hexter as possible. I think we should probably head for the Welsh borders. Find somewhere to lie low while I work out a—’
I see the other vehicle from the corner of my eye a fraction of a second before it slams into the side of the car. It’s a chunky black Transit van powering out of a side street straight across the give-way lines. It forces the Land Rover up on to the pavement in a slewing, grinding skid. We hit a wall and come to rest in a crunching of metal and a gout of steam from the radiator.
There’s a moment of immobility. Forrester has fallen against Joe, who has slid against the passenger door. I’m not immediately sure if they’re injured. My guess is not. I think I’m all right too. There’s no blood. It’s lucky I was wearing my seatbelt. Fortunately, neither vehicle was going very fast. The other driver must simply have lost concentration.
Then I see three figures emerge from the van and I realize he didn’t lose concentration at all. Scaddan’s there, with two big, granite-faced men. And Scaddan’s holding a gun.
The wing of the Land Rover is jammed against the wall we hit. Joe wouldn’t be able to open his door if he tried. But the door next to me has been jolted open by the impact. Wide enough for me to get out. As Scaddan closes in on the car, I release the seatbelt, grab my shoulder-bag and scramble out through the door, crouching low.
There’s a narrow alley between two houses a short distance away. Still stooping, I run towards it. I hear one of the Land Rover doors being wrenched open behind me and Scaddan’s voice. ‘Get out, all of—’
He breaks off, suddenly noticing, I suppose, that I’m not in the car. In fact, I’m in the alley, running hard. I don’t know what’s going to happen to Forrester and Joe. But I do know staying with them wouldn’t make any difference and would mean that whatever happens to them will happen to me too.
I hear heavy, running footsteps behind me, but I don’t look back. It flashes through my mind that these men aren’t going to start firing guns in the middle of suburban Cheltenham if they can possibly avoid it. And I’m only a subsidiary target anyway. It’s Joe they want. Everyone wants him. And some are prepared to kill for it.
There are back gardens either side of the alley and more houses ahead, fronting on to the next street. An even narrower side alley crosses my path, threading between the gardens. On an impulse, I turn into it, hoping I can get into one of the gardens through the back gate. I see one a few along that’s standing ajar and rush in through it, pushing it shut behind me.
The gate doesn’t close properly, so I have to lean against it to keep it in place. I glance up the garden and wonder if I should make a run for the house. I can’t see anyone indoors, so I don’t know if I’ve been noticed.
Then I hear my pursuer. He’s breathing heavily and he isn’t light on his feet. He rattles a gate a couple of gardens over, sparking a burst of barking from a dog. He tries another gate that won’t open either.
I’m not deliberately holding my breath. But still I’m not breathing. I can’t move without the risk he’ll hear me, even above the slowly less frequent barking of the dog. Eventually, though, he’s going to try this gate. And I won’t be able to hold it shut.
Then his phone rings. He muffles a ‘Shit’ and answers it. ‘Yeah?’ he whispers. ‘No … Not sure … OK … See you there.’
He ends the call, mutters ‘Fuck it’ and hurries away. I think he turns right at the junction with the through-alley, which means he’s heading for the next street. Maybe they’re picking him up there and hoping to catch me on the way.
I hear a fence creak a little way off, which starts the dog off again. Wondering if my pursuer’s hauled himself up on to a fence to see if he can spot me in any of the gardens, I drop to my haunches, with my back to the gate. A thick hedge to my left gives me ample cover, though. There’s no way he’s going to be able to see me.
I stay there a long time, listening to the snuffling of the dog and the ebb and flow of traffic noises and human voices in the area. Slowly, my breathing returns to normal. My heart stops pounding. I don’t know what to do or where to go. Scaddan and his crew can’t hang around waiting for me to show myself. I’m assuming they’ve transferred Forrester and Joe to the Transit van at gunpoint and driven off with them, destination … I haven’t a clue. But the collision with the Land Rover will have attracted a lot of attention. The police will show up sooner or later. Maybe I should ask for their protection. Maybe I should tell them the whole story.
No, no. That won’t work. Even if they believe me. Hexter’s already shown he can tell the police what to do and what not to do. And Scaddan’s working for Hexter. So this was done on Hexter’s orders.
I begin to wonder if Hexter was happy to let us arrange to meet Joe, just so he could be kidnapped. Maybe they followed Joe to Costa. Then they followed us, until they found the right place to strike. But why? What purpose would that serve? Why would Hexter want Joe in Scaddan’s hands? Or Marianne Vogler’s? What’s he planning? He’s been one step ahead the whole way. And now he has Joe and Forrester.
He doesn’t have me, it’s true. Yet, anyway. But he doesn’t fear me, as he probably does Forrester. I’m no threat. I’m just … a minor inconvenience.
What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? Who can I turn to? For answers there’s only a void, a black hole where my future, short-term, medium-term, any term, used to be.
I hear police sirens in the distance. They’re on their way. Scaddan and his crew – and Forrester and Joe – must be long gone by now. It’s safe for me to move. But where am I moving to?
I walk along the alley to the next street. Behind me, I can hear the crackle of a police radio and a burble of conversation. The police are puzzled, no doubt, by what they’ve found. An empty Land Rover, jammed against a wall. The occupants? And the occupants of the other car? Witnesses will be telling them what they know. Did anyone see the direction the Transit van went in? And did anyone see me?
I head back towards the town centre. I move neither quickly nor slowly. I’m trying desperately to look normal and behave normally. I can’t go back to the Belmont. That’s too risky. And I have no transport now. I’m on my own. And I’m on foot. That’s it.
I think back to what Forrester said I should do if he never showed up at the tea room in Hyde Park. Get out of town. Lie low. In other words, trust no one and think only of myself.
‘That’s great advice, Duncan,’ I murmur under my breath. ‘The recipe for a truly wonderful life.’
What are they doing to Forrester? He could be dead. I hope and pray he isn’t. But it’s a possibility. As for Joe, what are their plans for him? And what were their plans for me?
I’m alone. Utterly alone. Without Forrester, I have no one to tell me what the best thing to do is. I haven’t the remotest idea what it might be anyway. I can’t hurt Hexter. I can’t defeat him. All I can do, if I’m very very lucky, is elude him.
But how?
It’s started to rain by the time I reach Imperial Gardens, at the bottom of the Promenade. The rush hour’s begun. There’s more traffic and more people on the streets. I’m wet and cold and tired. And I’m frightened. I’ve been frightened all week, of course. But this fear goes beyond that. It’s like a choking weight on my chest.
I need to find somewhere safe and dry where I can just … think. But there’s nowhere. And the only place where I can keep out of the rain at the moment is one of the bus shelters on the Promenade. I stand with several other people who are waiting for their bus. There are plenty of places to go. Swindon. Cirencester. Stroud. Gloucester. Places where people live and love and lead their lives. And there’s nothing waiting for me in any of them.
My heart jumps when I spot a black Transit van the same size as the one Scaddan’s using. It’s moving slowly along the southern side of Imperial Gardens. Slowly enough to suggest the driver’s looking for something. Or someone
.
There must be dozens of black Transits on the streets of Cheltenham at any one time, but that thought doesn’t make me feel even remotely safer. I shrink between the other people at the bus stop as best I can.
There’s a bus approaching. Several people around me shuffle forward. I decide to get on with them. I don’t care where the bus is going. I don’t even notice. I just keep my head down, mumble ‘As far as you go’ to the driver and hand over the fare.
I climb the stairs to the top deck and head along towards the rear.
That’s when I see him. And a second later he sees me.
‘You are an endlessly surprising woman, Miss Nicholson,’ says Martinek, moving his bag on to his lap so I can sit next to him. ‘Take a seat.’
I sit down.
‘I assume your name isn’t actually Nicholson.’
‘It’s Nevinson,’ I reply weakly. ‘Nicole Nevinson.’
I can’t think of anything else to say. There’s no way I can explain myself to him. Part of me’s actually glad to be with someone I know, though he’d probably find that the hardest thing of all to believe. In the end, just as the bus starts moving, I manage to get a few more words out. ‘How’d you come to be on this bus?’
‘I’m going home.’ Of course. I’m on a bus bound for Gloucester. It makes sense, after all. ‘I gave up waiting at Costa after a couple of over-caffeinated hours. I had a really enjoyable afternoon thanks to you and Mr Foster. Or whatever he’s really called.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for, exactly? Setting up a game you had no intention of letting be played to a finish? Making a fool of me? Or something else too subtle for me to comprehend?’
‘I’m sure you don’t think very highly of me.’
‘That’s a considerable understatement. Is there any chance you’re going to tell me what this has really all been about?’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Well, maybe we could settle for some simpler questions. Why are you on this bus? Where’s Mr Foster? And where’s Mr Roberts? You haven’t tucked him in your bag, have you?’
‘I don’t know where they are.’
‘That’s strange, considering you left Costa in their company.’
‘We were … separated.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Are you going to Gloucester?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Do you have the rest of my money, by any chance? I think we can agree I’ve earned it.’
‘Mr Martinek …’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I call you Lewis?’
He frowns at me. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m Nicole.’
‘I know. You said. I’m just not much of a first name kind of person.’
‘Could you try to be? Just for now?’
‘All right. Nicole. Can I have the rest of my money? I did what you asked of me. It’s not my fault Mr Roberts – Joe – abandoned the game.’
‘It’s not his fault either.’
‘Why are you on this bus, Nicole?’
‘Needs must.’
‘When the devil drives. So, who’s the devil in all this?’
‘I’m in a lot of trouble, Lewis. I need help. Will you help me?’
He looks at me disbelievingly. I can hardly blame him. ‘You’re asking for my help? After manipulating me into enabling you and Mr Foster to lure Joe to that coffee shop? That was all garbage about giving him a chance to avenge his defeat in Bath, wasn’t it?’
My answer sounds hollow to my own ears. ‘Yes.’
‘Who’s Hexter?’
I lean towards him, lowering my voice. ‘A dangerous man. We shouldn’t be talking about him in a public place.’
‘I’m not sure what to make of you, Nicole.’ Martinek’s lowered his voice too. ‘You still haven’t told me where you’re going, by the way.’
‘I don’t know where I’m going.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘That’s right. I don’t. Because right now … nowhere’s safe for me.’
‘What happened after you left Costa?’
I drop my voice still further. ‘We were intercepted. Foster—I’m sorry. His name’s Forrester, not Foster. He and Joe … were taken. I managed to get away.’
‘Do you realize how crazy that sounds? The way you’re talking is, well, either paranoid or …’
‘It’s true.’
‘I’d hazard a guess Joe works at a certain doughnut-shaped complex on the western side of town. Would I be right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And you? Do you work there?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Will you help me, Lewis?’
‘Help you how?’
It’s a good question. And looking at me, he must realize I don’t actually have an answer.
Neither of us says much more until we arrive in Gloucester. Some way short of the centre, Martinek announces we’re approaching his stop. When I get up to let him out of the seat, he says to me, as if the matter’s already settled, ‘If you’re coming home with me, this is your stop too.’
I don’t object. It’s still raining. A damp evening is setting in. I’ve already admitted I have nowhere to go. I don’t have any choices that sound like good ones. I have some money, but most of it’s pledged to Martinek. I can’t use a cashpoint to get any more. And I can’t use my credit card. There are a lot of can’ts. But as for what I can do …
Martinek’s house is a semi-detached bungalow in a long road full of semi-detached bungalows. It looks less well cared for than most of its neighbours, with an overgrown front garden and peeling paintwork.
Indoors it feels cold and inhospitable. My host makes no move to turn on any heating. It doesn’t look like the furnishings have been altered in thirty years. He asks me if I want any tea and I say yes. We stand in the kitchen next to a massive grime-encrusted range while the kettle boils and he ferrets around for biscuits.
‘I’m not used to entertaining,’ he says, as if that’s what he’s doing.
I sink into a chair at the kitchen table. ‘It’s fine,’ I mumble.
‘You look tired.’
‘I am.’ More tired than I can possibly describe.
‘I’ve lived here alone since Mother died. She was very house proud. She probably wouldn’t approve of the way I’ve … done things since.’
‘It’s fine,’ I repeat.
‘I’m not going to press you for an explanation, Nicole.’ He gives me a cautious smile. ‘You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘I wish I could explain.’
‘All I will say is that I’d be inclined to write you off as a nutcase if it weren’t for the fact that Mr Forrester struck me as sane if he was nothing else. And then there’s Joe. Not to mention the mysterious Mr Hexter. And the man you claim tried to kill you. Roger Lam. Was that his name?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re obviously caught up in something beyond a bundle of personal neuroses. Quite what it is …’ The kettle comes to the boil. He spoons tea into a pot and pours in the water. ‘You may be glad to know complexity doesn’t faze me. In fact, you have to love complexity to thrive at Go. Do you want milk or lemon with your tea?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Really? It’s always seemed to me to make a big difference. This is leaf tea we’re talking about, after all. They use bags at the Records Office. Just awful, don’t you agree?’
I gaze up at him. I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. ‘Could I use your bathroom?’
‘Certainly. It’s just down the passage to your left. I’ll take the tea through to the living room when it’s brewed.’
‘OK.’ I heave myself out of the chair and follow his directions to the cheerlessly functional bathroom.
I splash some water on my face and try very hard not to stare at Martinek’s toothbrush or the razor and shaving s
tick standing on the shelf beside it. What am I doing here? And what am I going to do if I leave? Is there any way out of the situation I’m in?
I can’t think of one. I can barely think at all.
I’m just about to flush the loo when I hear the doorbell ring. It’s just about the last sound I want to hear. Martinek can’t have visitors. Can he?
I edge the bathroom door open and step out into the passage. I can hear voices from the direction of the front door, round the right-angled corner of the passage.
‘Mr Martinek?’
Martinek agrees he is.
‘DI Graves, Gloucestershire CID. This is my colleague, DS Henderson. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?’
The police. Shit. Really? What do I do now? Try to leave by the back door? Hopeless. It’s in the kitchen, which is visible from the front door. A window, maybe? There’s a closed door opposite me which probably leads to a bedroom overlooking the garden.
But if I make the slightest noise, they may realize I’m here. And then … I don’t know. The question that really matters now is: will Martinek give me away?
‘What sort of questions, Inspector?’ he asks coolly. ‘And who’s your friend?’ So, there are three of them in all.
‘I’m Roger Lam.’ Christ. It’s Roger. With the police. ‘I work with someone I think you know. Joe Roberts.’
‘Perhaps we could step inside,’ says Graves.
‘Is Joe in some kind of trouble?’
‘That’s what we’re hoping you may be able to clear up, sir.’
‘You met him earlier this afternoon?’ asks Roger.
‘I did,’ Martinek replies. ‘May I ask how you know that?’
‘He mentioned he was meeting you for a game of Go at Costa Coffee in Cheltenham.’
‘Did he? Well, that’s correct. We met there.’
‘There’s some concern about what’s become of Mr Roberts since,’ says Graves. ‘We won’t keep you long.’
‘All right. Come on in.’
A shuffling of feet. The front door closes. The voices move into the sitting room and become slightly less distinct, though my senses are on high alert and I can still hear them well enough. I move cautiously across to the closed door and inch the handle down, alert for the slightest squeak.
One False Move Page 24
