As Wayne reached into his pocket,Kathy said,‘You don’t need him. Just get him to draw you a map.’
‘Don’t be soft.’Mark kept his eyes on Wayne as he handed over the phone.‘We might take a wrong turning,and anyway,we don’t want him talking to anybody once we’re gone, do we?’
They made their way out of the hut, Mark taking up the rear. As they walked towards the gate a man in a hard hat and boots came hurrying up.
‘Oh, Mick,’ Wayne said, and Kathy felt herself and the two Roach brothers stiffen.‘Will you be all right now? I have to go.’
‘That’s fine,Wayne.Everything’s sorted.See you tomorrow.’
The man marched away and they continued to the Merc. Wayne was prodded into the front with Mark, Kathy as before in the back between Spider and Ricky.
‘So,’Mark said,‘M6 is it?’
‘Yeah.’Wayne was chewing his lip, face taut.
‘Just relax,Wayne,’ Mark said soothingly.‘Put your seatbelt on and relax. Everything’s going to be fine, as long as you two behave yourselves, okay?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Lovely day for a trip to the country, eh?’
As they cleared London and headed north on the motorway, Mark switched on the radio, occasionally tapping his fingers on the wheel in time to the music. He showed no signs of being unduly distressed at having lost a brother, unlike Ricky, who seemed dangerously angry and morose. Mark made several calls on his mobile phone as he was driving, though Kathy couldn’t hear much of what was said. From time to time he would light a cigarette, and Kathy was reminded of family outings when she was small. Her father was a heavy smoker, and as soon as he lit up she would feel the nausea rise in her throat, as automatically as if someone had thrown a switch.
Apart from Mark, hardly anyone spoke.
‘So what’s this place of yours like then, Wayne? Give us the picture.’
Wayne had sunk into himself, and took a moment to answer.
‘It’s small-living room, kitchen, two bedrooms. Stone walls, with a slate roof, couple of hundred years old.’
‘Nice. Got a view, has it?’
‘Yes. It looks out to Moel Fammau.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘It’s a mountain, the highest point in the Clwydian Range. From the top you can see Snowdon.’
‘So it’s wild country? Neighbours?’
‘Not really. A couple of farms about a quarter mile in each direction along the lane. The village is half a mile away, down in the valley.’
‘Much traffic on the lane?’
‘None. It isn’t made up and doesn’t lead anywhere. It stops at the last farm, at the top of the hill.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ Mark said, but didn’t say what for.
Wayne glanced back over his shoulder at Kathy and she understood the message in his eyes. She was the professional, wasn’t she? This was what she had been trained for. Why didn’t she do something? But she knew there was little she could do. The Roaches were watchful, and they had done this sort of thing before. Wayne and Kathy were following in the footsteps of the Brown Bread victims.
The traffic grew heavy around Birmingham, and several times the motorway came to a total stop. Mark began to drum his fingers impatiently, and Kathy recalled Wayne’s comment to Brock about getting there before dark. With any luck, Brock would have left before they arrived.
‘How long’s this going to take?’ Ricky said. It was the first time anyone had asked, and when Wayne said, ‘Another two or three hours,’ Ricky said,‘Fuck!’ with disgusted surprise, as if he’d imagined the rest of the UK as a narrow fringe just beyond the London boundary. Maybe they flew everywhere.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ricky said.‘When are we getting lunch?’
Another echo of childhood, her final car journey doomed to be a dark reflection of her first.
‘Let’s stop at the next service station for a burger,’ Ricky said.
Good idea, Kathy thought. She saw Wayne stir hopefully.
‘No way. We keep going,’ Mark said, but he was wrong, for his father made a rare sound. ‘I’ll need to pay a visit, son, and get a drink for my pills.’
Mark grunted reluctantly.‘Okay, Dad. There’s a place coming up soon, if this fucking traffic would get a move on.’
They turned into the Birmingham North service area, and as soon as the car slowed to a crawl in the car park,Wayne Ferguson slipped his seatbelt, yanked at the door handle and threw himself against the door. Nothing happened. Mark laughed. He pulled to a stop.
‘Child-proof locks, old chum.’ He pulled the gun out of his pocket and pressed it into the other man’s side. Ricky did the same with Kathy.
‘Okay, Dad?’ Mark said, and released the locks. The old man got out stiffly and hobbled off, and the locks clicked again.
‘Actually,I need the toilet too,’Kathy said.‘Urgently.’
‘Shut up,’ Ricky hissed, as if he was desperate for an excuse to do something violent. Kathy shut up.
Spider returned, got back into the car and handed chocolate bars and bottles of juice to his sons. They set off again, and as they moved north of the Black Country they came upon the first dustings of white over the fields on either side. By Newcastleunder-Lyme it was thick all around, great banks of brown snow piled on the motorway verges, and in the fields beyond black tree skeletons stood stark against dazzling white beneath a dull grey shroud of sky. It looked as if the falls had been very recent, and slush and grit was sprayed over them by the traffic they overtook as they sped up the outside lane.
‘When do we turn off?’ Mark demanded, and Wayne said, ‘Best to keep going until we reach the M56. That’s the quickest way.’
Slowly, imperceptibly, the sky was getting darker, though whether this was due to bad weather ahead or the approach of evening was hard to tell. Everyone had headlights on.
They reached the complicated spaghetti of the M56 junction at last, and turned westward, across the lowlands of the Mersey and Dee estuaries, skirting Chester, and then leaving the dual highways for a quieter country of bilingual signs and odd-sounding places- Gwernymynydd, Nercwys and Pant-y-mwyn. An ambulance coming the other way carried the slogan AMBIWLANS, and Mark snorted,‘Can’t they fucking spell up here?’ Nobody laughed. He lit another cigarette, cracking his window open a fraction to let out the smoke.
Wayne directed them onto ever-narrower roads, until at last they saw the dark spike of a church spire up ahead, and beyond it a tiny pub and a corner store.
‘This is the village,’ he said. He was looking anxiously at the heavily laden white roofs and hedgerows.‘They’ve had fresh snow. Lots, by the look of it.’
They slowed to a crawl until Wayne pointed to a break in the bank on the left.‘That’s the lane.’
‘Blimey, just as well we got four-wheel drive.’
Which Brock didn’t, Kathy thought in despair. In their headlights the lane climbed steeply up the hillside,hard to make out among the rolling white mounds of undisturbed snow. Nothing had been up or down this way since the last snowfall. Mark was swearing as he pushed the pitching vehicle through the drifts, trying to keep the momentum, speeding up over a sheltered stretch in the lee of a tall bank, then plunging into deep snow on the far side. They came upon a car abandoned beneath a tree, roof covered with snow,and Kathy recognised it as Brock’s.The lane got steeper, the snow deeper, and finally the front of the Merc lurched alarmingly up into space and came crashing down into a deep drift and stalled. Ahead of them, through the frantically thumping wipers, they could see a cottage, snuggling into the white folds of the hillside, flickering orange lights glowing from its two front windows like eyes,a pale column of smoke rising from its chimney. Beyond it,a dark ridge of woods was almost indistinguishable in the gloom of twilight.
THIRTY-TWO
‘There it is,’Wayne said, in a flat voice.
‘Right. In we go then.You two lead the way, and don’t try anything ’cos we’re right behind you.You want to stay
here, Dad?’
‘No way,’ Spider growled.‘I’ve got to be there.’
The sudden shock of cold air stung their faces as they heaved the doors open against the snow. As she slid across the seat, Kathy reached into her pocket for her wallet, which she tucked into a corner of the upholstery. Then they were out in the snow, struggling in it up to their hips.Wayne, still in his site boots, was the only one remotely dressed for this,and they heaved and swore until they managed to clamber through to the shallower snow beyond the drift. The path to the front door gradually became easier, and they could make out signs of snow having been cleared around the cottage, and of human tracks leading to the back. There was some kind of outbuilding, and a mound of snow beneath which the wheel of another vehicle was visible.
They trudged forward, the smell of wood smoke in their lungs, their panting breath forming clouds. As they approached the door, solid braced timber with iron bolts, it swung open, and for a moment the scene froze in the light spilling out of the room as Michael Grant took in the group in front of him. Then Wayne started forward at a run, as if to get into the shelter of the cottage. There was a sharp bang, and he staggered and fell forward into his friend’s arms. Mark shoved his way in after them, pushing them aside, while Ricky jabbed Kathy forward into the doorway. Ahead of her she could see Mark peering through a door on the far side of the room, waving his gun.
‘Where’s Brock?’ he was yelling.‘Where the fuck is Brock?’
Michael Grant was kneeling on the floor, Wayne prone in his arms, while Jennifer Grant sat stunned in an armchair beside the fire, eyes wide with fright. Mark marched across to her and pointed the gun at her head and bellowed at her husband.
‘Pay attention! Where is Brock? Tell me or I’ll blow her fucking head off!’
Michael looked confused. He seemed transfixed by the blood on his hands, oozing over his jeans. He blinked rapidly, looking up and seeing the terror in his wife’s eyes.
Kathy spoke,trying to sound calm.‘Michael,is Brock not here?’
He gulped at her, then stared at the empty door beyond Mark Roach, and said,‘Er, no. He . . . went out.’
‘Out?’ Mark screamed.‘Where?’
‘To . . . to the village. The electricity failed.’
Mark stared at him in disbelief, then turned to his father, who was shuffling towards the other armchair by the fire. The old man didn’t look well after his struggle through the snow, with Ricky half-carrying him much of the way. He slumped into the seat and swore under his breath.
Mark pointed his gun at Kathy. ‘Close the door. Now, sit on the floor, over there.’ He pointed towards Michael and Wayne,
who was feebly coughing up blood.
Kathy did as he said.
‘Now,’ Mark went on, turning to his brother. ‘Have another look back there and make sure I didn’t miss anything. And get Dad some water.’
Ricky nodded and went off, gun in hand.
‘Wayne . . .’ Michael said.‘He needs help.’
‘Shut up!’ Mark’s scream, its message of violence barely contained, shocked Michael into silence. ‘Brock can’t have gone. We didn’t see any tracks in the lane coming up here.Where is he?’
‘There’s a path across the fields. It’s easier for walking, you don’t get the drifts like you do in the lane.’
Mark narrowed his eyes at Michael, unsure whether to believe him.‘When did he leave?’
‘About half an hour ago. He should be back soon.’
‘With people?’
‘No, alone. He went for more paraffin-for the lamps-and some wine for dinner.’
Kathy reached across to get a better look at Wayne, but Mark yelled at her to stay still.As she straightened,her eyes met Michael’s, and for a moment his confused, frightened air was gone, and she thought she saw some message in the hard look he gave her.
Ricky returned with a glass of water.‘There’s no sign of him.’
‘Right. Then we wait.Which direction is the path?’
Michael pointed to the side.
‘We’ll need someone out there to watch for him,’ Mark said. ‘That’s you, Ricky.’
‘You’re kidding. My feet are soaking wet.’ He stared down at his trainers and the damp legs of his jeans below the knees. ‘I’m freezing,’ he muttered.
‘Yeah, well, we’re all like that. There’s some boots by the back door, and you’ll probably find dry socks in the bedroom. Get some for Dad and me as well.’
Ricky went out again, looking meaner and angrier with each passing minute.
‘See if you can find something to tie them up with while you’re at it,’ Mark called after him.
Brock was regretting the whole thing, the long drive up north, the skid into the ditch, and now this ridiculous expedition on foot down to the deserted village. He’d arrived at lunchtime, and after the accident in the lane had trudged up to the cottage carrying the bag of food he’d bought at the supermarket deli outside Chester.As soon as Michael opened the door he sensed the mood of dark gloom inside. The escape to the country clearly hadn’t restored their spirits,and both Michael and Jennifer looked worn and deeply depressed, as if the isolation had only compressed and intensified their misery.
While Jennifer set about preparing lunch, Michael explained that they’d have to wait to ask one of the neighbouring farmers for a tractor to pull Brock’s car out of the ditch. One was in Liverpool for the day, the other in Wrexham. Then the snow started again, light and picturesque at first, then unbelievably dense. Not long after, the electricity failed. This apparently was not uncommon. The truck with heating oil had been unable to negotiate the ice-bound lane earlier in the week, and the tank was empty, so they hauled logs in from the pile in the backyard and stoked up the fire and made themselves as comfortable as they could. The air of mild emergency actually seemed to lift their spirits a little.
Brock told them about the events in London, which they hadn’t heard about. Michael confirmed Brock’s suspicion, that his brother Robbie had warned him before he disappeared that the Roaches were after him, though he hadn’t said why, and Michael had always believed they had killed him. Michael gave a bitter laugh at the idea that he and the Roaches could be said to be related, and that he was the uncle of Spider’s granddaughter, and although he drew some grim satisfaction from the twist that had led to Ivor Roach’s death, the story of violence, especially in relation to Tom Reeves, only deepened their despairing mood again.When Brock told him that he had seen Abigail Lavender, who had told him the truth about the killing of the policeman in Kingston, Michael shook his head sadly.
‘That would be the authorised version,’ he said, ‘put about by my grandmother. I’m afraid the real truth was less palatable. The two cops came after us, as Abigail told you, and when the second one cornered us I was paralysed with fear. Earl’s blow only made him stumble, but he did drop his gun. I picked it up and pointed it at him. He put up his hands in surrender. He was barely older than me, and now he was the terrified one. His fear changed me. Suddenly my hands, which had been shaking so violently that I could hardly hold the pistol, became steady. I shot him three times, quite deliberately, as if at a tree stump. It was cold-blooded murder, and I have relived that moment every day since. I have tried to atone for it, but nothing can.’
When the snow stopped, Brock had an overwhelming urge to get out into the fresh air and walk. Their stock of paraffin for the lamps was running low, and he suggested going down to the village for that and a bottle of wine, since it seemed he was going to have to spend the night there with them. Michael was reluctant to leave Jennifer alone without electricity, and described the easier trail down to the valley. At first, the walk across the pristine fields was exactly what Brock needed. He tried to phone Suzanne to describe the scene as he tramped through the snow, but there was no signal. Then the path moved into the woods, and the going became more uneven, and the route slower and harder to make out among the mounds of dead bracken and leaves, the fallen branches
and the drifts of snow. The light filtering down through the tangle of branches overhead was becoming dimmer, and it occurred to him that he had left his walk rather late in the afternoon. By the time he finally emerged onto the road at the edge of the village, he was wondering if he would be able to find the route back up the way he’d come.
There seemed to be no one around. The lack of electric lights reinforced the impression of abandonment. The pub was closed and Brock had almost given up when he spied lamplight through the window of the general store. The door was locked, but his knock brought out Mrs Hughes. She told him apologetically that there had been a run on paraffin and all she had left was a single half-gallon can. He bought that, and some candles and matches. There was no wine.
As he made to return he happened to glance at the entrance to the lane further down across the road, and noticed what looked like wide vehicle tracks sweeping into it. When he went to investigate he saw two clear paths of hard-packed snow leading up the hill. With relief he began a quick march up one of them, hoping to get back before the darkness was total.
He came to his car but didn’t stop, pressing on along the line cleared by the Roaches’two-tonne vehicle,which he assumed must have been made by one of the farmers. Then, as he approached the turn into the cottage yard, he saw it, lurched at an angle in the deepest drift, and his heart thumped as he remembered the same model in the shadows of the courtyard by his house, the night that Spider and Mark Roach came to call.
He carefully placed the rustling plastic bag with his purchases on the snow, and approached the car as silently as he could, ears straining for sounds. When he reached it, he brushed the snow from the back window and saw the name Roach Motors on a small sticker in the corner. He could see from the disturbed snow around it that all four doors had been opened. The two Roach sons, he thought, and Spider. Who else? Hired help? Vexx? He moved cautiously around, peering into the dim interior. Something, a small dark rectangle, was lying on the back seat. The driver’s door wasn’t shut properly, and its window was open half an inch. He gripped the door handle and began to pull, then stopped, realising the interior light would come on and alert anyone watching.
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