Stitched

by Taylor, Peter

  ‘Seriously, he won’t. He’s going away.’

  Alex knew that was true because Bridge had said so and had held him responsible for delaying his departure. But was his daughter just romancing, using it as a form of denial to cope with the reality of the danger to which she’d been exposed?

  ‘How do you know that, Ann?’

  She grinned coyly, signed, ‘He was on his mobile phone and he didn’t know I was watching him through a window.’

  ‘You read his lips! So what did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d have to delay going to Portugal until next week. He mentioned a place. It was Vigo.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Alex mused, possibilities running through his head.

  ‘It means we’ll all be safe, doesn’t it?’ Ann signed, an anxious look on her face because of her father’s faraway look.

  Her concern jolted him out of it. He’d think about those possibilities later. For now, he concentrated on his daughter.

  ‘Yes, Ann. There’s no need to worry if he’s going away.’

  He didn’t like lying to his daughter. As long as Bridge was alive, he knew their lives wouldn’t be secure, no matter where they, or he, went. One little detail might give them away, bring Bridge’s vengeance tumbling down on their heads. His daughter was happy with her life. They were going to have to disrupt it, take her away from her friends. He wanted to explain it carefully but he didn’t have the heart.

  ‘We’re all going to live together,’ he said, compromising. ‘You’d like that wouldn’t you? And we’re going to go away for a while to celebrate.’

  Her eyes lit up and he hated himself for his deceit. Before she had a chance to comment, in order to hide his embarrassment he embraced her and said goodnight.

  The seed of an idea began to blossom as he made his way back to the kitchen. Liz noticed his distant look.

  ‘Ann all right,’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Fine!’ He decided to come straight out with it because he’d hidden too much from her. ‘Actually she’s just given me an idea, a way of getting Bridge out of our lives for good.’

  She glared at him, anger and disbelief intermingling. ‘Come on! You’re surely not going to get involved again? Not after all he’s put us through.’

  ‘No fear of me doing that, but if it works we may have to only make a temporary move, an extended holiday.’

  ‘I’m all for anything that helps us to settle back here,’ she said, calming down. ‘But you’ll have to tell me everything before I agree to anything that might cause us grief.’

  He sat down at the table and she joined him. He began by explaining Hussein’s visit to his house, the man’s grief over what Bridge had done to his daughter, his burning thirst for revenge, finished with his belief that, if he passed on what Ann had just told him to Hussein, he would deal with Bridge in his own, no doubt violent way. The outcome would be that Bridge would be gone from their lives for good.

  At first Liz was hesitant. ‘You’re sure we have to take things that far?’

  ‘You’ve seen the man. This is the only way we can be sure we won’t have to keep looking over our shoulders, that Ann’s completely safe. We’ve already agreed if we told the police the likelihood is he’d get at us from jail. We’ve already seen how he can do that, haven’t we?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of operating outside the law,’ she mused. ‘But I’d go along with it as long as you’re not involved, other than telling this Hussein character where you think Bridge is.’

  ‘Then it’s agreed,’ Alex said. ‘I’ll see Hussein but meantime we’ll make arrangements to move somewhere safe just as we’d planned.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s only temporary.’ Liz said wistfully. ‘I like living in this area.’

  ‘Then Hussein’s our man, our best chance.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sitting at the head of the long table, Ali Hussein studied Alex, his dark eyes immobile and probing. His sons, who were also seated while Alex remained standing, regarded him with an intensity which equalled their father’s. He didn’t like what he was doing and right now he felt like a miscreant awaiting the judgement of a hastily mustered court trying to decide whether his story was truthful or not.

  ‘Forgive me but this is not just a fantasy of your daughter’s?’ Hussein asked.

  ‘I know my daughter,’ Alex replied. ‘Coincidentally, she has been to a place near Vigo on a family holiday, so she recognized the name when Bridge said it.’

  Hussein momentarily broke eye contact, smoothed out a wrinkle in the white tablecloth.

  ‘You know I will kill him,’ he said.

  ‘That is why I have come to you,’ Alex answered. ‘You have the resources I lack.’

  ‘You want rid of him so your family can have peace?’

  ‘Exactly. Even if he is imprisoned, he can strike out. You’ve heard my story. You can see why I am afraid for my family.’

  Hussein placed his hands flat on the table. His eyes moved over each of his five sons in turn. None spoke but each gave a slight nod of his head.

  The family had made their decision. Hussein sealed it when he stood up and extended his hand. Alex shook it.

  ‘Consider him already dead,’ Hussein declared with an air of finality, ‘and yourself innocent in this matter. Nothing said today goes beyond these four walls. I speak for my sons as well.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Alex mumbled, then turned away and made his way out of the restaurant.

  The idea of plotting a death, even of a man like Bridge, in such a cool, calculated fashion, felt bizarre. It seemed a far cry from the high-minded Hippocratic oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It gave him no pleasure, even though it had become necessary.

  Driving away from the restaurant, he continued to have mixed feelings. Hussein’s words about his innocence reverberated in his head, partly because he wanted to believe it was true, partly because, in spite of them, he felt sullied. As he pulled into the car park outside Middlesbrough police station, he hadn’t come to terms with it. Was he really doing the right thing or was this another case of flawed judgement on his part? His track record wasn’t too good in that department, was it?

  He concentrated on maintaining a show of outward composure when a young policeman in uniform showed him into DI Johnson’s office. If past experience with the detective was anything to go by, he would have to stay sharp-witted when he faced the caustic, accusatory comments the policeman was sure to conjure from whatever he said.

  ‘Come to confess?’ Johnson’s opening gambit, as Alex sat down in the chair he was offered, was the kind he’d expected.

  ‘Just keeping you informed of my intended movements,’ Alex stated, ‘as requested.’

  Johnson’s blue eyes mocked him. ‘Running but not hiding kind of thing. That it?’

  Alex ignored the sarcasm. ‘I’m back with my wife and daughter and we want to take a long holiday, probably somewhere near the sea. We may even make it a permanent move.’

  ‘Sea air to clean out the lungs and whatever else may be clogged up. Does it really work, Doctor Macdonald?’

  ‘Just letting you know,’ Alex said, rising from the chair.

  Johnson stood up, squared his wide shoulders. ‘Ring me when you know precisely when and where.’

  ‘Sure,’ Alex said, unenthusiastically. He headed for the door, disconcerted by those accusatory blue eyes which followed him and seemed capable of penetrating the false edifices he’d built.

  ‘Suspended from your job, aren’t you?’ Johnson called out as his hand clasped the door handle.

  Alex turned. Couldn’t the man just let it go, resist a last dig at him? His own guilt was heavy enough without this persistent niggling.

  ‘Mistakes at work suggest a man with a lot on his mind,’ the detective continued. Then, surprisingly, his voice softened. ‘Bridge got to you, didn’t he? What was it? Did he threaten your family? Is he still threatening? Is that why you’re upping sticks?’

  ‘
You should write a novel, Detective,’ Alex answered. ‘You’ve got the imagination for it.’

  Johnson sighed. ‘Well, at least I’ve done my research. I’ve read your army record. You were a good soldier, no black marks. In fact it’s quite a distinguished record. My so-called imagination tells me you wouldn’t help Bridge willingly, that he got to you. Why not come clean, Alex? We can help you if you were put under pressure. Or if you are still being put under pressure.’

  Alex grimaced, opened the door. As he walked out he called over his shoulder, ‘Write that book, Detective. It could be a best-seller.’

  Driving out of the car park, he was far from feeling as cocky and confident as those last words to the policeman had made him sound. In the army he’d been self-disciplined, respected rules because he understood that, if you didn’t, chaos ensued. It was a small step for the intellect to extend that concept to society itself. Now, having stepped outside those boundaries, he had to hope that Hussein would do a good job and keep him and his family out of it as he’d promised. His life had been in enough chaos recently to do for a lifetime.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The sun was at its highest. In the plaza of the small village three miles from Vigo the shopkeepers were rolling down the blinds in preparation for the afternoon siesta. A shadow of the church lay across the cobbled stones. Encompassed by the shade it afforded, a group of old men sat in silence on the church steps, as though waiting for something to happen to break the routine pattern of their days.

  Bella sat at a table outside one of the two cafés that faced on to the square. With a lazy, circular action, she rubbed suntan lotion into her bare shoulders. When she’d finished she adjusted the straps on her dress and put her sunglasses back on. Across the table her brother laid down his English newspaper and stretched. He was wearing a yellow T-shirt and white slacks. His face and the exposed parts of his flesh were tanned to the same shade as his sister’s skin. Both looked vibrantly healthy.

  Bella raised her glass. ‘What could be better than this, brother?’

  Bridge slouched in his chair, crossed his legs, swatted a fly hovering on the rim of his glass which sparkled in the sun. He gestured expansively.

  ‘Who could have imagined this when we were kids with nothing in the world except each other?’

  Bella regarded him closely. ‘You’re happy, then?’

  He sighed, considered her question. ‘Sometimes I miss the old dodging and weaving but then I think back to the prison, boxed up with all those lowlifes, my skin the colour of chalk.’ He examined a tanned forearm, stared up at the cloudless blue sky. ‘Thank God I have a clever sister who got me out. This last month has been so good.’

  Bella smiled. ‘It certainly wasn’t easy for me living out at that stinking farmhouse miles from anywhere, lying to the doctor to cover my movements while I was finding his weaknesses and putting the plan together. Gloria was my alias but gloria in excelsis it certainly wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, the good doctor,’ Bridge mused, a hard glint in his eye. ‘I haven’t forgotten him. In the end he nearly blew it for me. I have that in mind, of course.’

  ‘You’re not going to let it go?’ she said, looking concerned.

  Bridge laughed. ‘Wouldn’t be me if I did, would it? I have my pride and I promised the bastard. For now though, I’ll let him stew.’

  ‘Up to you,’ Bella said. ‘Just don’t do anything that gives us away. I like the life we’re leading.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Bridge told her.

  People started to leave the adjoining tables and the waiters were hovering in the background ready to close up and enjoy their own siesta. Bridge drained his glass.

  ‘You ready?’ Bella asked.

  ‘Think I’ll walk back,’ he said and patted his stomach. ‘It ain’t far and it’s time I had some exercise. You take the car.’

  Bella stood, pushed back a loose strand of red hair. ‘We’ll have lunch by the pool. I’ll have it ready by the time you get back. Maybe we can drive into Vigo later, meet some people, make new friends.’

  Bridge followed her out of the café. He watched her walk down the narrow alley which led to the street where they’d parked, then took another direction himself. Walking as briskly as the heat would allow, he emerged from the village on to the winding country road that crept up into the hills. Their villa was about a mile away, enough exertion in this heat.

  *

  Though he was blowing hard, he considered he’d never felt better in his life. Anonymity had its advantages, even for someone with as big an ego as his. He’d lied to his sister, of course. True, he liked it here, could settle for a while but you couldn’t deny your own nature. Bella probably knew that eventually he’d have to get back to his old ways. You couldn’t sit still in life. Onwards and upwards was the way to go. There was always more money to be made. Deep down Bella knew. All that talk back at the café was a bit of a fantasy.

  The road he was walking led nowhere, came to a dead halt. There were three villas like their own on the way up the hill but theirs was the highest, near the dead end. After he’d gone about a quarter-mile, Bella passed him in the car and waved. He lengthened his stride, pushing against the steep incline.

  Half-way up he rested. Looking west, beyond an expanse of countryside, was the sea. He was able to work out roughly which way England lay. The mother country seemed far away, his past more remote by the day, even in the short time they’d been here. Maybe it was the heat getting to him, or the awareness of distances from his vantage point, but standing here made him aware of his own mortality, that nothing he’d done in his past was of any consequence, except that it had made him a pile of money. He laughed at himself. Apart from his sister, wasn’t money and the adrenalin rush he achieved making it, all that mattered?

  The hum of a car engine interrupted his reverie. He watched a sleek, black car creeping up the incline behind him. Apart from their own, it was the first car he’d seen on this road and he figured it must belong to one of the villas. Perhaps a neighbour was returning home for a quick siesta. As it swept past him, he noticed two men were sitting in the front. The one in the passenger seat waved to him, a gesture he returned. Then the vehicle disappeared around a curve and he forgot about it, concentrated on maintaining his stride, his muscles starting to protest against the unaccustomed workload.

  When he came to the last villa he noticed the same car parked on the road. The window blinds were down and he figured his theory about the car’s occupants taking a siesta was right.

  The last bend in the road was visible now. Soon he would be able to see his destination. Encouraged, he pushed on, shirt damp with sweat, hoping that that was a sign the weight was coming off. The villa came into view, the length of a football field away. Bella was standing beside the pool in her bikini. She waved at him and disappeared inside.

  Stomach rumbling in anticipation of the food she would have ready for him, he renewed his efforts but slowed when he heard a noise behind him. In spite of the heat, he felt himself go cold. Senses tuning in, he turned. The car that he’d seen earlier was charging up the incline, its engine roaring like a living thing stirred to anger. He froze. His mind cried out danger but there was nowhere to run or hide and the beast was almost on top of him. With a squeal of brakes, it stopped alongside him. A cloud of dust encircled him and pricked at his eyes.

  The doors opened and two men got out. The nearest one, slim, sleek and dark, was holding a jacket over his arm. He lifted it slightly showing the barrel of his gun. Time expanded as Bridge fixed on the weapon. His bowels churned and he wondered if this was it, if his uncustomary thoughts on mortality only minutes ago had been a premonition.

  The other man, the driver, squat, muscle-bound, dark-skinned like his partner, came round the car and opened the back door.

  ‘Get in,’ the sleek one ordered.

  For a brief moment, Bridge was relieved that he was still alive. He thought about running but the terrain and their aura of capability
dissuaded him. He climbed into the car, tried to calm himself with the knowledge that at least they hadn’t killed him instantly, which suggested they wanted something from him and maybe were open to negotiation.

  ‘What is it you want?’ he asked as the one with the gun climbed in the back seat beside him and stuck the weapon in his side.

  Neither man answered and the silence was chilling. Something about these two, not least the expensive suits, told him they weren’t just run-of-the-mill kidnappers.

  He tried again. ‘Who sent you?’

  Again no answer. Then the squat one started the engine and drove towards the villa.

  ‘The woman’s already in the house,’ he said to his partner.

  ‘She won’t suspect anything. We just walk in,’ the sleek one responded.

  Bridge, growing increasingly afraid because it was as if he didn’t exist to these men, as if he were already dead, muttered, ‘Whoever’s paying you, I’ll pay more. I’ve got plenty.’

  Still neither man answered. Bridge couldn’t understand their impassivity. Could this be personal with them? Most people he had dealings with responded when you mentioned money but these two hadn’t even shown a flicker of emotion. Maybe then it was something personal involved here. But what the hell could they want? Why hadn’t they just shot him?

  The car pulled on to the concrete drive at the front of the building, halted beside Bridge’s vehicle. Sleek jabbed the gun into his ribs.

  ‘Out! Now!’

  Bridge did as he was told. Sleek stood beside him, his jacket draped casually over his arm covering his gun. Squat, meanwhile, opened the boot, reached in, lifted out a small brown-paper bag. His actions puzzled Bridge. What was going on here?

  The door was wide open. Sleek pushed Bridge ahead and all three entered the villa.

  ‘Call your sister,’ Squat ordered as they stood in the hallway.

  He thought about disobeying but one look at the men’s adamantine features disposed of that idea. Besides, Bella, with her superior intellect, might be able to talk to these two Neanderthals better than he could. Perhaps this was to all to do with her anyway, since they obviously knew she was his sister.