by GJ Minett
‘And why would that be?’ he asked, with more than a touch of amusement in his voice.
‘Have you heard about the break-in at the cottage, by any chance?’
‘Break-in, you say? At Primrose Cottage? Dear me, I’m sorry to hear it. Was anything taken?’
The disingenuous tone grated on her nerves. She decided she was going to enjoy bringing him down a peg or two over the next few days.
‘I’ve no idea yet. That’s one of the reasons I’ll be going there tomorrow. I’m told the police don’t have much to go on at present, other than the fact that some local resident mentioned seeing a dark blue Escort parked opposite the church at the relevant time. If Mr Sharp were to let slip that you drive one yourself, I rather think they might be interested to talk to you, don’t you? And you know how indiscreet he can be.’
‘Ah, so that’s it,’ he laughed. ‘I suppose I’ve only myself to blame for bringing all these suspicions on myself, what with my little charade at the cottage yesterday. I can see where you’re coming from but I can assure you, dear lady, that if you think I’ve got something to worry about, you’re sadly mistaken. I don’t know anything about any break-in.’
‘Really? Now how did I know you were going to say that?’
‘Your sarcasm is understandable, I suppose, but you’re welcome to run any check you like on my whereabouts yesterday. I can account for my every movement after I left you. I went straight from the cottage to my place, worked there the whole afternoon, then spent the entire evening at a pub in Withington. The Mill, if you want to ask around. Lovely chicken in the basket they do there. Plenty of people around. I’m sure someone will be able to vouch for me.’
‘Well, if you go anywhere near Liam Sharp, if he’s suddenly dismissed on the basis of information received from some anonymous source, I’m sure the police will be happy to look into it. They might also be interested in your reasons for turning up here yesterday and misrepresenting yourself the way you did. Unless, that is, you decide pursuing him for no better reason than petty revenge is really not worth the time and trouble it’s going to cause you.’
‘Oh, don’t be too quick to dismiss petty revenge,’ he said, with an edge to his voice that had been absent until then. ‘Personally I’ve always found it very satisfying. Even so, let’s suppose I grant you that much – not that I have anything to hide as such, but generally it’s not a good idea to encourage the police to go poking their noses into your business, however innocent and law-abiding it may be. But if I agree with you that I’ve no real interest in making life difficult for our young friend, especially since he’s of no further use or interest to me – where does that leave us exactly?’
‘That’s something we can discuss when you come to the cottage tomorrow. Shall we say four o’clock? I’m sure we’ll find plenty to talk about.’
‘You don’t think you’re being just a tad presumptuous here? I mean, what if I decide I’ve better things to do with my afternoon?’
‘Oh, you’ll be there, Mr O’Halloran. I’ll give you until five past and then it’ll be the police asking you the questions instead. And by the way, while I think of it, you should know that I’ll have someone here with me and will also be making sure several people know you’re meeting us at the cottage. You’ll excuse the paranoia but I’d rather we understood exactly where we stand.’
The laughter from the other end of the line was instinctive and genuine.
‘My God, I can’t believe you just said that. Are you serious? You don’t think maybe you’ve been watching too many films?’
‘Tomorrow at four,’ she repeated, calmly. ‘Oh . . . and one more thing, Mr O’Halloran.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘I never said, not at any stage, that it was yesterday the cottage was broken into. You might like to think about that, next time you’re tempted to see yourself as infallible. Do sleep well.’ She dropped the handset back onto its base and clenched her fist.
Yes, that felt better.
March 1974: Peter Vaughan
A quarter of an hour into his meeting with John Michael, he knows he can’t do this. He’s had nearly a fortnight to come to this decision, has in fact reached it several times in the past few days, only to turn round mentally each time and trudge reluctantly back to where he started. Even in the van during the journey up from Ashbury, he’s found himself embracing both extremes of the same argument with equal conviction within the space of twenty miles or so.
One minute his conscience is telling him that John Michael has to come first. Not David. This is John Michael and his safety’s all that matters. Any kind of deal with O’Halloran is a risk and he was a fool to let him come within a hundred miles of Inverness. Trouble is, he knows that tipping off his son wouldn’t have worked either. O’Halloran has found them this time – who’s to say he couldn’t do it again? He’s like one of those sticky burrs you pick up on your clothes when you walk through woods. And he’s obviously getting help from someone on the inside. Refusing him now just means that next time he shows up, he won’t be giving any warnings at all. No, says another voice – he needs to keep O’Halloran on board somehow, not go out of his way to annoy him. Once he has what he wants, maybe he’ll find something else to obsess about and leave them alone.
And there’s Ashbury too, and the new life he’s managed to carve out there. If he crosses O’Halloran, that’s over – no question. Done with. Overnight. O’Halloran will make sure of that. There’ll be no time to explain it all – not in a way she’ll be able to understand. He can’t even imagine how he’d start such a conversation anyway. Oh, by the way – I have a son. Never guess who he is . . .
So he’s reluctantly stuck with the idea of going along with O’Halloran. Let him have his precious interview for that damned book he’s planning to write – the definitive inside story on JMA (those god-awful initials!) . . . Every Parent’s Nightmare. Maybe it’ll buy him precious time. A lot can happen in a year or two. By then he’ll have a clearer idea of whether or not he has a future in Ashbury . . . with her. He may even have found a way to break the news to her, let her decide whether he’s worth it with all the cards on the table in front of her.
But now, at the crucial moment, reality’s hit home and the other voice is gaining ascendancy. This is his boy sitting here in front of him, and in all of his internal to-ing and fro-ing he suspects he’s lost sight of that fact. It’s no longer an abstract debate. This is flesh and blood – his flesh and blood. This is his son, Jennifer’s damaged little boy, older yes but still just as vulnerable and more than ever in need of his protection. His voice may be at least an octave deeper, but it feels like it’s still the twelve-year-old John Michael sitting opposite him, as if the previous seven years have never taken place, and that’s when he knows for sure that there’s no debate to be had here. He has to talk O’Halloran round. Somehow.
So at an appropriate pause in the conversation he invents an excuse, a phone call he needs to make to Ian, the friend whose van he’s borrowed. He reaches across the table and pats his son’s hand as he gets to his feet. He won’t be long – there’s a phone box just outside. He hands over his wallet and suggests John Michael might like to get some more drinks in while he’s waiting.
The boy asks him where his coat is and he explains he left it in the car earlier. John Michael says he’ll need something out there – it’s chucking it down – and throws over his kagoul. He catches it and gives a reassuring smile before pulling it over his head. Then he heads for the door, followed at a discreet distance by O’Halloran, who has folded his newspaper and is on the move the moment he sees him get to his feet.
They meet in the foyer, talking in muted voices to avoid attracting the attention of others as they enter and leave. He explains what he’s decided, calmly but firmly. O’Halloran is asking too much of him, he says – he can’t go through with it. The smile that gradually spreads across O’Halloran’s face is far from reassuring.
/> ‘So you’re saying . . . what exactly?’ he says, taking a quick look at his watch. ‘We’ve come all this way, I’ve gone to all this trouble and expense, and now I’m just going to turn round and walk away with nothing, just because your conscience is playing up – is that it?’
It’s the disbelief in his voice as much as what he has to say that strikes home. O’Halloran has no need to compromise on anything. Appeals to his finer feelings will be just so much hot air. If he’s getting cold feet at the last moment, that’s his problem. It’s not going to cut much ice with O’Halloran. He does his best to bluff him, to meet fire with fire. He tells O’Halloran it’s over. He can do his worst, publish whatever he likes. He’s drawing a chalk mark right here. He’s leaving now and taking his boy with him.
O’Halloran isn’t fazed in the slightest. He peers round the edge of the door to the public bar, as if to make sure this is not some diversionary tactic designed to enable John Michael to sneak out through a side door. Then he turns back to face him and tells him it’s a bit late in the day to find a little backbone. As it happens, he’s parked his car in such a way that the van is blocked in so no one will be going anywhere until he says so. And besides, the moment John Michael shows the slightest sign of setting foot outside the bar, he’ll be yelling at the top of his voice to let everyone in there know who he is.
‘You think the two of you can make it out of here before they catch up with you, feel free to give it a try,’ he says. ‘You think maybe they won’t give a shit?’ He laughs, checking his watch again. ‘Hell, this far north they’d probably give him a good kicking just for being English. But John Michael Adams . . .?’
He lowers his voice as the door to the saloon bar opens and a man barges his way through, carrying on a conversation over his shoulder with a woman in a blouse and short skirt. She pauses in the doorway to zip up a waist-length jacket and her husband, if that’s who he is, takes the opportunity to let her know exactly what he thinks of her decision to invite her sister to stay. Neither seems remotely concerned that others are able to listen in to their argument. A blast of cold air rushes along the corridor as they pull open the front door and disappear into the night.
‘Listen, what are you doing out here?’ O’Halloran asks.
‘What –?’
‘Your boy – what did you tell him? What’s your excuse for being out here with me?’
He frowns. ‘He doesn’t know I’m with you. He thinks I’m phoning someone.’
‘Then go and do it. I’m going back to my table. You need to give it a while before you follow me in.’
He clutches at O’Halloran’s arm. ‘No. I don’t want you talking to John Michael without me there.’
‘You haven’t been gone long enough. You go back in now, especially with that cape bone dry, and he’s going to know something’s up. Is that what you want?’
‘No, but –’
‘Then do as you’re told. I’m not going near him till you’re back and you’ve had a chance to talk some more, OK? Now go and make that call.’
They both look up quickly as two more couples emerge from the saloon bar and linger in the entrance to say their respective goodbyes. O’Halloran looks pointedly at the hand which is still holding on to his arm.
‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ he says, shaking it off and opening the door to the public bar.
‘O’Halloran?’ he calls out, the plea in his voice making any further explanation redundant. O’Halloran turns to look at him, makes a phone gesture then disappears inside.
The couples in the doorway have separated now and the door starts to swing closed behind them. He reaches out to hold it open, then steps through into the chill night air, pulling the hood over his head and fastening it with the toggle at the throat. The snow is so much heavier now than when he arrived. O’Halloran’s right about that at least. If he’d gone straight back inside, the dry kagoul would have been a total giveaway.
He starts to climb the hill, his thoughts following O’Halloran into the bar. It’s only as he draws level with the phone box that he realises he does want to make a call after all. He’s already rung once from the same kiosk, when he first arrived here. Now, even though no more than an hour and a half has elapsed, he wants to hear her voice again. He needs her to breathe a semblance of normality into a world that’s threatening to spiral out of control. He knows she’ll be on Reception for another half-hour at least unless there’s been a run on the bar. It’ll be easier for her to talk now than later, with so many people within eavesdropping range.
He empties his pocket of coins and spreads them out on the metal shelf in front of him. Then, having rejected the ones that will be of no use to him, he dials the number and tries to picture her all those miles away.
She answers in her business voice, the vowels more clipped, consonants with a sharper edge. She’s surprised, amused even to hear from him again so soon but not displeased, it seems to him. She asks him if he’s met up with his training partners yet and he’s quick to steer the conversation towards another topic, one that doesn’t make him feel quite so bad for having lied about the reason for his visit. He tells himself, as he has done several times already today, that this is the last time he’ll ever do it. Ever. Once he gets back, he’ll sit her down and tell her everything. If they’re to have a future together, it has to start now.
She asks what time the race is tomorrow and he’s not sure what he’s told her before but plucks 10.30 out of the air. He says he’ll need to shower, eat and maybe rest a while afterwards but promises he’ll set off as soon as he can, late afternoon with a bit of luck. He’ll ring some time tomorrow once he’s got a better idea of when she can expect him. It’s going to be the wrong side of midnight, he warns her. She probably shouldn’t wait up.
She asks him to hold for a minute and he can hear her through the muffled receiver, dealing with a customer who’s asking for his key. Then the pips start and he just has time to call out that he misses her before the line goes dead. He’s not even sure she’s heard him.
The temperature outside has reached arctic proportions now, made worse by a driving wind which is pushing it lower by the minute. He wraps his arms tightly around his chest and tries to break into a jog, which proves beyond him in these conditions. He slips and manages to turn it into a graceful slide, much to the amusement of a man who’s watching from the entrance, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
‘Fecking cold, eh?’ he says, coughing up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting into a plant pot just outside the entrance. ‘Freeze the tits off Sonja fecking Henie.’ He laughs and shapes as if to squeeze past him. Then, on the spur of the moment, he decides that he may as well retrieve his coat from the van since he’s out here. He’s going to be grateful for it later. While he’s there he can check on whether or not O’Halloran was bluffing about having blocked him in.
He’s aware of the car’s engine almost immediately. It registers as a high-pitched scream and he imagines it must be an inexperienced driver, trying to ensure that the engine, having caught, won’t stall. Then the revs settle down and he’s almost blocked it out when there’s a squeal of tyres and a grating sound as the car, an old Austin Cambridge by the look of it, scrapes along the side of another vehicle parked by the roadside. The idiot must have been drinking, he tells himself. Instead of slowing, he’s tearing down the hill at a speed which no one in his right mind would countenance in conditions such as these. One bad patch of ice and he’ll be flying off the road before he knows what’s happened. Some people should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car.
Instinctively he hurries towards the stretch of pavement which borders the car park, some ten yards or so ahead of him. It’s not alarm he feels as such, just the desire to get out of potential harm’s way as quickly as possible. As he reaches the relative sanctuary of the pavement, he hears an angry yell from the man in the entrance and turns to get a clearer view of what’s happening.
When the car mou
nts the kerb and keeps coming towards him, he has maybe a second and a half to react. In theory this might be enough. If his instincts are up to the task, a second and a half might just give him enough time to throw himself at the stone wall that separates him from the car park. He’s fit enough to clear it. It’s not that high – say, four foot, four foot six at the outside. He can do that – he’s still in good shape. It wouldn’t be a problem if the thought had occurred to him in time.
But it doesn’t. Instead he backs away, hands raised as if he might somehow have it in him to ward the car off with a strong shove. There are no thoughts of John Michael or the future he has planned at Ashbury. No flashes of Jennifer and those golden early days, especially when she was expecting their son and the rest of their lives seemed to stretch out in front of them like a glorious summer’s day. No time for anything but the present, which is bearing down on him like the past, with an inevitability he can’t hope to outrun.
There’s a flash of blue as the car scrapes along the wall. Then it lifts him, high into the air, turning him head over heels. If his eyes were open, he’d see the world spinning wildly out of control, telegraph poles flipping with him, the wind whipping at his hair and the snow beating an insistent tattoo against his eyelids. He’s cleared the wall now alright. Four feet six is no problem at all as he soars and falls and bounces off the spare wheel on the front of a VW minibus, which has gathered an impressive layer of snow since he left it there earlier. Had his eyes registered anything in those final few seconds, he might even have smiled at the realisation that there was nothing blocking its exit.
8
February 2008: Ellen
The journey to Cheltenham seemed a lot quicker second time around. Having Kate for company was a help, as was the fact that the route was now more familiar. The most significant factor however was Kate’s driving, which would have earned a few nods of approval from Liam Sharp. Where Ellen tended to be more conservative, conditioned by several years of having two small children in the back of the car, Kate had never suffered from any such inhibitions. Her version of conservative in built-up areas was 45mph. On motorways the needle frequently strayed the wrong side of 90. Ellen had long since given up commenting on it. At least it meant that even though they were much later getting away than planned, they’d already clawed back half an hour by the time they reached the offices of AWL.