The Hunt and the Kill

by Holly Watt

  ‘Where did you find the original file?’ she asked quickly. ‘The one with the Corax information?’

  Garrick pointed vaguely across the room, close to a window overlooking the hills behind the house. ‘There. On the shelf closest to the ground.’

  Casey hurried over and dropped to her knees. There was no file with Garrick’s name now. It must have been removed. She photographed the shelf of files, then pulled out a file and opened it at random. Pages and pages of small type: Adsero’s research into the role of clozapine in the treatment of schizophrenia. The trial had been carried out in Slovakia, it seemed. She slapped the file closed. On to the next one. Clinical trials on an experimental drug for rheumatoid arthritis. Trial completed in Belgium two years ago. Next was an Adsero heart drug tested in Cape Town, just under four years ago.

  A shiver at the time ticking away, and she shoved the file back on the shelf, jumping to her feet.

  ‘This is all information about Adsero drug trials,’ she said to Garrick. ‘I don’t know enough to know if any of it is useful. This one’s about a heart trial in Cape Town, for God’s sake.’

  A needle in a haystack, thousands of pages of chaff.

  ‘I didn’t think they even did trials in South Africa,’ said Garrick pensively. ‘Only in Europe.’

  Casey slammed another file back into place. ‘It hardly matters, Garrick. We need to find something that proves … ’

  ‘He’s probably being more careful nowadays,’ said Garrick. ‘Once bitten.’

  Casey roamed around the room, reading one line of file labels, then another. She felt like a wasp, battering itself pointlessly against a sheet of glass, and then a blaze of anger. Stupid girl. Come on.

  ‘Mr Garrick?’ Casey jumped at the sound of Mabel’s voice, unsure, on the landing just at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I’m just showing Carrie the view from up here,’ Garrick called down. His voice was a mistake, thought Casey. He was justifying himself to the housekeeper, which he wouldn’t do normally. ‘Is breakfast ready, Mabel?’

  ‘Nearly, Mr Garrick.’

  The footsteps receded haltingly.

  Casey glared at Garrick, then ricocheted around the room once more, stopping by another window, this one overlooking the drive and the courtyard at the back of the house. Here were more rows of files. More neat black script. There was only a tangle of letters on the back of these files. ASF, KJT, FBT, BHF, WGF. Gibberish. She felt as if the maze was closing in around her: the dark yew hedges fairy-tale flourishing even as she hesitated. And any minute, the blackness would enclose, enfold, engulf.

  Casey yanked out the WGF file blindly. The Wheaton Gulati Foundation, according to the first page in the file. She flicked through it mindlessly, then stopped sharply, going over the last few words again in confusion.

  The Wheaton Gulati Foundation had been set up to pay for scholarships, Casey saw. It had been established to select ten high achieving girls from sub-Saharan Africa and send them to European universities. The sums were not small either. Casey looked closer, intrigued. Forgetting her surroundings, she started to read through the funding agreements more carefully. They had all been initialled by Bailey, with a neat E and a distinctively rounded B.

  ‘Did you know your father was funding scholarships?’ Casey asked over her shoulder. ‘To universities in the EU.’

  ‘No.’ Garrick came to peer over her shoulder. ‘He never mentioned it. How odd.’

  Casey pulled out the next file along. ASF. The Almond Sheehan Foundation. This fund had been set up to pay for cataract operations for refugees in southern Asia. Fascinated despite herself, Casey flicked through the pages.

  ‘What the hell is Bailey up to?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Garrick said.

  Casey shoved the ASF file back on the shelf, knocking another file off the end.

  ‘Damn.’

  As she bent to pick up the file, there was a distant roar out on the road. Casey looked up and felt fear slap her.

  A black pickup was roaring up the narrow track towards the house.

  53

  ‘Garrick,’ she whispered.

  He was across the room in a flash, still clutching a file. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  The electric gates were swinging open long before the car could reach them. The pickup was kicking up a trail of dust as it tore up the hillside, screeching round the switchbacks.

  ‘Quickly.’ There was panic in Garrick’s voice. ‘We can’t be caught up here. We have to get downstairs to my bedroom. It looks fine if we’re caught there. Just about.’

  ‘But who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Elias has bodyguards.’ Garrick’s eyes were wide, haunted. ‘They must be his Cape Town people. Mabel must have called them … Oh, God … ’

  Garrick gripped Casey’s hand and started dragging her towards the staircase.

  ‘Hurry.’

  She pulled back for a moment. ‘I have to … ’

  Casey grabbed the file that she had knocked off the end of the shelf. The file had flipped open as it fell, and as she closed it, Casey caught a glimpse of the front page of the notes.

  The Fitzgerald Brennan Trust.

  ‘Wait.’ Casey jerked her arm out of Garrick’s reach. ‘Wait. I have to look at this.’

  ‘What?’ Garrick turned terrified eyes on her, his panic raw as meat. ‘We have to go. We have to go right now!’

  Out of the window, Casey could see the black pickup race into the last stretch. There were four men in the car, big, tough-looking men. As the pickup driver accelerated, he looked up, and for a split second his eyes met Casey’s.

  ‘We have to get downstairs.’ Garrick yanked at her arm. ‘Don’t you see? If they catch us up here, they’ll know … He’ll know … ’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Casey said hopelessly. ‘They’ve seen me. And Mabel knows we’ve been up here anyway … ’

  ‘Shit.’ Garrick clutched at her forearm again. ‘We have to get out of here. We have to … ’

  But Casey was pulling away from him. The Fitzgerald Brennan Trust. The Fitzgerald Brennan Trust.

  She ripped open the file.

  ‘What are you doing?’ It was almost a howl. ‘We’ve got to run!’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Casey shouted over him. ‘Ed Fitzgerald. Ernest Brennan. This trust was set up in their names.’

  ‘What?’ Garrick stared at her.

  Below the window, the pickup had screeched to a halt by the pouting cupid statue. The men were spilling out of it fast. There was no pretence here. No polite we-just-thought-we’d-stop-by-for-a-check. As Casey looked down, a man sprang out of the car and pulled out a gun.

  Garrick glanced out of the window and Casey heard a shout that was almost a scream.

  ‘They’re going to kill us,’ Garrick gasped. ‘They’re really going to kill us.’

  ‘They won’t kill us.’ Casey wasn’t at all sure if she believed that.

  Moving quickly, she ripped a few pages out of the file she was holding. She yanked open her foolish sequined bag and pulled out a pair of trainers. She put them on, shoving the papers into the bag.

  ‘Don’t … ’

  ‘It’s too late, Garrick,’ she said. ‘They know we’ve been up here.’

  Garrick stumbled towards the staircase. ‘They know … They know … ’ It was as if his mind had jammed.

  ‘Don’t, Garrick … ’

  But there was nothing else to suggest.

  There were shouts from below. The men were in the house now.

  ‘Garrick!’

  He looked back over his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t!’

  There was a look of sympathy in his eyes, a glimmer of apology, and then he took the first step down the stairs. She heard his voice, loud and confident. ‘Guys, guys. I’m Mr Bailey’s son, hey? Chill out.’

  There was a brief pause, then a rough voice with a strong Afrikaans accent, ‘Put
your fucking hands up, mister.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘Where’s the fucking girl?’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘We’ve seen her on the security video, dude. We know she’s here.’

  ‘Hey, you don’t need to be rough.’ Garrick’s voice pitched up sharply, ‘My father wouldn’t like it—’

  ‘He’s given us the fucking orders, buddy.’ A scuffle, the sound of a punch. ‘Now where the fuck is she?’

  A silence, stunned, and Casey could almost see Garrick nodding towards the stairs. That way.

  Casey scanned the office, a rat in a trap. The room was at the top of the house, and there was no way out, no escape anywhere. Beyond the French doors, the sea sparkled. Casey dashed across the room, slamming into the double doors. She tore at them frantically, but they were locked, solid, not giving an inch. A key? On the desk maybe? She was across the room in a bound, but the desk was bare. She yanked open the desk drawers. Notepads, pens, a hole punch: no key.

  Casey looked back at the windows. A heavy green lamp sat on the desk, its solid bronze base gleaming. Casey grabbed it, tore it from its socket and raced across the room trailing wires. She hurled the lamp hard against the glass. The window shattered, still too small a gap. Casey snatched up the lamp and battered the window again and again, glass flying through the air.

  Someone was racing up the stairs, footsteps loud on the treads. There was no time to look around, no time to … Casey forced her way through the gap, glass ripping her clothes. She felt an edge slice down her leg, pure agony, and screamed. But she was through.

  Casey darted to the polished chrome railings. There was no staircase down. Nothing. Behind her the men were trying to force their way after her through the big French windows.

  There was the blue of the infinity pool, wide and glittering. The water was perfectly flat, not even a ripple. There was no thought, just a scramble up the railings. Up, and over, and off.

  For a split second, it was as if she was barely falling, the world frozen, the horizon oddly steady.

  You’ll smash into the bottom of the pool, spine shattering into a thousand pieces.

  You’ll be unable to escape, unable to swim, drowning as those men look down with a laugh.

  But it was too late. She was falling, and it was as if she was falling forever, a bird shot out of the sky.

  54

  The water slapped her face and swallowed her up. There was an explosion of aquamarine. Her feet slammed hard into the bottom of the pool, and her legs folded up with a searing pain.

  She was stunned for a split second, floating almost peacefully in that blue, blue water, and then she was moving awkwardly, her limbs spasming, her lungs starting to scream now. And then she was fighting her way to the surface, her legs still able to kick.

  Casey broke the surface, looking up. Three men were on the edge of the balcony, staring down. As she scrambled to the side of the pool, she saw a movement, heard the curt shout, ‘Get her.’

  A gun.

  Casey fought through the water, struggling and desperate. The water was so heavy, so placid, absorbing all her panic and deadening her frenzy.

  There was a silver ladder fixed to the side of the pool, picture perfect in the blue, and she got a hand on it just as the gun went off, the bullet smashing into the marble side of the pool and sending up a shock wave of water.

  Casey scrabbled to climb the ladder.

  Another bullet, this one blasting into the paving stones around the pool, sending up splinters of marble.

  But she was out of the pool, and she ran, half crouched, leaping over the bank beyond the infinity pool, and tearing away down the hill, leaving the house behind. The earthworks for the infinity pool helped her, creating a solid barrier between her and the house, and then she was racing through the garden, out in the open, back tensed for a bullet.

  She ran and ran, waiting for the blast of the gun. The ground was powdery and steep, splinters of rock sliding away. Casey skidded and slipped all the way down the hill, the earth crumbling away beneath her.

  Bailey’s land ran down to the sea, she realised. On both sides of the property, there was a high barbed-wire fence. Ahead there was a fringe of greenery above huge granite rocks that dropped straight down into the sea. There was no beach here, no softening of the landscape. A narrow path led through the shrubbery, and beyond the wind-blasted trees, she could just make out a small jetty.

  As she ran, Casey assessed the barbed-wire fence. There was no way she could climb that. Red caught her eye: blood running down her shin from her sliced leg, and she could feel a sharp pain.

  Behind her, she could hear shouts. The men must have sprinted through the house, and now they were chasing her, hunting her down. She glanced back and caught sight of three men. Tall and fast, two of them holding guns.

  Casey ran.

  Ahead of her, the sea glimmered. She could see the white buildings of Llandudno far along the coast, glimmering in the early morning sun. But they were an impossible distance away.

  The men were gaining on her, far faster down the crumbling hillside. They were wearing proper boots, proper shoes, not a stupid black dress and trainers. Stupid girl.

  Casey reached the narrow path that twisted through the greenery, and didn’t slow down. Branches whipped at her face, catching her hair and tearing at her dress. As she reached the open air again, she could almost feel the waves pounding at the rocks. The sound swallowed her up. These waves were huge, six foot high maybe, and relentless, inexorable, grinding into the crags of the granite.

  A toy soldier trapped …

  There was a boat tied up to the jetty. A silver speedboat, maybe twenty foot long. Casey glanced at it, assessing and rejecting. No key. No time to untie the boat, no time to start it, and take the risk. No time … She scrambled out over the rocks.

  The waves filled her world, crashing and roaring, the spray sharp in the air. Behind her the men had reached the jetty and were bounding on to the rocks, almost enjoying this pursuit. Casey leaped from rock to rock. Jumping, eyeing the next move, throwing herself into the air. Any slip, any missed step, that would be the end. An ankle sliding into a crack, a leg snapping like a wishbone. It would be over. The gun fired again, and they were so near, so close.

  Casey was at the ocean’s edge now, the waves crashing into the rocks just below her feet. Beyond the blast and the spray, the water was a filigree of blue and white, heaving up and down as if the sea were breathing. Seagulls shrieked overhead, buffeted by the wind.

  Casey clambered on, scraping her knees and elbows. The blood was running down her leg, spattering red as she ran.

  A few more steps, round yet another boulder, and she halted with horror. A jag of granite stuck out into the sea, smooth and sheer. The boulder was thirty feet high, unclimbable, the sea thundering at its base.

  She was trapped.

  ‘Get her!’ The first man was less than twenty feet behind her now, springing from rock to rock.

  It was impossible. There was no way forward, no way back. A seagull was hovering just a few yards out to sea, screaming into the wind.

  Casey hesitated, staring down at the roiling water, and then she threw herself into the void.

  55

  The water was icy and Casey felt the ocean grip her instantly. There was a whirl of currents tugging her this way and that. She surfaced for a gasp of air and dived down again, swimming as deep as she could, knifing her way through the water.

  The ocean roared. But this time she was ready for it. Not battling the power of the ocean, but slicing through it, letting the rip tide carry her along.

  She had to get round the base of that promontory. Had to.

  Casey surfaced: another gasp of air. She turned back instinctively, looking round for the bodyguards.

  One man was standing on the edge of the rocks, and the other two had nearly caught up. It was the other two who had the guns. They had been slowed down by their weapons. Casey ducked her h
ead underwater again, and swam as hard as she could, the taste of salt in her mouth.

  Ahead was the jag of granite, the seaweed waving almost lazily. And now she was fighting the water, too desperate to let the rip carry her along. Come on.

  To the surface: an ear-splitting bang and she dived down again. Up again. An explosion shattering the air. Down again. Last chance, raging against the might of the ocean. She swam and swam, until her lungs felt like they would explode.

  To the surface. To the surface now.

  Up again, her head jerking round to look back. And at last all she could see was granite, beautiful, solid granite. She had made it round the jag of rock sticking out in the ocean.

  She had made it to cover. She had made it out of sight.

  She was safe.

  The tide yanked at her, the granite boulders gazing down bleakly.

  No, not safe. Not safe at all.

  Casey swam through waves, suddenly ice cold. It was that sweep of the Benguela, up from the Antarctic, bringing the current of ice. The sun was warm now, hot on her face, but the water was leaching away her energy, wave after wave after wave.

  She was swimming with the tide, it was impossible to fight it. Desperately looking for somewhere to come ashore, to scramble up into the hills. But the granite boulders were huge, and the waves were breaking white over rocks hidden just beneath the surface.

  A deep breath, head down, onwards. She had kicked off her shoes somewhere, and the sequined bag was long gone.

  What would those men do to Garrick? He had trusted in a father’s love, almost sweetly, but that might not be enough. Bailey might decide the Corax theft had been Garrick’s only chance. Once bitten …

  In her mind’s eye, she saw those men again, holding the guns with the ease of familiarity. Bounding over the rocks so effortlessly. They weren’t the usual Armed Guards: Immediate Response. Those teams could be idle amateurs, cigarettes dangling as they hopped in their pickups, cruising easily across town to switch off the shriek of a malfunctioning alarm. These men were professional, ruthlessly so.