Faith

by Peter James

  'Caven,' the private investigator said.

  'Good morning.' It was Ross Ransome, sounding as if he was suffering the effects of a serious hangover.

  'And what can I do for you on this fine summer morning?'

  'I don't know where the fuck you are, it's raining in London.'

  Caven said nothing. It was raining here, too, and it wasn't worth the bother of explaining he had been joking. God had omitted to put in Ross Ransome's humour chip. He stared at the newspaper page in front of him, wondering if the surgeon had seen this.

  'You said to call you in the morning for the compass co-ordinates.'

  'I have them in my office, you'll have to hold for a minute.'

  As Caven went upstairs, Sean told his client to hold, too.

  They were written down on a jotter beside his computer. 'Are you still there, Mr Ransome?'

  'Yes.'

  'Fifty-one degrees, forty-eight minutes, fifty seconds, north, one degree, fifty-six minutes, eighty-one seconds west.'

  'Where the fuck is that?'

  'Somewhere in Gloucestershire, in the vicinity of Cirencester.'

  'Is that the closest you get it?'

  'Like I told you, it'll be accurate to within fifty feet. You need to avail yourself of an Ordnance Survey map.'

  'I thought I paid you last night to tell me where she is.'

  'You did and I've just told you. Now I'm going to finish my breakfast with my son. Good morning, Mr Ransome.'

  Hugh Caven hung up and went back downstairs. Sean was talking into his phone.

  'No calls at the table,' his father said, then grinned. This kid was so special — he was so proud of him it hurt sometimes.

  Will you be proud of me when you're a grown-up? Will you still imitate everything I do? In case you do, please let me set you good examples now.

  He picked up the Daily Mail again and reread the piece on Ross Ransome. Then he read it again.

  He continued to stare at the page throughout the rest of the meal, eyes flicking occasionally to Sean. Upstairs in his wallet was the cheque from his client for six thousand pounds that he badly needed. Where was the borderline between decency and betrayal?

  You're a killer, Ross Ransome. You killed Barry Gatt just as surely as you killed this Lady Reynes-Raleigh and the others before her. Don't ask me how I know, but I do.

  When they had finished breakfast, Hugh Caven went back to his office, closed the door, phoned Directory Enquiries, and asked for the number of the coroner's office for the City of Westminster.

  98

  At some time around seven Alec had found a television. Faith had been aware of him slipping out of bed, then she had heard distant shouts, laughter.

  She slept on and when she woke again it was half past nine. She smelt bacon. Oliver was standing in the room, in jeans, trainers and a pink polo shirt. He looked tired.

  'Morning,' he said, and kissed her tenderly. 'Open the curtains?'

  'Please.'

  'It's a real English summer's day out there.' It was blustery outside with spots of rain on the glass. He closed the window then turned towards her. They held each other's eyes. 'Thank you,' she said, 'for all you did last night.'

  He looked awkward. 'We got away with it.' He raised his arms apologetically. 'Had to borrow some of Gerry's clothes — just came down in the suit I was wearing and that was it.' He grinned. 'So, how are you feeling?'

  'Rested,' she said. 'But tired still. Did you sleep?'

  'A little. I always sleep here — this is where I come when I need to sleep. But I guess my brain was a little busy.'

  'Mine feels clearer this morning. We're fugitives, right?' she said.

  'You've broken a Mental Health Act order and I've helped you. It would not be too smart to get caught.'

  'And what happens now?'

  'Breakfast. Alec was hungry, I made him a fry-up. I hope that was OK?'

  'I think I'd like a fry-up too.'

  'You're hungry?'

  'Starving.'

  'Good.' He looked pleased. 'You need to eat.'

  She sat up in the large, soft, sleigh bed, exposed wooden beams above her head, antique French oak furniture in the room. 'What happens after breakfast?'

  'I have to go to London, see a lawyer friend. We need to move fast.' He dug a small vial out of his pocket and held it up to her. It contained what looked like blood and had a handwritten label on it. 'This is a blood sample the ward sister at the Grove Hospital took from you last night and dated. I'm hoping it's going to show that you were pumped full of ketamine. I'm also hoping the ward sister did what I asked her to do and checked your husband's coat pocket, where she'd have found an empty drip bag with traces of ketamine in it.'

  Alarmed, Faith said, 'Do you have to go? Couldn't you do it over the phone from here?'

  'I need to get this blood sample to a lab.'

  'We're in Gloucestershire?'

  'Yup.'

  'There must be labs here — in Cheltenham.'

  He sat down on the bed, took her hand. 'It's Friday. Gerry's gardener and the cleaning lady come on Tuesdays. No one else comes here, except maybe the pool-man. You're over a mile from the nearest road and two miles from the nearest village. No one knows you're here. You just have to sit tight. Don't use the phone because that can be traced back. Trust me, OK?'

  'Yes, I do. It's just —'

  'You understand what your husband was doing to you, don't you?'

  'Yes. You explained it to me.'

  'Do you want me to talk you through it again?'

  'No, I understand. It's just — What happens if you get caught?'

  'I have the blood sample — the proof. And I don't know where you are. So what are they going to do? Torture me?'

  She smiled. 'And if you don't come back?'

  'I'll be back. In a few hours. If I need to speak to you I'll call you. I'll ring twice, hang up, then call again. OK?'

  She nodded, with deep reluctance.

  'You have your mobile? You picked it up last night when we collected your things from your home?'

  She climbed out of bed, and walked, unsteadily at first, to her suitcase. She retrieved her phone from the jumble of clothes.

  'Switch it on, but don't use it — I'll call in an emergency if for any reason I can't get through to the main number here, with the same two-ring code. But don't use it — any call you make or receive can be traced to the nearest cell. OK?'

  'Keep it on but don't use it,' she said. 'You'll ring twice, hang up, then ring again.'

  'Good girl. Now, one egg or two?'

  'Two, please.'

  'Sunny side up or over easy?'

  'Over easy.'

  They were good eggs, cooked well, and after Oliver left she continued to sit in front of the warm blue Aga, at the refectory table, listening to the squawking voices of the Cartoon Network on Sky on the huge wide-screen television in the next-door room, watching the rain falling outside, and the blue Cherokee driving away through it. She felt scared. She was trembling. Too agitated to eat, she got up from the table, walked to the front door and made sure it was shut and locked.

  Then she explored the rest of the house. There were more doors everywhere, doors out from the conservatory into a walled garden where there was a swimming-pool with a blue cover drawn across it, out to a yard where the oil tank and the dustbins were housed. She checked them all to ensure they were locked.

  Then she went back to the kitchen, forced a couple of mouthfuls of the food down her and scraped the rest into the bin.

  Through the window she had a clear view of the driveway, which dipped down into an endless landscape of green and beige fields, clumps of trees and bushes, and a distant line of pylons strung out beneath a grey sky. A couple of morose-looking Friesians cropped grass on the far side of a barbed-wire fence.

  There had been a power-cut recently. The clock on the electric oven next to the Aga flashed 00.00. So did the clock on the microwave. And the one on the radio on the work-surface.
Three sets of double-zeros flashing at her as if time had stopped. She looked at her wrist and realised her own watch had been removed at the hospital. What damage had they thought she could do to herself with a wristwatch? She dialled the speaking clock. Nine forty-six and twenty seconds.

  In a drawer she found a pile of instruction booklets and manuals, and busied herself working out how to reset the clocks on the appliances. She managed the microwave and the radio, but the electric oven defeated her.

  Alec walked into the kitchen. 'Can we go home soon?' he asked.

  She stared out of the window. The sky was darkening and a sudden volley of rain spattered against the panes, rattling like lead shot. She felt the draught on her face, and thought, with a shiver of both cold and fear, I don't know where home is any more.

  99

  Bloody woman.

  Margaret had left a message on his voice-mail, saying that the phones at home were out of order and she needed to speak to him urgently. How was he supposed to speak to her? He had called his mother-in-law three times at Little Scaynes Manor; each time the phone rang four times and voice-mail kicked in.

  Ross hung up again and dropped the mobile phone back on to the passenger seat of the rented silver grey Vauxhall. Then he called Lucinda to see if she had any messages. He'd already spoken to her earlier and cancelled his day's work.

  Sounding slightly shocked she asked, 'Have you seen today's Daily Mail?'

  'What's in it?'

  She sounded hesitant. 'A piece about Lady Reynes-Raleigh.'

  'Good riddance to that bitch-queen from hell.'

  'I've had a couple of calls — the News of the World and someone from the Guardian.'

  'What are they saying?'

  'They want to talk to you about the surgery you did on her.'

  'I don't have time to deal with this crap right now, Lucinda. Tell them it's patient confidentiality and to take a hike.'

  'I already have. I can't get through to the garage yet about your car.'

  'Car?'

  'Your Aston Martin.'

  'OK, fine.' His mind was wandering, he didn't have time to deal with crap like this right now. 'Talk to you later,' he said abruptly, and hung up.

  Rain was sheeting down and London's traffic was all snarled up. The traffic was always worst on Fridays. The wipers clunked away, the rubbers squeaking, the de-mister whistling out air on to the windscreen. Grosvenor Square was clogged up because of a reversing lorry. He jabbed the horn in frustration, then jabbed it again. Someone else a few cars behind him honked too.

  The runt, Caven, had told him to look up the co-ordinates himself on an Ordnance Survey map. Great. Six thousand pounds and he had to buy his own fucking map. He'd been to three places in London so far: two had nothing; one had Ordnance Survey maps for every fucking square inch of England except the Cirencester area.

  The traffic was inching forward. He finally reached the far side of the square, passed the American embassy, then turned left into South Audley Street, parked on a yellow line as close as he could to Purdey's, the gunsmith's, and ran into the shop.

  It was a relief to be out of the traffic and in the dignified quiet of the handsome interior, with its rich smells of leather and gun oil. A well-spoken male assistant behind the counter recognised him immediately. 'Mr Ransome, good morning, what can I do for you?'

  'I brought in one of my guns ages ago to have a scratch removed from the stock. I should have collected it in May.'

  'I'll go and find it.'

  Ross waited, drumming his fingers on the polished wooden counter. There was one other customer, a tall woman with a poodle on a lead, draping a silk scarf around her shoulders in a mirror. The dog growled at him, and Ross glared at it. Suddenly his face felt burning hot; the room seemed to shrink like a concertina, then stretch out again. He gripped the counter to steady himself as the floor pushed up beneath his feet, then sharply dropped away again. He saw a hand, long white fingers, neatly manicured nails, tufts of hair behind each knuckle.

  It was his hand, he realised, with shock. His own disembodied hand.

  'Here we are!' The assistant was holding Ross's leather gun case, with a tag tied to it. Ross was unsure whether the man was looking at him or at the woman behind him with the scarf and the dog.

  'I'll show you what we've done in the workroom, Mr Ransome.'

  The assistant was talking to him. His voice sounded strange, distant. The man was taking out his twelve-bore and presenting the stock to him for inspection.

  Ross barely looked at it. He wasn't interested in the mark, he just wanted to take the gun and go. The atmosphere had turned oppressive. Through the window he saw a police car, and unease squirmed through him.

  Got to get out.

  'I think we've managed to polish it out pretty well,' the assistant said.

  'Looks fine.'

  'If you see, this is where —'

  'I told you,' Ross snapped at him, 'it looks fine.'

  'Very good.' The assistant's demeanour stiffened, but his courtesy was unaltered. He replaced the gun in the bag. 'Will that be all for this morning, Mr Ransome?'

  'I need a box of cartridges. Number Six shot.'

  Ross handed him a credit card, signed the slip, then went outside, relieved to have the gusting air and rain on his face, relieved that the police car had gone. A traffic warden was writing a ticket, but she was several cars away from the Vauxhall. He opened the boot, a little revived, his face icily cold in contrast to the burning sensation of a few minutes back.

  The next shop he wanted was only a few doors away. He'd passed it many times, often stopping to look in the windows, but had never entered it before. Its window displays announced that it sold spying equipment, everything from night-vision goggles to briefcases with inbuilt recorders, tiny microphones and video-cameras. He went in and asked if they sold global positioning systems.

  They had a wide range, just about any option he could think of. He bought a receiver, which looked much like a mobile phone, and an attachment into which the assistant inserted a CD of Ordnance Survey maps covering Gloucestershire and much of the rest of the west of England. The assistant helped him programme in the two sets of coordinates Hugh Caven had given him this morning, and showed him how to get the computer to read them.

  When he returned to his car, he was lugging three bags. In addition to the GPS he had bought a pair of military specification Zeiss binoculars, and a slim pencil torch, which he had already clipped inside his breast pocket. There was a ticket taped to the windscreen and the warden had vanished. Ross tore it off, dropped it into the gutter, then climbed back into the car. It was twenty past eleven.

  He removed the receiver and the computer from one bag and laid them out on his lap, then looked at the screen closely, adjusting the brightness, making it sharper. He saw a village named Lower Chedworth. Roughly a mile to the west of the village he saw a long track, finishing at a building marked Ampney Nairey Farm, which was right at the epicentre of the co-ordinates. It had to be this place. There was no other building around.

  He dialled home to Little Scaynes once more. Again he got the voice-mail, but this time it was accompanied by a sharp beep from his mobile. The low-battery warning indicator was flashing. He cursed, and switched it off to conserve what power remained.

  Then he started the car and threaded his way towards Park Lane, from where he would make for the Cromwell Road and then the M4. The hatred burning inside him was intensifying with every minute that passed. He could see images in his mind of Faith and Dr Oliver Cabot kissing each other, naked in bed together, their surprised faces as they grabbed the sheets, trying to cover themselves as he stood over them in the bedroom with the light snapped on and his shotgun in his hands. Faith's expression, followed by the music of her screams as he blasted Dr Oliver Cabot, first with one barrel, then the second. The sheets ripped open, turning crimson with his blood then drenched in darker, uglier colours from his shredded viscera. Her eyes staring at him as he reloaded. />
  A small flashing display on his new GPS told him he was 116.075 miles from the target destination. As he inched forward in the traffic, the distance displayed on the instrument decreased.

  Twenty minutes later, as he approached the Hammersmith flyover, Ross saw a garage on his left and pulled on to the forecourt. He bought a five-litre petrol can from the shop and filled it to the brim. He also bought a cheap plastic lighter.

  100

  It went like that some days. Quiet. Just a sad wino found dead beneath a pile of newspapers and cardboard, or an elderly woman who'd dropped dead straining on the lavatory. Other days it was crazily busy, like today. A despatch rider who'd gone under a bus. A suicide who'd jumped from an office block. A middle-aged woman who'd died of complications after surgery.

  A dozen cadavers had been brought in overnight. The ones where murder was suspected, like the floater who'd been brought in from Westminster Bridge and the stabbing victim found in an alley off Oxford Street, would be examined by a Home Office pathologist. The rest were down to Harry Barrow, a retired pathologist of sixty-seven, who was doing a locum in Westminster while the consultant was away in Capri on holiday.

  'All right for some, isn't it?' he said. 'Lying on their backs while the whole of ruddy London drops dead on us.'

  Harry was a short, blunt, irrepressibly cheerful northerner, who habitually wore a bow-tie. He sported a nicotine-stained moustache that was too big for his face, and wire-framed glasses that were too small for it. He liked to moan that he kept getting dragged back, kicking and screaming, from retirement to do locum jobs. But the truth was that he was bored stiff with retirement, and seized any opportunity to escape from his nagging wife, Doreen, who loathed his pipe smoke, criticised his drinking and was only interested in bridge, which she played all day, every day, save for her hour in church on Sundays. He liked to jest that he found the dead more fun to be with than his wife.

  Dressed in his green scrubs, white boots and rubber gloves, Harry Barrow stood over the naked corpse of Lady Geraldine Reynes-Raleigh, talking into his dictating machine.