Safe House

by Chris Ewan

  ‘Look, if you’re sitting there thinking there’s some kind of problem with the evidence, you’re wrong. The police have your fingerprints on a syringe and a glass vial they found in your underwear drawer. The vial contains cyanide. And the syringe has traces of the victim’s blood.’ The man tightened his hands into fists. He clenched hard, like he was squeezing lemons. ‘Then there’s the vodka. They tested it and found it was laced with a sedative. Same sedative as was in the bloodstream of the victim. They also found a cash receipt for the off-licence closest to your apartment. The receipt was for vodka. Same brand. Same volume. Time of purchase syncs with the estimated time of death.’ He sucked a fast breath in through his teeth. ‘Now, I’ll be honest with you. There’s a problem with the CCTV in the shop. But the guy behind the counter remembers a blonde buying the vodka. So the police showed him a headshot and he gave a statement that you’re the blonde he remembers.’

  Out of nowhere, a huge boom and the cabin plunged wildly. The man’s bunk fell away and Lena was pitched up until she was towering above him. Tea sloshed around in her mug and her buttocks slipped on the scratchy blanket she’d spread beneath her. She braced her feet on the frame of the man’s bunk as he smacked into the wall and flailed for a handhold. The cabin door slammed closed. All around them, the stiff metal structure creaked and groaned and trembled. Then, all too slowly, the ship heaved itself back on to its axis and the door swung open.

  The man glanced at the doorway. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. ‘Maybe you’re planning to tell them you didn’t have a motive,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But you should know they don’t care very much about motives when they have hard evidence. And just think about who the dead guy was. Think of the ways he could have betrayed you. The threats he could have posed to you. And then there’s the kicker.’ The man pointed his finger at her. ‘You ran and you hid. For two whole months.’

  Lena felt no urge to protest her innocence. If the man really was in a position to help her – if he held a role with that level of power and influence – he would already know the truth. And if he knew the truth, then he wasn’t on her side. She couldn’t reveal anything to him. Not even how terrified she was. It was safer to act as if she didn’t care.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ the man said. ‘Don’t be sitting there thinking that Melanie Fleming is going to come good for you. She’s not. You can trust me on that. So you really should be worried. And if you’re not, the best thing you can do right now is tell me why.’

  Lena swallowed the last of her tea and set the mug down by her side, wedged in between the mattress and the metal bunk frame. She rested her fingers on her swollen wrist and stared hard at the man. Stared through him, really. He’d given her plenty of information. Some of it confirmed what she already suspected. Some of it was new. But there was one thing she was absolutely sure of – the man had no idea about the secret she and Melanie had shared. He had no awareness of the chance, however slim, that she was clinging on to. It all came down to the plumber. Everything depended on how observant he might have been.

  Chapter Eleven

  I returned to the cottage with Rocky. The broken sunglasses were tucked inside my sling and I was clenching the mobile phone in my hand. The casing of the mobile was damp and coated in mud and pine needles. I was afraid it would buzz again before I got to Rebecca and I didn’t know how to react if it did.

  I was sure the sunglasses and the phone belonged to Mr Shades. The sunglasses were distinctive enough for me to remember and the phone looked a lot like the one I’d seen him with. It had a colour screen and a full Qwerty keypad. Laura had owned a phone just like it.

  I was at the edge of the garden by now. Rocky had streaked ahead of me and around the front of the cottage, but I waded through the undergrowth towards the kitchen windows. I pressed my face to the dirt-streaked glass. Rebecca was standing on a chair, reaching up to the light-fitting in the middle of the ceiling. She had a pocket knife in her hand. She stretched high, rising up on her toes inside the blue plastic overshoes, the hem of her T-shirt hitching up. I waited until she’d pulled the knife clear and regained her balance before knocking.

  She swung around sharply, then placed a gloved hand over her chest when she saw it was me. She stepped down from the chair and opened the kitchen door, and I explained about the sunglasses and the phone. Rebecca took them from me and turned them in her hands, her lips twisted in thought.

  ‘Why didn’t you come and get me?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t want to forget where they were.’

  ‘You touched these with your bare hands.’

  It was a statement, not a question. I felt myself shrink.

  She shook her head, then pressed a button with her gloved thumb, cycling through the lighted display. ‘The only thing stored on this phone are the missed calls. All of them came from a withheld number.’ She hummed. Smiled flatly. ‘Someone’s very keen to get in touch with the owner of this phone.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t leave something like that behind, right?’ I said. ‘And if you were heading away from this place, you wouldn’t go in that direction. It just takes you deeper into the woods.’

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly what he wanted.’

  I met her eyes. Blinked. I was about to say something more when Rocky flew past my legs and blitzed by Rebecca into the kitchen. She turned and yelled at him to get out. He considered her for a moment, head on an angle, then danced left, jinked right, and dashed around to the end of the table.

  ‘Rocky,’ I said. ‘Come here. That’s bad. You’re a bad boy.’

  He smiled his goofy smile. Wagged his tail.

  ‘Well trained,’ Rebecca said bitterly.

  ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘No. You’re right.’ She glared at me, then seemed to lose interest in it. Her shoulders sagged and she pushed the door open wider. ‘You might as well come in, too. I’ve stuck my head in every room and the place is definitely unoccupied. But there’s something you should see.’

  Her plastic overshoes crinkled as she led me towards the pine kitchen table. Several items were collected together on the scarred wooden surface. Electrical wires and hunks of plastic. A flexible, transparent cable with a bead of glass at one end. A tiny microphone bud. The pocket knife I’d seen her using, with one blade folded out.

  ‘This place is bugged,’ she said.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  She set the mobile phone and the sunglasses down on the table and picked up the bendy cable. ‘I found this in the housing for the smoke alarm. It’s a surveillance camera. The microphone was behind the clock on the wall over there.’ She pointed at the clock in question. ‘I think there’s another behind the light fitting.’

  I swallowed. Lowered my voice. ‘Are we being listened to now?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  My skull was tingling. It felt like there were eyes on me. Watching us.

  ‘Who would have put this stuff here?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know for sure. But they were professionals. So far, I’ve only checked this room and the garage and I’ve found at least eight devices. They’re not state of the art, and judging by the dust on the wires and the cabling, I’d say they were installed a few years ago, at least. But you asked me how somebody could have known that you and Lena were leaving here on your bike.’ She aimed the end of the cable towards me. ‘This is how.’

  I shuddered. Went to reach for the microphone bud, then thought better of it when I remembered I wasn’t wearing gloves.

  ‘How far can these things transmit?’ I was thinking about the way Mr Shades had been focused on his laptop when I’d seen him in the kitchen. Had he been watching over Lena and me in the garage? Had he been listening to our conversation? No, I realised. Because then he’d have known what we’d planned with my bike.

  ‘The range on these things can vary,’ Rebecca said. ‘Maybe as far as two miles. Far enough, anyway, to reach that road at the end of the plantation.’
<
br />   It took a moment for me to see where she was going with it. ‘You think they were watching from the van you mentioned?’

  ‘Watching and listening. You gave them time to get into position. To cause your accident and snatch Lena.’

  I shook my head. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘No. This is logical.’

  ‘But for somebody to do this . . .’ I let the words trail off, unsure what I’d been trying to say. Then a new thought occurred to me. ‘People say there are safe houses over here. That the island’s used for witness protection, hiding people connected to major crimes over on the mainland.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘And the police would know, right? If that’s what this place is for.’

  ‘Makes sense. And it could explain why they sent two detectives to speak with you at the hospital. It might also explain why they haven’t looked into what happened here too closely.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘This level of surveillance equipment.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a bit more advanced than your average police force might be used to. Smacks of a sensitive situation.’

  ‘Sensitive, how?’

  She smiled. ‘That’s what I intend to find out.’

  ‘But you think they backed off deliberately?’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted before she could get the words out. The mobile phone had started buzzing. It was glowing and vibrating against the tabletop. Number Withheld.

  Chapter Twelve

  Failure. It wasn’t something Menser was used to, still less something he could tolerate. The frustration ate at him. Gnawed on his insides. The job had taught him patience. Control. But they were just skills. Part of his professional shell. And he could feel the shell cracking.

  The girl’s attitude was bothering him. The casual way she was slouched against the wall of the cabin in her red-and-white gingham blouse, her swollen wrist cradled in her lap like something only vaguely connected to her. The curled lip. The glazed eyes.

  Clarke hadn’t helped. He’d started things off on the wrong foot. Raised her hackles. But Menser had compensated for that. He’d shown her respect. Made her tea.

  She’d smirked at the tea. He was sure of it. But she’d drunk it all the same. The first breakthrough. The one he’d planned to build from. But there’d been no progress. Not the slightest advance. Only silence. And that sneer, as if she knew something he didn’t. It was getting under his skin. Itching like a rash.

  In just a few hours, they’d reach their destination. He had to know what was sustaining her. Keeping her this way.

  He’d read her file. Absorbed its contents. He saw an explanation in it.

  Her father had spoiled her. Indulged her. Furnished her with a lifestyle that only the offspring of the elite and powerful could hope to enjoy. He’d protected her. Cocooned her. Taught her to believe that she was better than people like Menser. Better than the people Menser was delivering her to. A charmed existence. One it would be hard to believe was in jeopardy.

  The cabin tipped. Lurched. Menser grabbed for the bunk he was sitting on. Closed his eyes. The hollow boom of the hull striking water. Bottoming out. The vessel slowly righting itself. Groaning. Creaking.

  He hated this. Hated the feeling of powerlessness. Being at the mercy of something beyond his control. Tossed around.

  When he looked up, she was smiling. His unease was lighting her face. Menser couldn’t ignore how attractive she was. Lithe. Shapely. Young and fit.

  Everything he wasn’t.

  ‘So, where do you take me?’ Her voice was croaky. Dry from disuse. But he was pleased to hear it, all the same.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’ He clenched his toes in his shoes. As if maybe he could clamp himself to the floor. Fight the swirl and the dip.

  ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘So you will be killing Pieter soon, I am thinking.’

  He held her gaze. Moderated his tone. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you killed Lukas already. I heard the shots from inside the van.’

  Menser could have told her she was wrong. That it was Clarke who’d done the shooting. That it was Clarke who’d stepped out of line.

  Improvisation, Clarke had called it. As if it was something to be proud of. Compensation for the way he’d screwed up.

  They’d waited four hours after the accident before returning to the cottage. The biker was gone by then – must have been spotted by a passing motorist. Only the two men remained, in the positions they’d discussed and practised many times. It made them simple to outflank. The leader, Pieter, had been quick to know he was beaten and easy to subdue. But the second man, Lukas, had panicked and fled for the woods. Menser had sent Clarke to deal with him while he focused on emptying the cottage of all their equipment and belongings. Everything ended up in the back of the van. Everything except Lukas.

  Clarke swore that the man was dead. That he was well hidden in the woods. Menser wasn’t comfortable with the situation, but time was running short. They left the body and headed for the trawler – Menser driving the van, Clarke in the red rental car. But with every minute that passed, he regretted the decision even more.

  ‘He shouldn’t have run,’ Menser said. ‘He left us no choice.’

  She shook her head. Raised her knees to her chest and hugged her shins. ‘It was his only choice.’

  ‘Your friend Pieter didn’t see it like that.’

  ‘But Pieter will die, yes?’

  The boat twisted and dived. Menser bounced up off his bunk. Landed on the small of his back. Swore under his breath.

  ‘Got a minute?’ The voice belonged to Clarke. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a drenched rain slicker and a yellow fisherman’s hat. Water dripped on to the floor from his outerwear. He held a roll of gaffer tape in his hand.

  Menser scrambled to his feet, using the wall for balance.

  The girl twisted over on to her side. Stretched out along the bunk, pointing her toes inside her canvas training shoes.

  ‘Goodbye, Pieter,’ she said, in a small voice, and tucked herself into a ball.

  Menser closed and bolted the door.

  ‘Anything?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maybe she’s just that stupid, you know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We could try their laptops again. Go back through their bags. See if we missed something.’

  ‘They’re clean.’

  ‘Then you think maybe we should call him? Let him decide?’

  Menser snatched the gaffer tape. It was light. The roll almost empty. He squeezed it in his hand. Felt his knuckles pop.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a bad idea.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because, Clarke. Jesus. Because.’

  Up on deck, it was so much worse. The painted metal was slick underfoot, as slippery as ice. Water had pooled and collected around the stacked lobster pots and dented oil drums, the puddles coloured with traces of diesel. A hook the size of a man’s head swung wildly from a mast above them. Spray and foam pawed at the corroded railings.

  Menser fed his arm through a metal stanchion on the exterior of the wheelhouse. The frigid water lashed against his bare scalp and hands. He watched the plastic patio chair skitter across the slanted deck. The noise was fast and frictionless, like stiff wire bristles on the surface of a mirror.

  ‘See you gagged him.’ Menser nodded at the swatch of tape across the man’s mouth. ‘He say much before you did it?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘Nothing we didn’t know already. Except for the stuff in Dutch. But I don’t think that was for my benefit. I think maybe he was praying.’

  Menser tipped his head on to his shoulder and considered the man.

  Pieter – if that was his real
name – was pleading with him. He could tell. It was in his eyes. The bulging white.

  Menser shook his head. Wanting to communicate with him. Wanting to let him know that he should focus on himself now.

  The man was naked, hunched forward against his restraints, his chemical-blond hair knotted wetly against his brow. His pale skin, where it wasn’t covered in tattoos or coated with gaffer tape, was speckled with goose bumps and flushed red from the water and streaking wind. His muscular arms had been taped behind him, hands bound knuckle to knuckle. More tape had been wrapped around his chest and his elbows. More still had been coiled around his neck, looped beneath his chair, and up through his groin to his shoulders. His ankles had been secured to the chair legs, feet pointing outwards, suspended a few inches above the deck. He was stretching with his toes, trying to steady himself.

  He couldn’t reach.

  Menser supposed he was meant to congratulate Clarke on his inventiveness. A pat on the back for something that was seriously messed up.

  He leaned back, feeling weak with fatigue. Rested his head against a rivet in the metal panel behind him.

  There was land on the horizon. Some green fields. Some tan. The blurred outline of distant buildings.

  Whitecaps rolled in. The vessel tipped. The chair skidded left.

  Menser held fast to the stanchion with his elbow. Watched the chair skate towards the rear of the deck, where Clarke had slid aside the railings, leaving a gap perhaps two metres wide. The man screamed from behind his gag, nostrils flaring, until the boat levelled out. There was a pause, and then everything dipped to the right. The chair veered off and the man clattered into the lobster pots. He tried to tangle his head in the netting. Didn’t work.

  ‘Corner ball, back pocket.’

  Clarke grinned as the swell pitched the nose of the vessel up and the chair edged away from the netting and careened towards the gap. It seemed, for just a moment, as if the momentum might abate. But no, a second wave rolled in and the chair slithered backwards, tipping the man called Pieter and his pleading eyes overboard.