by Potter, John
‘Nope,’ he answered honestly, glad they were off the subject of gods and death.‘Did you get a look at the diary?’
‘Did you?’ she answered.
‘Barry rattled off the highlights after we covered the CCTV. Said it was remarkable for the fact there was absolutely no detail on her time in Hambury at all.’
Ferreira nodded. ‘That’s about the extent of it. They have a psychologist going over the detail but there’s barely a word on her visits, save for a record she was here.’
‘Poor kid. She knew her dad would get into trouble if anyone read what actually happens when she’s here.’
‘Either way, Fran, I can’t see this ending well for Brian Dunstan, can you?’
‘Nope. Although I doubt Dunstan’s worried about social services right now, just his daughter’s future.’
‘Which is slipping away from us, especially today.’ The frustration lay heavy in her voice.
‘Yes.’ Boer rapped his fingers thoughtfully against the case file. ‘I can’t imagine Simon would have used the address in Cleethorpes unless he thought it safe. How safe we will know when we talk to the letting agency. On the off chance I requested Lincolnshire send a list of all the 999 calls made through Saturday and Sunday. The station rang to say that arrived. There were over three thousand hoax and silent calls in Cleethorpes and Grimsby alone. I got the station to check the address against the list, but there was no match. Unless we get more data to cross-reference, the list is useless.’
The wicker creaked as Ferreira shifted to the edge of the chair. ‘You’re more productive than me even when you’re housebound. Can I get you anything before I go?’
‘I’d die for some marmite on toast?’
‘Sure.’ She paused at the door. ‘Is that wise?’
‘It could swing either way.’ He winked at her.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Adam stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, examining his collection of bruises. There were several across his ribs and back, ranging in tone from yellow to purple, the same across his thighs and shoulders. A dark horizontal bruise under each eye made him look like a skinny American Footballer. His body ached painfully. Mentally he was still in shock, reeling from the belief he would die on the beach at the hands of the two blond men.
For all these emotions his overriding sense was of relief. He was alive and looking at his reflection. The bruises would heal. His skin would soon return to an expanse of smooth skin. He had seen Brian’s burns that morning.
After checking in the night before, Brian had directed him to the room and then immediately went in search of the night porter. The first Adam knew he was back in the room was when he woke to daylight and the sound of the shower. Then Brian had stepped from the bathroom.
No amount of imagining could have prepared him for what he saw. Brian’s left shoulder across to and down his right arm, his entire back down to the base of his spine, down and around to his right thigh, looked like it had been flayed, covered in lumpy red flesh with occasional patches of melted skin in a hardened sheen. It looked plastic but was not. It was so disfigured Adam had to swallow rising bile to stop from being sick.
Brian looked back at him as he pulled his clothes from the radiator, instructed him to stay put and then left. That had been an hour ago.
Adam waited, alternating his attention between the view over an industrial park and the clock beneath the TV glowing green. It was 8:26, the sounds of the hotel were of the morning, doors slamming, guests leaving and cleaners moving from room to room.
He flinched at a sound outside and the click of the lock, and then Brian swept in. He emptied two bags onto the bed. Two sets of jeans, T-shirts and underwear, two lightweight jackets. He immediately started tugging free the tags, then threw him something small that landed heavily on the spare bed.
‘What’s that?’ Adam reached forward and picked it up.
‘What’s it look like?’
He weighed it in his hand. It was about the size of his phone but heavier and narrower. A solid moulded handle that curved neatly in his palm, a thick length of metal embedded within. A button sat beneath his thumb which he pressed. The blade sprung free, full of menace.
‘What would I use this for?’
Brian stripped off his clothes and pulled on a fresh set of jeans. ‘From the look of you this morning some last line of defence might be in order.’
‘But how, how would I use it?’
‘Hopefully you don’t. It’s the very last thing you want to use. You’ll know if the time comes. Keep it stashed. If you have to, go for calves or thighs or arms. Just punch it in there. Don’t go face to face with anyone. If they’re half decent they’ll take you out in a beat, then they might get a mind to stab you back.’
Adam felt a little indignant at the dismissive summary of his capabilities, as accurate as they were. He carefully folded the blade back into the handle, not sure where to put it. He dropped it onto the bed.
‘What about the car?’
The keys landed on the bed beside the knife. ‘You won’t be needing those. Hope you took out the comprehensive cover.’
Adam groaned. ‘What did they do?’
‘No idea. It’s gone. Couldn’t find it anywhere on the promenade.’ Brian pulled on one of the jackets, tested it across his shoulders and shrugged it off, reaching for the other one. ‘I had a chat with the porter last night. Grimsby has a football club.’
Adam faintly recalled this but struggled to understand Brian’s point.
‘Three lions?’ Brian prompted.
‘They have three lions in their logo?’
Brian shook his head. ‘Grimsby and Cleethorpes are part of the same sprawl. Cleethorpes is prettier, Grimsby’s industrial. It was the biggest fishing port in the UK until Iceland took back their chunk of the North Sea. The fishing industry died but there was still demand, so the Icelandic fleets used the facilities here. Now Grimsby’s full of international businesses with a strong Nordic twist.’
‘You mean the logo on Simon’s T-shirt was three fish, not three lions?’
Brian smiled in return and Adam pulled the remaining clothes off the bed and put them on, working the logic. His logo analysis had been laborious, getting as far as international and top tier teams. Grimsby had not been one of them.
Brian had more to say. ‘So we’ve got a Nordic influence and our blond Americans. Which is bollucks I’d say. I met a Swedish guy while I was seconded to the UN, had the damnest American accent. Reckoned he got it from watching American TV, it’s all they ever watch.’
Adam mentally flicked through the inconsequential detail he had seen on his computer the night before. ‘Simon is self-employed. Before that he only worked for one other company; Thompson Deep Sea. I assumed it was a family business.’
Brian moved his change and pocket junk from his old jeans to the new. ‘So we could see whether Thompson Deep Sea became Nordic Deep Sea or something. They might have offices here, they might know Simon. Do you think that’s something you could do if we found you a computer?’
‘Possibly. It would be a case of searching the net and hoping the data is already out there. I don’t have access to that kind of information at work.’
Brian blinked back at him. ‘You eat yet?’
The last thing on Adam’s mind was eating, the thought of it made him queasy. He answered with a shake of his head.
‘Good,’ Brian stated. ‘The porter saved us two full English and a large pot of hot coffee.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Internet cafés were scarce in both Grimsby and Cleethorpes. They eventually found a book store with a hand-written sign in the window, with an ancient computer set at the back in the Children’s section. Accessing the internet required feeding coins into a box bolted beneath the desk, which left little room for Adam’s legs.
He started by checking the news sites for updates on the Andrea story. Most had been rewritten with additional speculation, the main event was the
midday press conference. He then researched Thompson Deep Sea and cross referenced the results with Simon Thompson. The only information he found was a minimal website with a single picture advertising a trawler for hire. Squinting at the image, he read the name on the bow, Cutting Blue. There was a UK email address in the boat’s name but all the other links on the page were dead ends. He fired off an email but it was returned almost immediately as undeliverable.
He then clicked through endless pages of irrelevant family trees before discovering several stories about a Conley Thompson, who in the early 1980s had made a stand against fishing quotas by sailing his trawler to Singapore, and selling it to a maritime museum. Here again the boat’s name was Cutting Blue, which meant that if it was the same boat it had been brought back to the UK after being sold in Singapore. He tried searching again on Cutting Blue, but only came back to the old website or rehashes of the story he already had. Adam had nothing that tied Simon to Thompson Deep Sea, other than his PAYE record from the night before. And there was no record of where Thompson Deep Sea’s offices were or had been. Throughout, Brian sat in his co-pilot’s position talking to the estate agents in Essex, unsuccessfully trying to coerce them into giving him the contact details of the house’s owner.
By eleven they were standing on the promenade, the breeze tugging at the material of their clothing. Adam’s hands were pushed deep into his pockets, his frustration echoed in the gloomy grey sky, the restless ocean sending drifting spray high into the air. They had a whole lot of dead ends. They had come all this way, to be within a stone’s throw of Sarah and Andrea but with no way of finding them.
Brian leaned against the metal railing and folded his arms, the wind flattening his hair like long grass in a field. ‘We have one option.’
Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘We do?’
‘We go back to the pub and wait.’
Adam took a step closer to make sure he heard correctly. ‘The pub? Is that wise?’
‘All depends on your perspective. It beats standing here skimming pebbles off the sea. Worst case scenario is the bad guys turn up and get pissed at us. Which is also kind of the best case scenario.’ He looked hard at Adam. ‘Which might not end well, so now is your opportunity to turn and walk away.’
Adam’s stomach still felt uneasy. The thought of going back to the pub did not help. The chance to walk away appealed in ways that focused on not ending up like the man in Peterborough, or running through a repeat of the night before. He took satisfaction in being able to help Brian but his ability to help now seemed redundant. What use would he be? At the same time there was no way he could turn around, having come so far. With Brian’s indomitable attitude anything seemed possible. He might yet make a difference.
‘I can’t,’ he said, trying to find the right words. ‘I couldn’t, I could never live with myself.’
‘Good,’ Brian answered. ‘Two are always better than one. You should know if it gets stupid your job is to run like fuck. You got that?’
Adam nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll do my best to leave them with a lasting impression. I’d quite like some one-on-one time with either of the blonds.’ Then Brian slapped him on the shoulder and walked away, along the promenade back towards the pub. After a moment of hesitation Adam followed.
FIFTY-NINE
The grass here was thick and green. Green was not the word, even lush did it no justice. Unreal was closer. An expanse that carpeted the rise and fall of earth as far as she could see. The trees behind her whispered and small clouds chased their shadows. A warm breeze caressed her skin. She gazed at the smoke rising from distant hills. She knew people lived there, had tried walking before but it had been so far.
There was a murmur, a sound within the sounds within the trees behind. A voice, but nobody was ever here. It drew her though. The sound latched into her mind and pulled her hand over hand. Someone she trusted, closing her eyes and going with the pull.
Opening them again, to the soft glow of the lamp, turning her head and blinking at reality and the girl sitting cross-legged on the mattress. An elbow on each knee and her hands pressed together, her fingers pointing upwards. The girl’s mouth moved, the words almost audible, the child voice almost a melody.
‘What are you doing?’ Sarah asked, still half there and not fully here.
‘I’m praying,’ Andrea replied. She punctuated the sentence with ‘Amen’ and looked at Sarah. ‘You’re awake!’
‘Was I not already?’
Andrea stared, concerned, keeping her hands as they were.
‘No, well, you looked like you were awake. But it was like you were asleep. You weren’t answering me.’
‘Sorry.’ She looked around the room. ‘How have you been, was I gone long?’ She remembered now. ‘I hope you weren’t too upset? We did our best.’
‘You were gone ages. I was upset because I thought you might be hurt or something horrid might have happened. That I might be here all alone.’ She looked down at the bandages around Sarah’s hands. ‘Then I felt bad because I wanted you here and it’s because of me you’re here anyway.’ Her eyes were wide and guilty. ‘And now you look so poorly.’
Sarah eased back into herself, leaning against the wall, the mattress familiar beneath her fingers. ‘We’re here because of the people who took you Andrea, no other reason. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’ She pressed her hands against her stomach, recalling cramp and soreness, shifting carefully. She ached from her groin right up to her chest. She wrinkled her nose, for the first time conscious of a stench, looking across at the porcelain bowl.
Andrea shifted self-consciously, crimson blotting her cheeks, wide abashed eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, Sarah, I held on as long as I could but I needed to go. It’s not as bad as it was,’ she said hopefully.
Sarah could not stop a smile spreading across her face. ‘Phew!’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘For a minute I thought they’d got a horse in here as well! Who could imagine little girls could be so smelly?’
‘Sarah!’ she shouted indignantly, then she excitedly shuffled closer, happy now her friend was back. ‘I moved the water and biscuits. It didn’t seem right them being near the bowl.’
Sarah winked. ‘Good idea. Why don’t you move the bowl so when he comes back he will be faced with it before he can come in.’ That got a giggled affirmation. Andrea made a show of taking a deep breath before dragging it slowly to where they knew the door to be. She diverted to the bookshelf and pulled out the largest hardback, placing it over the top of the bowl. ‘I like Rupert,’ she said, pleased with her own good idea. ‘But as it’s his book I don’t feel bad about putting it there.’ She returned to the corner.
‘Would you like to pray with me?’ she asked.
Sarah shook her head. ‘I don’t pray. But you can, it’s nice to hear your voice.’
‘You don’t pray?’ Andrea asked, incredulous. ‘But you must pray?’
Sarah pulled her legs up but that hurt so she let them slide out a little and wrapped her arms loosely around her knees. She looked at Andrea. ‘So why do you pray? Are you a bad person?’
The girl went still as she considered. ‘I pray because mum tells me to. Sometimes I do bad things although I don’t usually know I’m doing them. Mum says if I don’t behave I’ll go to hell, which is a scary place with lots of fire and Satan lives there with all the bad people.’
She paused again, giving the question serious consideration. ‘I try to be good but it’s not easy. I don’t always do the jobs mum asks me to, or don’t do them as well as she would like. And I should take better care of my sisters. And not ask for things so much. And tidy my books. I sometimes say I’ve done my homework and I haven’t, not properly. And sometimes I make mum really angry for no reason at all. I do lots of bad things. Maybe God is punishing me?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘You’re not being punished. There are bad people in the world, and praying is not going to change that or get us home. Only we can do that.�
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Andrea’s face shifted from hopeful to dismayed, teetering on the brink of tears. Sarah immediately wished she had not been so honest.
‘I really need to go home Sarah. I can’t stay here forever, I just can’t. I miss my sisters, my mum and dad and Kevin. I miss school. My books, the smell of towels. Writing stories, my bed and my feet on my rug in the morning. I even miss homework and Mr Evans, and he made Ian Wilson cry in class. Tell me this will be over soon, won’t it? My dad will be coming. They’ll have to listen to him and then we can go home, can’t we?’
‘Let’s hope so, Andrea.’
‘I know so.’ Her face morphed back to pink-cheeked determination. ‘My dad will make them realise he doesn’t owe them money. Nothing stops my dad.’
‘That would be really good,’ Sarah said, not sure how to handle the contrast between the girl’s expectations and the stark reality. ‘In the meantime, Andrea, we have to think how we can help ourselves. Because just now it’s only me and you. We have to think they might want to do bad things to us both. Things we cannot even imagine right now. We might have to fight if we want to go home and do things we might not do anywhere else.’
Andrea pulled up her legs and looped both her hands around her knees, mirroring Sarah’s posture, trying to imagine the worst that might happen and what she might have to do. ‘I once threw stones at boys in school because they were bullying me and my friends. That sort of thing?’
Sarah nodded. ‘That and maybe worse. I think Simon might like me, in a fancy sort of way, which means I might have a chance to do something. But I have already used lots of chances.’ She sat silent studying the weave of her jeans. ‘Or you might have to do something, because he would never expect you to do it.’
‘Like throwing stones but worse?’ Andrea ventured.