At the last moment he managed to turn and face his attacker, and the shock caused him to lose his balance. There was a loud crack as the chalk gave way beneath his feet. He opened his mouth to scream —
And woke, certain the noise had been real. In the stillness of the bedroom all he could hear was his thudding heart. He moved up on to his elbows and forced his breathing to slow down. Eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for the sound to be repeated.
Probably just a cat, or a fox prowling the dustbins for food. But he stayed frozen for a long minute, watching the digital clock move from 2:36 to 2:37. Then realised he was holding his breath and let it out in a rush. He remembered the dream, but couldn’t picture the face he’d seen. He told himself he was being stupid and relaxed back on the bed.
And heard something else. A scraping, sliding noise.
From inside.
Now he sat up straight, wondering if he dared use the phone. What kind of response time could he expect on a Saturday night? And what if it was nothing? He decided he had to investigate first.
He got out of bed and quickly pulled on some shorts. Searched the room for something he could use as a weapon, but found nothing.
He crept on to the landing and paused at the top of the stairs. There was a moment of agonising indecision. Should he make a noise in order to frighten the intruder off, or move stealthily and hope to surprise him?
Neither option was particularly appealing, but he couldn’t just stay where he was and let the bastard ransack his house.
He took the stairs slowly, keeping close to the edges so the boards wouldn’t give him away. A couple of times he heard movement in the living room: the gentle clatter of items being discarded. Fucker’s going through my CD collection, he thought.
At the bottom of the stairs there was an occasional table that Sarah had bought for the hall. There was a bronze figurine on it, and while the figure itself was delicate, the base was quite hefty. Since he had nothing better available, Nick lifted it up and slowly approached the living room door.
He was reaching for the handle when his vision disappeared. He felt rough material against his face and then a heavy arm around his neck, crushing his windpipe. He tried to raise the figurine but it was knocked from his hand.
Movement in the living room, someone hurrying.
A gruff male voice: “You got him?”
“Yeah.”
Two of them. One lurking in the shadows while the other searched the house.
Nick tried to break free but he was punched twice, hard, in the stomach. He felt himself gagging against the hood, unable to breathe. A rush of cold air hit him as the front door opened, and his heels scuffed on the carpet.
“Come on. Let’s get him out.”
He panicked, began writhing madly, choking and spluttering, but a blow to the head sent him reeling. Possibly he blacked out for a second, then felt himself being dragged towards the door.
Suddenly there was a blaze of light and the glassy shriek of a car horn. Nick felt his assailants react with the same shock.
“What the fuck…?”
“Come on.”
He was dropped unceremoniously on the path and hit his head against the decorative stone that marked the tiny lawn. At the same time the car horn ceased, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. He grabbed at the sack over his head. Heard car doors slam, the gunning of an engine.
He got up just in time to see a car race away without lights: something fast and sporty, maybe a BMW. Then another car, parked across the street, pulled out and set off in pursuit. Both turned on to the seafront road, tyres squealing, and were gone.
***
Alex followed the BMW into Brighton. The driver put his lights on, then accelerated up to seventy approaching a large traffic-light controlled junction. It sped through on red, just missing a car preparing to turn right. Alex slowed to let the other car cross and saw the BMW’s passenger turning in his seat, obviously hoping to witness a collision.
She considered pursuing them, but quickly decided against it. With the clubs chucking out around now, the city centre would be full of police. No point risking unnecessary attention.
Instead she turned left, away from the seafront. She wondered if Nick had noticed her registration plate, but judged it unlikely in all the confusion.
She had parked opposite his house at just after two am, intending only to collect her thoughts at the end of a productive evening. A little later she’d seen the BMW pull up, and watched two burly men pull on face masks and disappear around the side of the house. At that point she considered phoning Nick, but curiosity got the better of her.
For the next few minutes she waited, calmly aware that her prime target might end up dead. Against this possibility she had to weigh up the risks of intervention. If she were herself injured or captured, all her plans would be ruined.
When the front door opened, and it was clear the men were intent on abducting him, she saw a chance to prevent it and remain anonymous. The only drawback was that it gave her no clue as to who was responsible. Clearly Nick had made other enemies, which was interesting in itself, but also a complication she could do without.
She spent the journey home considering her response to this latest challenge. There was no question of stopping. It was merely a choice between continuing as planned or forcing the pace.
In the end, she decided: Force it.
TWE NTY
“Men!”
“What?”
“Ohh, sometimes I could strangle the lot of you!”
Diana picked up Chloe and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Nick and Pat to exchange a bemused glance.
“It’s not you,” said Pat. “We’re going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment, what with everything…”
Before he could elaborate Diana marched back into the room, having deposited Chloe in her bouncing cradle. Both men watched as she balled up her apron and hurled it at Nick. He ducked to one side and caught it neatly. “Does this mean you’re withdrawing the invite to Sunday lunch?”
She almost cracked a smile, turning away so he wouldn’t see it. She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine.
“Uh oh,” said Pat.
“And you can piss off,” Diana snapped.
Pat looked sheepish. “My cue to play with the kids, I think.”
Diana poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Nick, then sat down opposite him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go to the police.”
“I’ve explained that.”
“They were trying to kidnap you, for God’s sake. You might have been killed.”
“I don’t think so. Probably a beating.” Nick congratulated himself on sounding far more confident than he felt.
“So what’s to stop them trying again?”
“I’m more interested in what stopped them last night.”
He’d explained the surreal intervention that had thwarted his would-be abductors, but he had no idea who had saved him, or why. In the confusion he hadn’t even managed to get the make of the second car.
The oven bleeped. Nick glanced at Diana, then at the apron on the table, and said, “Let me do that.”
“Sure you know how? It’s not a microwave.”
He laughed sarcastically. He’d been dreading this conversation, but now he felt the worst was over. Last night he’d gone inside, inspected his various bumps and bruises, taken some painkillers and then located the point of entry: a window in his downstairs toilet. He fetched the Yellow Pages and sat down, knowing the first call ought to be 999.
Then he thought about the media, Howard Franks pouncing on any chance to re-ignite the story. So he vetoed that idea and called an emergency glazier, who finally arrived at four o’clock and communicated his feelings with a sniff. “Take much, did they?”
“Not really,” said Nick. All he wanted now was to get to bed.
“Still, look on the bright side, eh?” the glazier said.
“What?�
�
“You can stick in a nice big claim. Make up for all that premium you been paying for years.”
Eight hours later, basting roast potatoes in his sister’s kitchen, Nick smiled as he recalled the comment.
He saw Diana working up to something. “Is there any chance this could be connected to Sarah’s death?” she said at last.
“More likely it’s a case I’m working on.” He hadn’t told Diana that he’d recognised one of the voices: Kevin Doyle. But it was nothing he could prove in court.
“Someone did this because of an insurance claim?”
“There’s big money involved.”
Diana shuddered. “Why can’t you get a safer job?”
She stood up and opened her arms to embrace him. There were tears in her eyes. “First Sarah. Now this.” She stepped back, a hand on each of his shoulders, and looked him directly in the eye. “What have you done to deserve such bad luck?”
For once he didn’t have a glib answer. But a song popped into his head: Someone’s Got It In For Me. Then a thought so unexpected that he felt the colour drain from his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need to sit down.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Fine.” He took a sip of his wine. “You ought to make up with Pat.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” Diana grumbled.
“Go on. I don’t want to eat lunch in a war zone.”
Reluctantly she left the room, and he returned to the question that had accompanied the song. What if someone had got it in for him? What if that was why Sarah had died?
He considered it from various angles, trying and failing to identify anyone who might go to such terrible lengths, and then he realised just how staggeringly egocentric he was being. What would Diana say? You think the world revolves around you. Arrogant little sod.
No. He dismissed that idea and stood up. Time to forget his troubles and play Favourite Uncle for a while.
***
It was an agitated Kevin Doyle who rang Roger at ten o’clock on Sunday morning, saying he was on his way over. Roger retreated to his study and prepared for the worst.
Since their lunch the day before, he and Caitlin had been friendlier than at any time for weeks. Nevertheless she had insisted on moving to a spare bedroom, confirming that the relationship, if it continued at all, would do so on a platonic basis. Last night she’d finished her run at the Komedia and afterwards had gone clubbing with the rest of the company. When Doyle rang she was still in bed.
Ten minutes later Roger heard a car pull up outside. He opened the front door and registered Kevin’s appearance: wild-eyed, unshaven, jittery.
“Christ! What have you been taking?”
Kevin shouldered his way past without speaking. Roger watched him stalk into the study and counted to ten.
“You look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I fucking have, that’s why.” Kevin sprawled in a chair and threw his feet on to the desk, one soiled trainer perilously close to a photo of the children. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned as if trying to unblock a memory, or perhaps chase one away.
“What have you done?”
“I was fed up, just sitting on our arses. Me and Jim, we thought if we could really scare the shit out of him…”
“Nick Randall?”
Kevin grunted affirmation. He started scratching his scalp with manic intensity. “We broke in. We were gonna have him away —”
Roger threw himself forward in his chair, banging his knee on the desk. “What?”
“Bung him in the car, take him down to Worthing or somewhere. Give him a kicking and leave him on the beach. Tell him to drop the investigation or next time he’ll end up dead.”
Roger put his head in his hands and said, very quietly, “And what happened?” Thinking: they killed him.
“There was someone spying on the house, at three in the fucking morning. Leant on the horn, flashed their lights. We had to drop him and leg it.”
“So who was it?”
“I dunno. They followed us into town, then disappeared. Jim reckoned it was a bird.”
Roger didn’t understand at first. “A woman?”
“What I’m thinking is, maybe the pigs are watching him.”
“You’d better pray that’s not true.” And so had I, Roger added to himself. He brooded for a minute, and then said, “No. They’d have arrested you there and then.”
“So who, then?”
“I’ve no idea.” He had another thought. “What car did you use?”
“My beamer, but I swapped plates with an old 3-series at the Farm.” Despite everything, Kevin had the gall to boast of his ingenuity.
You fucking moron, Roger thought. And in that moment his decision was made, nicely anticipating Kevin’s next question.
“So what now?”
“We shut it down. It’s over.”
“No way. I ain’t having that.” Kevin’s foot twitched; the picture fell off the desk and smashed.
“Get your feet off there,” Roger snarled. He waited for the other man’s sullen gaze to meet his. “And another thing. You’re fired.”
“Fucking…” Kevin’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “What am I gonna do for money?”
Roger unlocked the filing cabinet behind him and produced a thick brown envelope. He tossed it to Kevin.
“Fifteen grand,” Roger said. “We’ll call it severance pay, and think yourself lucky. You don’t deserve a penny.”
Kevin peered into the envelope, muttering under his breath, and then suddenly launched himself across the desk. His outstretched fist caught Roger on the chin, while his other hand went for his throat. Roger cried out, raising his hands in a feeble attempt to fend him off.
Under the weight of the two men, Roger’s chair toppled backwards and they both fell heavily into the narrow space behind the desk. In the desperate tangle of limbs, Roger managed to prise Kevin’s hand from his throat, only to let out a winded exclamation as Doyle punched him in the chest.
“Piece of shit!” Kevin spat. Expecting no more resistance, he began to rise, reaching across the desk in search of a weapon. “Fifteen grand!” He snatched up another framed photo, broke it on the corner of the desk and pulled out a shard of glass. “I want a better offer or I’ll cut your fucking face to shreds.”
Turning back, jabbing the glass to show he meant business, he expected to see Roger wide-eyed and submissive. Instead he found himself staring at the snout of a Browning pistol.
“Where the fuck d’you get that?” Trying not to betray the fear in his voice, Kevin stood up and slowly backed away.
“Unlike you, I take the time to prepare.”
“You wouldn’t…”
Roger smiled. There was a glint in his eyes that Kevin had never seen before. It matched the certainty in his voice. “Wanna try me?” he said.
Feeling like Clint Eastwood, and talking like him now.
As Roger stood up, Kevin retreated further. Roger nodded towards the envelope.
“Take it.”
Kevin snatched up the money and stuffed it inside his jacket. Suddenly the door opened and Caitlin was there, frowning first at Doyle’s broad back, then seeing past him. Before she could speak, Roger cried out “Caitlin! Get away!”
Kevin turned, a second too late. Caitlin ran to the foot of the stairs and called, “Shall I ring the police?”
“No,” said Roger. “It’s done with.” The macho tone produced a certain guilty pleasure. He’d owned the gun for years, and had intended to hand it in when possession became illegal. This was the first time he’d ever threatened someone with it, and the sense of power made him dizzy.
He followed Doyle to the door. In a last act of petty defiance, Kevin spat on the tiles. Roger ached to fire the gun, just a warning shot, but didn’t trust himself to shoot straight.
“You ain’t heard the last of this,” Kevin said, kicking the door shut behi
nd him.
For a moment Roger and Caitlin faced each other, neither saying a word. Caitlin hurried to the window and watched the BMW speed away. Only then did she confront Roger.
“What the hell is going on?”
He shrugged. His legs felt like they could crumple at any second and there was an unpleasant weight in his stomach.
“I took your advice,” he said. His vision blurred, and he felt sweat prickling on his forehead. Still holding the gun, he rushed to the toilet across the hall and was violently sick.
TWENTY-ONE
Devil’s Dyke is a popular beauty spot high on the South Downs north of Brighton. Its name derives from a curious indentation in the hill, said to be an attempt by the devil to cut a channel through the Downs and allow the sea to flood the Sussex Weald. As a place where evil had been thwarted, it seemed an appropriate venue for Caitlin and Nick to meet.
Fortunately he arrived promptly, before she could lose her nerve and drive away. She’d been having second thoughts since the night before, when in a burst of courage she had called and asked to see him. She was glad he had suggested they meet on neutral ground.
His own greeting was an uncertain smile as he parked alongside her car. It was a glorious spring morning, and Easter Monday; the car park was rapidly filling with an assortment of walkers, cyclists and hang-gliders.
“I thought we could go for a walk?” Caitlin said, and then blushed. It sounded like she was suggesting a date.
“Lead the way,” he said, and they set off along the top of the hill.
They discussed acting for a while, shaking off their nerves in small talk. She wanted to know if he’d ever considered a career in showbusiness.
“Not really. I just never felt the calling. It is a vocation, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. No way you’d put up with the rejection and heartbreak if you didn’t feel you were destined to do it.”
He looked at her closely. “I guess I wanted an easier life.”
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