* * *
For all his bravado, Kevin didn’t like being alone in that house. He started to regret his decision before he was halfway up the stairs, but Jenny was at the bottom and he didn’t want to lose face after speaking out as he had, so he told himself not to be so stupid and carried on climbing.
Though the house was empty, he closed the door behind him, and turned sideways-on to the toilet in order to keep half an eye on the handle. It wasn’t that he felt stalked, watched or shadowed, it was...well, he wasn’t sure what it was, but it manifested as a tickly knot at the base of his spine, and he was relieved in more ways than one to finish peeing.
He didn’t waste time exploring once he was done. He eyed both bedroom doors as he crossed the landing, and kept his back to the wall on the way downstairs, and darted across the hallway and through the open front door, mentally kicking himself for being a scaredy-cat.
Still, he thought, at least he hadn’t freaked out in the cage like a...
Like a...
Kevin came up short. Not only did he now feel like an arsehole for his instinct to mock a woman’s reaction to an underground cage designed to keep women hostage, but he had a virtually unobstructed view of twenty acres of land, and he couldn’t see said woman anywhere.
The boot of the BMW was open, though.
* * *
Kevin didn’t get a Bad Feeling just then, not as such. But he was sufficiently unsettled as to put his hand in his pocket for his phone, and to feel a mild surge of alarm upon realizing he’d left it in the car.
He took a breath and admonished himself for a third time. “Don’t be a twat, Kevin,” he said. That anything could have happened to Jenny in the past three or four minutes, here of all places, was plainly the stuff of horror movies. And Kevin, as he’d taken quite adequate pains to establish, wasn’t in one of those. Kevin was a die-hard lethal weapon, and as such he was more than equipped to handle a little jump-scare when Jenny popped up from wherever she was hiding.
Even so, he stopped and listened at all three corners of the house before poking his head around, and, having arrived back at the front door none the wiser, he made a full circuit of the garage, too, just to make sure no one was hiding there, either. Now he felt even more of an idiot.
He returned to the BMW to retrieve his phone and call her. That was when he started to get the Bad Feeling. He stared at the place where it had been for a full fifteen seconds, and then he checked the glove box and under the seat and under the car and then stared at it again, as though it might change its mind and appear before his very eyes. But his phone wasn’t there.
He stood, and looked at the vertical boot lid. He couldn’t see inside from this angle; he’d have to move closer. He willed his legs to move for an uncomfortable amount of time before they complied, edging him toward the opening, his eyes fixed, unblinking.
It wasn’t empty.
“Jen?” His voice was barely a squeak. His eyes ached from the strain of trying to see through the steel haunch of the car. “Jen, are you there?”
She was wearing blue. Whatever was in the boot was blue. But it was impossible; that was what he kept telling himself. They were alone here, miles from anywhere, the only vehicle in the driveway, on a random visit, unplanned before the moment they’d left. No one had followed them here, he was sure of it. He’d taken to making sure of it since the team had started losing their heads. So it couldn’t be Jenny in the boot. Unless she’d climbed in there herself, which, for a split second, he conceded she might just do in order to get back at him. Maybe she’d seen him edging up the stairs, heard him talking to himself in the bathroom. She did have a sense of humor, after all, even if she didn’t air it often.
That was it. It had to be. And so even as it occurred to him what a stereotypical horror-movie thing it was to do, he got ahold of himself and forced a laugh and said, “Very funny, Jen, you can get out now,” and stepped around to the back of the BMW.
She wasn’t there. It was just a cool box and a spare petrol can.
He turned and took in the cracked-open doors of the barn. Wondered how she could have gotten over there so fast, and why, before the hairs on the back of his neck told him she was standing behind him.
“Okay, you got me,” he said as he spun around to face her.
He just had time to register, as she swung the blade at his neck two-handed like a baseball bat, that it wasn’t Jenny he was looking at.
Chapter 29
“It’s not mine, I swear!”
“Annie, don’t you fucking touch that gun!”
“I haven’t touched it! I’m not going to touch it! It isn’t mine!”
“Annie, get the fuck away from it and keep your hands up over your head!” I was on my back foot, fully into the room with nowhere to go and nothing to hide behind, cocked into a shooter’s stance more by luck than judgment, with one hand hovering at my throbbing hip as though I had a weapon there, which I did not.
Annie shifted to the opposite end of the sofa, hands up, panicked eyes on me. “It’s not mine, Ali, I promise.”
“Whose is it?”
She just sat there, shaking her head, and started to cry.
“Annie, talk to me,” I barked. There was someone else in the house. Shit, there was someone else in the house, wasn’t there? I scanned the room: open plan, stairs leading up from an alcove, archway through to the kitchen, French doors from the dining room out into the garden. Four uniformed officers within a hundred-yard radius. No other help for miles around. And something else. Something else. “Annie, who else is here?”
That gun. I’d seen that gun before.
“Don’t fuck about, Annie. Who’s in the house?”
I’d stared down the barrel of that gun.
“Ann—”
The penny dropped. Annie, who’d been so pleased with herself after finding that photo. Annie, who’d been so keen to advance the theory of Erica’s complicity. Annie, whose name was fucking Annie, for Christ’s sake.
My head swam. I felt the heat and the bile rising again. Not now. Not now, Ali. I forced myself to focus. “It’s you, isn’t it?” I said. “You’re the witness. You know him, don’t you? You know That Man.” She was sobbing now, shaking her head, hugging her knees. “Annie,” I said, hard-edged, no time for compassion right now. “Is he—is that man in this house right now?” Say no. Say no. Please say no, Annie.
“No.”
I stared at her, crying her little heart out, looking toward the kitchen, and I knew that it wasn’t her who’d spoken. She couldn’t have said a word if she’d tried.
“It’s mine.” The voice was soft, feminine; a little hoarse maybe, but it was loud, well-projected—a chest voice, not a head voice. It sent a chill right through me.
I didn’t go for my phone. I went for the gun instead, taking two long, painful strides and snatching it up from the table, regretting the forensic faux-pas even as I stepped clear of the furniture and leveled it at the center of the archway. “Erica,” I said, my voice cracked and breathless. How was this happening? What was happening? “It’s Ali Green. I’m alone. I’m armed. I want to see your hands.”
“I haven’t got anything.”
“Show me.” Why hadn’t Annie gone for the gun? Why had Erica left it on the table? Was it even loaded? The last time I’d seen it, in Erica’s hands, it had only had one bullet left in it. The faint scar on my cheek began to burn. A memory of her clawing at my face. A vision of scraps of my skin lodged under her nails.
Erica slid sideways into the archway—a silhouette at first, blocking the light from the window behind her. She held her hands out in front of her as she stepped into the room and resolved into color, and her appearance startled me. She barely resembled my memory of her, or the photos pinned to the incident board, or propped against my computer, or stored in my phone. She’d lost at least a stone,
her limbs bordering on gangly, her hips sharp and narrow, and she’d ironed the tumbling curls out of her hair.
There was no mistaking her eyes, though. Erica stared into mine along the rib of the revolver, just as I had hers the last time we’d met. “Touché,” she said. And then between us, held up between her forefinger and thumb, a bullet, copper-jacketed with a brass case. “I don’t keep it in there.”
“Stand still.”
“I am.”
I thumbed the chamber release and let the cylinder pivot out of the gun. Empty. Snapped it back in and lowered the weapon. “Give it to me.”
Erica took a step forward and placed the cartridge in my outstretched hand. “I didn’t come here to hurt her. Or you.”
“Sit down.”
She didn’t.
“Why are you here?”
She glanced at Annie, who’d buried her head in her hands.
“Don’t look at her,” I said. “I’ve been to the caravan. I saw the postcard.”
She sighed and dropped her hands, making me flinch. “Mum,” she said.
“Yeah, to protect you.”
“From what? You?”
“I th—”
“Does Richard know?”
My breath caught in my throat and I bit the side of my tongue painfully. I stared at her, and she stared back.
“Ali, does he know about the caravan?”
“You don’t know,” I said. I glanced at Annie, who silently shook her head.
“Don’t know wh—” She startled. Her eyes grew as they darted between us, panic flashing through them. “What’s happened to her? Annie?”
“Erica, sit down,” I said.
She threw me an incredulous glare and then, in one smooth movement, she swept up a leather bag from the floor at the end of the sofa, slung it over her shoulder and walked straight through me on her way to the door.
“Erica, stop!” I managed to get a hand to the bag and pull it back; she jerked around to face me with a fist already raised and I stepped into it before she had the chance to swing, blocking her arm with mine and sweeping her feet from under her with my leg. “Just stop,” I shouted, Erica struggling to regain her feet even as she hit the carpet. “She’s safe. Nothing’s happened to her, she’s fine.”
She slumped, let go of my leg, sat on the carpet, panting. “What don’t I know?” she said.
* * *
“There’s a picnic site on the other side of the woods. People use it for dogging. There was some old bloke sitting in his car, playing with himself. I told him I’d call the police if he didn’t give me a lift back to town, so he did. I went home. Mum helped me. My nan died while I was...away. Did you know that? She lived on her own, out on the Fens, middle of nowhere. They haven’t even cleared the place out yet. That’s where I’ve been. I was kind of hoping you’d have found him by now, or he’d have come looking for me. I thought it wouldn’t take much for him to find me, but then you didn’t, either, so I don’t know.”
“Why did you want him to find you?”
She nodded at the empty revolver on the table between us. “That was what the bullet was for.”
“So what made you come back?”
“That policeman. The one who was looking for me. I panicked when I heard what happened to him. And then Mum told me what you said and I figured every copper in the country was going to be looking for me. She said Richard’d turn me in so I couldn’t stay at hers or go back to Nana’s. That’s why she sent me to the caravan. He didn’t know about it. It used to be my dad’s. It was her safe place, although I was still pretty sure he’d find me there.”
“What happened?”
“You saw the postcard. It was under the door when I woke up. Fucker followed me out there, came right to my door when I was asleep and didn’t do me in. Just left me a note. Take care of Annie. So that’s what I’m doing, because a) God knows she needs a friend right now, and b) I figured sooner or later he’d stop believing his own hype and realize I wasn’t going to do his dirty work for him, and I’d be here waiting when he came to do it himself.” She gave Annie a pointed look. “Except I got that wrong, didn’t I?”
I felt Annie deflate beside me. “Wrong how?” I said.
“Tell her, Annie. Show her the money.”
I looked at Annie. She sighed and dragged her hands through her hair and gave a tight nod. Stood and crossed to the kitchen. Took the lid off a cookie jar. Returned with a wad of twenty-pound notes and dropped it on the table. “I didn’t know what to do with it,” she said.
“Annie, what...?”
“That’s where I found it. It’s all there.”
“What do you mean, that’s where you found it?”
She collapsed back onto the sofa and just sat there, shaking her head.
Erica uncrossed her legs and stood. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said.
“It’s not my money. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t ask for anything.”
Oh God, Annie, what have you done? “He’s paying you?” I said.
Annie’s face was a knot of frustration. I could all but see her tongue tying itself in knots.
“Drink this.” Erica came from the kitchen with a glass brimming with ice and what I assumed was vodka. She took one of Annie’s trembling hands and gently curled the drink into it. “He’s got a key,” she said, sitting back down and tucking her legs under her. “He’s been coming here when Annie’s out. He left her the money. He doesn’t want to kill her, else he’d have done it weeks ago. Fucking idiot thinks we’re all on the same side.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Annie.” It was all I could muster. I watched her drain the glass, and hold it out to Erica, who got up and took it back to the kitchen.
Too much to deal with. Pressure building. Pain in the back of my head. I had to get out. “Stay here,” I said. “Sit down.”
I left the front door open and walked to the car. Reread the postcard. Rooted around in my bag and found three tenners and a business card. Took them to the patrol car parked ten yards behind and gave them to Tim or Bill or whatever his name was. “Buy everyone drinks and ice creams,” I said. “Panic’s over. Everything’s okay. Sorry I kept you. Put my name on everything, I’ll square it all away, alright?”
The two of them looked at the crumpled notes in Jim’s (that was his name) hand. “You sure you’re okay?” he said.
“Yep!” I gave him my toothiest grin and patted the roof of the car. “Have a great day, guys. I really appreciate your help.”
I waved as they passed me on my way back to the house, and then I collapsed against Annie’s car and wailed silently into the blackness of eternity.
Chapter 30
Kevin was looking down when he turned around, expecting a face half a foot lower than his, so the machete blade struck him on the chin, splitting the bone as it knocked him off his feet and opening what he imagined, in the strangely calm and lucid second before he hit the ground, to resemble a second mouth directly below the one to which he was accustomed.
It didn’t hurt yet, at least not as much as the back of his head where it hit the gravel, and the blood wasn’t running into his eyes, so he was able to think fast enough to kick his leg up and stop a second downward stroke with his foot. He felt it go in, but it didn’t go through, which was a positive.
The man he knew as Tom Reed pulled back the blade and said, “For fuck’s sake, Kevin, keep still so I can kill you.”
“No.” Kevin figured he was probably in a lot of trouble right then, but if he was getting butchered, he was getting butchered alive until he ran out of limbs to fight with.
Reed kicked his worryingly numb foot out of the way and brought the foot-long machete down tip-first, aiming straight for his heart. Kevin, on autopilot, threw his arms out straight, his hands going for Reed’s but catching the blade instead, just belo
w the hilt. He stopped the blow, but he might have lost a finger or two; he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t feel anything but rage and fear.
“Stop it,” Reed said.
“Why are you here?” It didn’t seem like the time to ask, but he really wanted to know.
Reed put all of his weight behind the knife. “It’s my house, dickhead. Why are you here?”
“Where’s DI Riley?” Arms buckling.
“Is that who that was?”
“If you’ve killed her—”
“You’ll what?”
“You’re going to have to take my fucking hands off if you don’t want to die, you piece of shit.”
“Fine.” Reed pitched up suddenly, slicing Kevin’s palms deeper and releasing the knife from his grip and swinging it at his right hand.
Kevin managed to snatch it out of the way, and took the initiative while his assailant was off balance. He aimed a kick with his uncut left foot and managed to land it on the inside of Reed’s knee, folding it. He scrambled up as Reed went down, trying not to count his fingers as he used his elbows and one leg to lever himself more or less upright.
Reed lashed out with a backhanded swing, taking a notch out of Kevin’s calf. He barely felt that, either, and it was the one he was rapidly repurposing as his spare leg, not his hopping leg, so it wasn’t going to slow him down any.
His thoughts, however, were slowing down with every cup of blood that poured out of his face, so he didn’t think about the consequences of aiming his bisected foot at Reed’s head until it was too late to stop the swing.
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