Now You See Me

by Chris McGeorge

  Writer Robin Ferringham, who is known for hard-hitting memoir Without Her about coping with the disappearance of his wife and who has recently been seen around Marsden expressing interest in the Standedge Five case, aided The Red Door in their investigation. He proved invaluable in the search.

  “Your name is attached to this thing now,” Loamfield was saying in his ear. “Hope you don’t mind. Seems to be the thing most people are latching on to. People love a celebrity, no matter how big or small. Hell, even if it’s one they’ve never bloody heard of.”

  “I’m not a celebrity,” Robin said.

  “Oh, Robin.” Loamfield laughed. “We all are now. We just played a part in what will be the sinking of Roger Claypath. I think that’s grounds for celebration.”

  “The man is just trying to find his kids,” Robin said, and to reinforce that being the end of it, he changed the subject. “Claypath said Matthew is going home. When?”

  “That was a recording that you just saw. McConnell’s being released in an hour. I’m on my way there now.”

  Robin jumped up, spun around, finally eyeing what he needed to find. His car keys on the desk. He snatched them up.

  “So am I.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Robin tried to reach Sally on the way to the prison. He wanted to thank her—thank her for getting him back to The Hamlet, thank her for getting the word out, thank her for everything. He still didn’t know how to react to her putting his name in the article, but if it meant it got more attention, then he didn’t blame her for doing it. She didn’t pick up. So he called again. Nothing. She was probably busy managing the inordinately high amount of website traffic. Robin had images of one of the computer towers sparking and hissing with activity and Sally running around it trying to repair it. He smiled as he pulled into New Hall and parked.

  Reporters were still crowding the steps of New Hall. Robin walked up and slowed as he saw them. He had to get inside, and this wasn’t likely to be pretty. He thought maybe there was a chance the reporters wouldn’t have read The Red Door article, and even if they had, there was an even better chance they had no idea what Robin Ferringham looked like. But as he made his way toward the thrall, one reporter looked around and noticed him.

  “Mr. Ferringham...” he shouted. And then the thrall was upon him, lurching forward in a collective swarm. He ran up the steps, barely keeping ahead of them, ready to be swallowed up.

  Sporadic shouts followed him over the steady thrum of chatter.

  “Mr. Ferringham, why are you here?”

  “Mr. Ferringham, is it true that you are writing a book about the Standedge Five?”

  “Mr. Ferringham, what is your opinion of the way the police investigation into the disappearances has been handled?”

  “Mr. Ferringham, do you think Roger Claypath should resign?”

  He didn’t look back, or engage at all. He actually copied Claypath, and as he got to the main door and went inside the building he felt a sense of relief.

  The hall was quiet and bright, just as it had been before. Guards stood at the entrance, no doubt to keep reporters out. Robin didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see an armed man.

  He went through security and spotted a familiar terra-cotta-colored suit standing by the reception desk. Loamfield looked as squirrelly as ever, although this time he had a huge smile painted on his face. He was wearing a bafflingly ugly blue tie with little yellow stars on it. He was chatting cheerily to the officer behind the desk.

  Robin made his way over, and before he could announce his arrival, Loamfield clapped eyes on him. “Robin Ferringham, the man of the hour.” Loamfield seized his hand and pulled him up to the desk. “Must say, you look dreadful. But that’s what happens sometimes. You’ve got to get hurt to make something of yourself.”

  “Hello, Mr. Loamfield,” Robin said, feeling the familiar pang of disgust toward the man. “Where is Matthew?”

  “Guards gone to get him. Been about half an hour. Paperwork, you know.”

  “Isn’t that your job?” Robin said.

  Loamfield beamed, but didn’t answer the question. “How did you do it? Just between us? How did you find that crack in the tunnel?”

  Robin repaid him by not answering that either.

  Loamfield seemed satisfied. “I know, I know. It’ll ruin the magic of it. Truth be told, I don’t really give a stuff how you did what you did. I just know I’m ready to reap the rewards. If you catch my drift.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t think I do.”

  Loamfield leaned in, and whispered in a harsh gush that seemed louder than his normal speaking voice. “Me, Terrance Loamfield, defense lawyer extraordinaire, is front and center for the acquitting of Matthew McConnell, in a crime that was pretty much an open-and-shut case. I won’t ever have to worry about work again.

  “Par exemple—double, triple, hell, quadruple murder, perp caught bang to rights. Witnesses out the wazoo. What’s that guy gonna want—a lawyer who can do the impossible. Enter me. I’ll be the guy they all want, and it doesn’t even matter if I get them off, because there will always be more and more silly pricks doing stupid things and needing a guy like me.”

  Robin raised his eyebrows. “Do you care about your clients at all?”

  “Caring never got anyone anywhere in life,” Loamfield said.

  Robin disputed that but didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “What’s going to happen when they bring Matthew out?”

  Loamfield shrugged. “He gets entrusted into my care for a short time. I am to take him straight home and wait for the police tech team to come and install his bracelet that won’t let him leave the house.”

  “Can I not take him home?” Robin found himself saying.

  Loamfield shook his head. “In the eyes of the law, you are an unsuitable guardian. You’re too close to this case. They’re only allowing me to take him because I’m his representation and...”

  “And what?”

  “And if I run off with him they know where to find me.” Loamfield laughed.

  Robin surprised himself by smiling too. He nodded. It made sense.

  “Mr. Ferringham,” a voice called. “I mean, Robin.”

  Robin and Loamfield looked around. The small frame of Matthew McConnell was standing at the entrance to the corridor Robin had previously gone down to meet with him. The familiar face of Stanton the guard was standing with him. When Robin met Matthew’s eyes, the young man rushed forward. Stanton hurried to keep up as he ran across the hall, clattering on the marble floor.

  Matthew got to Robin and launched himself at him, enveloping him in a hug. “Thank you, Mr. Ferrin—Robin. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The young man started to cry.

  Stanton caught up and he, Robin and Loamfield exchanged awkward glances as Matthew cried into Robin’s jacket. After what seemed like a long moment, Matthew relinquished his grip.

  “Thank you,” he said, rubbing his eyes and looking up at Robin. He looked shocked. “What happened to you?”

  Did his forehead really look that bad? He should have at least looked in the mirror when he was back in the room.

  “I...ran into a few things,” Robin said.

  “Like a truck?” Stanton said gruffly, and they all looked at the guard. It could talk.

  “You ready to go home, Matthew?” Loamfield said, smiling, although it was far less excited than it had been when the man had been thinking about himself.

  Matthew looked from Loamfield to Robin. “Are you coming?”

  Robin couldn’t help but smile, hopefully more genuinely than Loamfield. The lad seemed to need him, to want him around. “Of course. I’ll follow behind you.”

  “You kept your end,” Matthew said, “and I’ll keep mine. I’ll tell you everything.” He meant it too.

  Robin nodded.

  “Just one sm
all thing,” Matthew said to him and, seeing his expression, added, “Don’t worry—this one’s easy.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Can you get me a pizza?” Matthew said.

  Robin laughed, and nodded. “Yes, I can get you a pizza. What type of pizza do you want?”

  “Literally anything,” Matthew said, and laughed too.

  Loamfield said something under his breath to Stanton and turned to them. “We have to go out the back. Try and minimize the risk of any of the vultures outside seeing us.”

  Robin nodded. “What’s the address?”

  “Nineteen Parkfield, Marsden,” Matthew said.

  “Okay,” Robin said, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Matthew looked at him. “Yes, you will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Robin found a supermarket just before the two-lane highway that led back to Marsden. He got a frozen pepperoni pizza and, on the spur of the moment, three bottles of beer too. If anyone needed a drink, it was Matthew McConnell.

  He got back in his car and started along the highway. It was deathly quiet—everyone was at work or having lunch, so the roads were clear. He saw less than ten cars in about twenty minutes. His eyes wandered to the edge of the highway, trying to find some stimulation. He felt calm for the first time since starting this whole crazy journey—since Matthew called him. It was hard to believe that was only a week ago. It felt like a year.

  The roadside was short. The hard shoulder was really all there was, as past it, a steady hill dipped down into a forest. He wondered what forest it was. Did every forest have a name?

  There was something draped at the top of the hill coming up on his right. It was blue and snaking. Robin didn’t think anyone else passing would have noticed it, so it was odd that he did. Wasn’t it?

  It was coming up. A small, thin piece of shiny blue fabric lying in the grass. It had yellow stars on it.

  He passed it, mulling it over in his mind. And then his eyes widened. He hit the brake and the clutch the hardest he ever had—the car seemed to almost lurch upward before being held back in a stop.

  His breath came short and fast as he parked on the hard shoulder and got out. He looked up the hard shoulder, the way he’d come. He saw it. And he started to run.

  He got to it, grabbed it and turned it over in his hand. A tie. A blue tie with yellow stars, ugly as sin. The same tie he’d seen around Loamfield’s neck not half an hour before.

  He looked around where he picked up the tie. The shoulder didn’t have a barrier protecting the road from the forest below. It was very muddy but Robin thought he could see two very ill-defined tire tracks, veering off the road and going down the hill.

  He couldn’t understand what he was seeing until he looked down the hill to the tree line. A car, wrecked—the bonnet wrapped around a tree.

  No. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. But what he was seeing wasn’t a lie, and he didn’t have to guess that this was Loamfield’s car.

  He didn’t even think. He launched himself down the embankment toward the car. He couldn’t see inside it from his viewpoint. The roof was bent in the middle, warped by the impact. The back of the car looked almost fine, but the front looked like some kind of metal concertina. There was smoke rising from the crushed bonnet, and there was some kind of hissing sound he couldn’t quite understand.

  He got to the bottom of the hill, sliding on the mud, and got to the car. He looked inside. Loamfield was in the driver’s seat, his head limp against the seat. His face was drenched in blood but Robin couldn’t see from where. The passenger’s side was empty—and what was more, the door was open.

  Robin looked around desperately, into the trees. He couldn’t hear anything except the hiss of the engine. But then—a crunch of leaves and twigs nearby. And he thought he saw a figure through the trees.

  He instinctually stepped forward, ready to run. But a spluttering behind him stopped him. He turned to see that Loamfield was coughing up blood. Robin had to think—he didn’t know what to do; he didn’t want to be in this situation. To have to make this call. But—

  A small sound answered him. The sound of something igniting. A flame curled out of the crack in the bonnet. And Robin didn’t have a choice anymore.

  He pulled open the driver’s side door—it was difficult, as the car’s frame was so badly misshapen, but he managed. Loamfield looked like he’d lost consciousness again. Probably best. Robin looked down at the footwell to see a mess of Loamfield’s limbs and warped machinery. There didn’t seem to be anything wedging him in, which was good for both of them. They had to get away from the car, now.

  Robin unclicked Loamfield’s seat belt and gripped him by the shoulders, wrenching him out of the car. Loamfield was obviously back with him, as he screamed out in pain. So did Robin—the small man was a deadweight and it was taking every ounce of strength he had to get him out.

  He got Loamfield out and he flopped onto the ground. His legs were bloody, his expensive trousers ripped and soaked. There seemed to be something sticking out of his lower left leg—a small piece of metal.

  Robin quickly took a few breaths and looked up to see the small flame had been joined by three more. He wiped his brow and took Loamfield’s shoulders again, pulling him from the vicinity of the car. He was the one who screamed this time—in anger, in pain, in simple white-hot emotion. He got Loamfield ten feet away, then twenty, then thirty—all the time thinking he was going to pull so hard his arms would dislocate from his elbows. He stopped at the base of the embankment and looked at the car, as it became ablaze.

  He looked down at Loamfield—there was phlegm frothing from his mouth and suddenly his eyes flickered open. He instantly howled in pain. His eyes flicked around and fell on Robin. He looked, seeming to recognize him. “He...” He wheezed.

  “Don’t talk,” Robin said. “You’re going to be okay.” He got his phone, dialed 999. As he did, there was a creaking sound from the car. He looked up.

  The car exploded, the sound and the heat working together to frighten the hell out of Robin. Robin dived over Loamfield, shielding him. His ears rang and he felt as though his face was on fire. And in a second, it was over.

  Robin looked around. The car wreck was still flaming.

  And then a voice. On the phone that had slipped out of his hand. He picked it up. Didn’t even wait for the person on the other end to speak. “We...we need an ambulance. There’s been a car wreck, on the dual carriageway between New Hall and Marsden. I don’t know the road, sorry. There’s... I’ve got the driver out—he’s bleeding badly. He’s in and out of consciousness. Please just send somebody.”

  The person on the other end said something. But he didn’t know what. He just ended the call and knelt over Loamfield.

  The man was out again. Robin ripped open his shirt to see an open wound the size of his hand in his stomach. Must have been from the collision—it was oozing blood and some other substance. He got a better look at the man’s legs—they had no definition to them at all. He suspected they were both broken. Robin looked back at his face, and almost jumped when he saw Loamfield staring at him. His right eye was bloodshot and his stare was askew. He kept fluttering his eyelids and Robin could tell he was holding on to reality.

  Loamfield wheezed.

  “Help is coming. I’ve called them,” Robin said, hoping he was providing some comfort. But truth was, he didn’t even know if Loamfield was understanding him.

  “Where is he...?” Loamfield started and trailed off—the rest of the sentence a whisper. Robin bent down and put his ear to Loamfield’s mouth. “Matthew. Matthew...ran me off the road.”

  Robin looked at him. And his eyes closed again.

  An intense anger swelled in him, and he looked around himself, into the forest. He staggered up and into the trees, the sounds of the smo
ldering car skeleton behind him. Matthew McConnell was here. He was somewhere nearby.

  Had he planned this? Had he planned it all? Robin looked through the trees and started to run, dodging in between them.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  Had Matthew chosen Robin specifically? To get him out of prison? How had he done it—found out what he had about Sam? Was he really lying about all of it?

  He pulled himself through an outcrop and just kept going. The figure he’d seen couldn’t have got far.

  “Where are you?” he shouted, and it seemed to bounce off the trees. A bird fluttered out of a tree and startled him, but he just kept going.

  Sam had been leading him here? Of course not. How could he have been so gullible, so profoundly stupid? And he had believed in Matthew—seen some kind of good in him.

  “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Louder. His voice cracking.

  But there was no good in the world. Only different shades of bad. He wasn’t chasing Sam. He was chasing a murderer. Through the woods.

  He emerged into a clearing, turned in a circle. No sign of anyone—360 degrees and nothing.

  He breathed in and at the top of his lungs—

  “Where are you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Robin had lost the concept of time, which was ironic, seeing as the only thing to focus on was the ticking of the insanely loud clock on the wall. The four walls surrounding him made him feel like it was where he’d always been—this was his home now. He prayed for something—anything—to occupy his mind. Anything other than the image of McConnell getting farther and farther away.

  The door opened and a different man came in. No doubt to ask the same questions he’d been asked three times before. This man was young, scrappy, and he sat down with a manner that hadn’t quite matured. He placed a device on the desk in between them—a dictaphone. He went to press it and paused.

  The door opened again behind him, and Robin watched as a familiarly imposing figure came in. Roger Claypath. He stood behind the young man, who pressed the button on the dictaphone and introduced himself as Fields.