The car held no indication of its owner’s identity to a would-be thief – the glove compartment was empty, no litter filled the back seats, and the ancient CD player had been torn from its housing before Mack had taken delivery of the vehicle.
In short, it would need a police officer with access to the UK vehicle registration database to work out who the vehicle belonged to, which was exactly what Mack wanted.
If anything went wrong, he wanted the police to knock on Rossiter’s door.
Mack reached into his back pocket and wiggled the latex gloves over his fingers once more. He’d removed them while driving, not wanting to arouse immediate suspicion if the police had pulled him over during his journey. Now, his hands covered once more, he opened the back door of the car and felt around under the seat until he located the concealed gun.
He climbed out, locked the doors, and began the short trek to the electric gates that led to the house.
He’d seen the news, and Will had confirmed what he’d gleaned from the television – following the attack, Rossiter announced he’d be spending the remainder of the election campaign working from home.
He’s got his back to the wall, thought Mack.
Which meant that Rossiter wasn’t convinced that Gregory had the situation completely under control.
And, until Will announced it, Rossiter wouldn’t find out about Amy’s rapidly deteriorating health until it was too late.
Although unspoken between them, they both knew it changed everything. Now, the tables were turned, and they were in control. As long as Will remained alive long enough to expose the corrupt businessman.
As he neared the gate, he adjusted his cardigan to camouflage the bulge of the gun and cracked his knuckles.
Mack checked over his shoulder. The lane was deserted in both directions, devoid of any traffic noise.
Satisfied, he adjusted the gun in his waistband, then removed the gloves, bundled them together, and tossed them into the undergrowth at the side of the road.
The sun had begun its descent over the horizon, its last rays flickering behind the grey clouds that had threatened more rain all day. Leaf litter stuck to the soles of his shoes as he walked along the lane towards his destination, and he felt the cool spring air begin to seep into his joints.
He began to cough, and stopped, leaning over with his hands on his knees until the spasm passed. He hawked the contents of his mouth into the undergrowth, ignored the now familiar pink tinge, and instead picked up his pace.
Approaching the entrance to the driveway that led up to the house, he gazed up at the enormous wrought-iron gates that loomed over him, two concrete pillars supporting their weight. They were closed, but Mack couldn’t see a chain around them.
He moved his head and saw the security panel set into the right-hand pillar, then raised his eyes to the camera perched at the top of the pillar, a red light blinking on its surface.
Mack threw a mock salute at it, then stepped forward and pressed the intercom button with the knuckle of his index finger.
A man’s voice answered, no doubt the same man who was monitoring the live feed from the camera.
‘Identify yourself, and state the purpose of your visit.’
A sly smile began to twitch at the corner of Mack’s mouth, and he turned away from the camera so the security man wouldn’t see.
‘Mackenzie Harris,’ he said, bending down to the microphone to make sure the man at the other end of the line would hear him clearly. ‘Tell your boss and his creep of a press secretary that the ghost of Christmas past is here to see them.’
***
Mack had been waiting at the gates for almost ten minutes before he heard a metallic click and the ironwork began to swing inwards on its hinges.
Impatient, he slid between them as soon as the gap was big enough to accommodate him and began to walk up the driveway, his feet crunching on the gravel beneath his shoes.
He half expected to be apprehended by Rossiter’s thugs halfway up the driveway when he reached a small copse of trees, but the landscape remained still, save for the evening singsong of a blackbird.
He stood for a moment, entranced by the sound, aware that it could well be the last time he heard the beautiful melody. He shook his head as, beyond the trees, another bird echoed the song, and then he adjusted his waistband to counteract the weight of the gun, recalling the last time it had been fired.
A grim determination seized him, and he took a deep breath before striding towards the house.
Will might have the photographic evidence now, but the lad needed a push in the right direction if Rossiter was going to be stopped.
Mack’s mind turned to the image of the calendar on his kitchen wall. The election was less than a week away, and the news coverage had reached fever pitch.
Rossiter wouldn’t stay holed up at his house forever, Mack was sure. At some point, he’d have to work the crowds face-to-face, to drive the frenzy to his advantage.
It had to be now or never.
The driveway opened out into a large turning circle in front of the house.
Mack stared at the towering gables, trying to recall when he had last been at the property, then quickly dismissed the thought, the memory too painful given what he’d learned from Erin in recent months.
The front door was already open, a large man in a private security uniform standing on the threshold, glaring at him. He moved to one side to let Mack pass, and then slammed the door shut.
Mack had no time to react as a second man emerged from the shadows and shoved him against the wall. Instead, he concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow, despite his racing heartbeat, while the man frisked him.
It took seconds for the revolver to be discovered, the extra rounds moments later.
‘What have you got?’
Even after all the years that had passed, the voice still managed to fill Mack with dread.
He turned his head.
Rossiter stood, silhouetted in a doorway off the hallway, lamplight glowing from the room beyond to ward off the failing light from outside. His arms were crossed over his chest, his legs slightly apart.
He cast an imposing figure, and Mack inwardly cursed at the cancer that had weakened his own body.
The security guard kept one hand on Mack’s shoulder and passed the gun to his colleague, who strode across to where Rossiter stood.
He reached out and took the gun from the man and turned it over in his hands.
A second man stepped into the doorway from inside the room, a crystal glass held delicately between his fingers.
‘Well, well,’ said Gregory. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
‘Tell your men to stop searching for Will Fletcher and my niece,’ said Rossiter, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve thought of a way we can make them come to us.’
Mack turned his face back to the wall and closed his eyes.
He knew what would happen next.
35
Will steered the car into the first available space, grabbed his backpack from the seat beside him, and then tore across the car park towards the hospital entrance.
The foyer was busy, crowded with the sick and injured pouring in from the city night, a pungent smell of sweat, blood, and fear crawling up the walls. The nurse’s station along one side was three-deep with people, a mixture of harried-looking police officers, parents with children in their arms, worried families, and surly drunks.
He dodged around a porter pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair, a patch covering her eyebrow and bruises on her cheek, and ran to the end of the corridor.
He punched the button for the elevator and paced impatiently. He was debating whether to take the stairs when the doors finally opened. Tempted to drag its occupants from the car, he stood to one side to let them pass, then barrelled into the elevator and hit the button for Amy’s ward, then the button to close the doors, apologising under his breath to the porter and his charge who arrived too late and glared at him throug
h the closing gap.
His throat dry, he replayed the short conversation he’d had with her surgeon in his mind. The man hadn’t elaborated further, only reiterating that Will should hurry.
He turned his back to the doors, wrapped his fingers round the brass railing that encircled the elevator space, and stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall.
Dark circles pooled under his eyelids, his eyes red and sore. He rubbed a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble that prickled his skin, and tried to remember when he’d last shaved. His hair stood on end, and as the elevator travelled farther upwards through the guts of the hospital, he ran his hand through it and tried to slick it into place.
It looked worse.
He spun round at the sound of a soft ping and burst through the doors as they opened, then skidded across the tiled floor, and came to a halt next to the ward nurse’s desk.
She held a phone to her ear and held up a hand to stop Will from interrupting. She spoke softly, succinctly, issuing instructions, taking notes, until finally she finished the call and put the receiver down.
‘Yes? What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here about Amy Peters,’ said Will. ‘Mr Hathaway phoned me earlier. He told me to get here as soon as possible.’
Will gulped, out of breath, both from the rush to the ward from the car park and the sheer panic that wound across his chest.
The woman pursed her lips. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’
She gestured to a seat while she picked up the phone again, but Will ignored her.
He couldn’t sit still, not now.
Dread began to seize him, worming its way into his mind as the seconds drew out. The soft tones of the nurse’s voice reached him, but despite holding his breath and standing still, pretending to look at a poster on the wall, he couldn’t hear what was being said.
The phone was returned to its cradle, and the corridor returned to the steady beat of a busy ward, the far-off sounds of machines beeping, patients moaning, and calm, soothing voices.
At the sound of footsteps echoing off the walls towards him, Will turned and knew before the surgeon even reached him what his words would be.
He could see it in the man’s face, the look of defeat, exhaustion, and sorrow etching lines across the man’s features. Yet he said nothing, not until Hathaway reached out and took him by the arm.
‘Thanks for coming so quickly, Will,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s go through to this room here, shall we?’
He opened a door and led Will through to a small office which had been stripped bare of any official hospital paraphernalia and instead had been laid out with a decor the interior designer probably marketed as calming.
Two green armchairs sat at angles facing each other, a soft plush material that looked a little threadbare on closer inspection. A square white coffee table had been planted between the chairs while, next to the window, a dark green fern fought to escape the pot it had been squashed into.
Will tore his eyes away from the silvery spider web that wrapped around two of the leaves and turned his attention back to Hathaway, who was trying to usher him into one of the armchairs. He acquiesced, dropped the backpack to his feet, and waited, his hands folded in his lap.
‘Will, I’m very sorry. We did everything we possibly could,’ Hathaway began, his eyes searching Will’s face. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Amy passed away thirty minutes ago.’
Will felt the rush of air leave his lungs as he leaned forward on his knees and wrapped his hands around his head. He stared at the mottled grey and green carpet, his chest tightening as a deep primitive ache began to encircle his chest.
‘I thought she was going to be okay,’ he whispered. ‘I thought…’
‘Her injuries were too great,’ said the surgeon. ‘Trauma to the head is always very, very difficult to treat. We did our best, and I’m satisfied my team couldn’t have done any more.’
‘Did she… would she have felt it?’
‘She died peacefully, Will. She wasn’t in any pain. She’d been heavily sedated since coming out of surgery,’ said Hathaway. ‘She simply slipped away from us.’
Will lifted his head as the surgeon finished speaking, his eyes stinging, and then he dry-heaved.
Hathaway kicked the wastepaper bin across the floor, and Will grabbed it, his stomach contracting painfully from lack of food. Bile stung the back of his throat, and he retched.
The surgeon moved across the room and placed a comforting hand on Will’s shoulders until the tremors subsided, before taking the container away from him and placing it near the door.
Will leaned back, his nostrils flaring at the putrid stench, and with shaking hands, he took the glass of water the surgeon had held out to him.
He nodded his thanks, and guzzled half the water, his eyes stinging with tears.
Hathaway pushed a box of paper tissues towards him, and he took two, shoving one in his pocket and gripping the other in his hand.
He panted as he tried to fight down the urge to be sick once more, and sipped the remaining water.
‘Could you keep this quiet for a while, to give me time to let our friends know before they hear about it on breakfast news or something?’
‘Of course. I’ll ask the police to do the same.’
Will sniffled. ‘I want to see her.’
‘Of course.’
He followed Hathaway from the room, avoiding the nurse’s gaze as they passed the reception counter for the ward, and continued past her to a second corridor that led farther into the bowels of the hospital. After a few paces, the surgeon stood to one side and pushed open a door.
‘This is the chapel of rest,’ he said, then placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘Take as long as you need. I’ll be outside.’
Will nodded, sniffled, then stepped inside.
The room had been painted and furnished in a non-denominational decor, with three short rows of seats on each side of a central aisle. Soft lighting pooled around the space from wall sconces, casting shadows amongst the large picture frames that held photographs of landscape scenes.
Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked slowly forward, his fingernails digging into his palms.
His footsteps were soundless on the thick burgundy carpet, and he realised the walls must have been sound-proofed, as the noise from the hospital had fallen silent as the door closed behind him, cocooning him in the space.
He reached the front row of chairs and exhaled.
In front of him, a simple open casket had been laid out on a raised altar, a figure visible within the folds of material that lined it.
He sank into the chair nearest to him and rested his head in his hands.
A memory resurfaced, unwanted, of him sitting next to his mother, several years ago now, after she’d fought long and hard with the authorities to have her husband declared dead, so they could try to move on with their lives.
They’d sat in a room, like this, alone except for an embarrassed funeral director and a ticking clock, staring at a casket they knew to be empty, while the man standing in front of them intoned the eulogy.
The service had been brutally short. His mother’s illness had spiralled not long afterwards.
Guilt consumed Will as he wondered what he would have done differently, if he could have that last morning with Amy back.
Would she have agreed to meet Rossiter at the hotel alone again, knowing her life was in danger? What if it was sunny, instead of raining? Would she have accepted Rossiter’s offer of a lift in his car?
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts, knowing full well he would be dragged down into a depression from which there would be no escape this time.
Standing on shaking legs, he moved towards the casket, not sure what he would find.
The surgeon’s team had been kind. They had cleaned Amy’s face, wrapped a thin blue towel around her head, hiding the scars of surgery. A sheet had been pulled up over her body, the same colour
as the towel.
Will reached out and fingered the material. It matched her eyes perfectly, but he’d never see them again. She looked as if she was asleep, her face impassive, her hands folded across her chest, her face paler than he could ever remember.
He leaned forward and kissed her cool unmoving cheek, before touching her face, his fingers tracing her jawline as tears splashed onto the sheet.
‘Sleep well, Amy,’ he murmured, his voice shaking. ‘You’re safe now.’
36
Will pulled into the car park of the motel, switched off the engine, and leaned his head on the steering wheel.
He couldn’t recall the drive from London. His movements had been automatic, reacting to road signs and the traffic in a trance, all the while thinking of Amy.
He’d held out his hands for the bag a nurse handed to him while Amy’s surgeon had spoken to him, before he peered inside and realised it was the remainder of Amy’s clothing, minus her blood-stained suit jacket and blouse. Those had been taken by the police.
His throat ached from holding back the tears, afraid that if he started, he wouldn’t stop and would have to pull the car over to the side of the road.
Instead, he needed to run, to go back to the motel and hide from the world, to mourn.
As Hathaway had coaxed him through the forms that had to be signed, the man had spoken of funeral arrangements, counselling services, and solicitors, but the words had washed over Will.
He leaned back and opened his eyes. Soon, he knew he’d have to deal with all of that. For the moment, though, he wanted to stay away from it all, the reality of having to continue without Amy almost too much to bear.
His fingers found the door release, and he stepped out into the cold night air. He slipped his backpack over his shoulder, locked the car, and stalked across the car park, the muted lights from the motel rooms chasing his shadow across the asphalt.
Walking along the corridor towards his room, he fished into his pocket for his key card, then froze, conscious of movement behind the door, a shadow moving in the light that streamed from under the threshold.
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