by Cari Hunter
“What makes you think that? Have you seen someone following you?”
“No,” I say and realise it’s the truth. I’ve no proof that anyone’s been tailing me, unless I count the two break-ins. The rest is just supposition, combined with a healthy dose of neurosis. My stalkers are either very good or they exist entirely in my imagination.
“But the drive is somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“And did I read your email correctly? You think someone at MMP is on the payroll at Hamer’s?”
“I think so, yes.”
He whistles and leans back in his chair. “Fuck me. You know I have to tell Granger about this, don’t you? Shit.” He writes something and scribbles it out again. “Shit. Who is it?” he asks, but then holds up a hand. “No, no, don’t tell me. Unless you think it’d be best if I know?”
For the first time I’m reminded how young he is. He’s looking to me for guidance and assurance, because technically I’m his senior, with more years on the force. Far from reeling my first fish in, I’m watching him unhook himself and wriggle free.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “It’ll be easier if the SMIU can’t get their claws into you. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”
He smiles, relieved. “I’ll phone Granger as soon as we’re done. I’m sure she’ll want to arrange a meeting ASAP.” He closes my file, but curiosity gets the better of him. “And I can continue to represent you, if you’re okay with that?”
“That’s fine,” I say, but from his expression he’s already checked out of the meeting, no doubt visualising an investigation that will whip up a media frenzy and move him a few rungs up the MMP ladder. He’s asked none of the fundamental questions about the cause of the crash, why Jo and I were really in Wales, and whether I’ve lied about our relationship. He’s neglected to connect the ransacking of my alias’s flat, Krzys’s disappearance, and my come-and-go memory. It’s going to get me out of here sooner, though, so I’m not going to complain. Good luck to him. If those really are his priorities, I’m certain he’ll go far.
* * *
A minor three-vehicle collision has turned the main road into a car park, and ambulances and police are in attendance, corralling people in an attempt to get the queues moving. One of the paramedics is standing aside, sharing a joke with a traffic bobby, and I feel a pang of envy as I watch them laugh. I miss that easy camaraderie, with its junk-food fuelled night shifts and inappropriate humour that would appal anyone outside the uniformed services. The incident is a simple rear-end shunt, the cars hardly damaged, but seeing the dents in the bumpers fills my own car with the sound of tearing metal and smashing glass, and I have to stop at a petrol station for a bottle of water. If this case doesn’t end my career, there’s every chance the PTSD will.
My mobile buzzes while I’m in my hallway, trying to free my cast from my coat sleeve. The call cuts off, displaying Pryce’s home number, but she rings again before I can call her back.
“Hey.” I sit on the sofa, pretending this is a casual, catch-up conversation and we’re about to exchange anecdotes about the snow. “Did you get my message?” I ask, unsure whether she’s had reception on her mobile.
“Yes. What’s going on?” She sounds tired and distant, as if she’s had even less sleep than I have since Friday and she doesn’t want to be dragged back into this saga. I can’t say I blame her, but it’s good to hear her voice, no matter how withdrawn she is.
“I found the flash drive,” I say because she’s obviously not in the mood for small talk. “And I want you to have a copy of it.”
“What? Alis, no, I can’t.” She makes a pained noise that’s half groan, half gasp. “I can’t do that.”
“Please. I emailed Reid and Wallace and told them about it, and I’m almost sure our perp in MMP will pick those mails up, so I need you to keep the drive safe because I don’t think—Pryce, I don’t think I’ll be here to do it.”
“Alis.” The way she whispers my name brings tears to my eyes. “What have you done?”
I hug my knees, longing to have her here, even if it’s to bollock me. “I just wanted to end this,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She might be crying as well, it’s hard to tell. “It’s okay.” She pauses, coughing and then swallowing as if trying to compose herself. “Don’t…don’t risk putting it in the post, though. Bring it here, and we’ll get everything sorted out. I can report it to my DI. He’ll know what to do for the best.”
“Yeah?” I grapple for the lifeline, however precarious.
“Yeah,” she says, and this time I hear her sob. “Can you come today?”
“I’ll set off now,” I tell her. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”
* * *
Further snowfall turns two hours into four as the traffic crawls along the motorway and the coastal road gets clogged by another accident. There’s no answer when I call Pryce to tell her I’ll be late, and I worry about the state of the track to her cottage, hatching bold plans to hike through the drifts if necessary.
The A5 into Snowdonia—tricky at the best of times—is slick with fresh snow, and even with my wiper blades on high it’s a battle to keep my windscreen clear. My pulse booms in my bad ear, warning me that this is where I crashed, as if I need the reminder. Of all the things I’ve forgotten, that certainly isn’t one. It’s almost dark, though sunset is still an hour away, and every corner looks identical: hairpin bends with mountains crowded either side, their summits concealed by masses of clouds. Having slept through my first trip to her cottage, I double-checked the route before setting off, and I decelerate well in advance of her turn-off, my tyres settling neatly into wider tracks that cut a path through the worst of the snow.
Thanking Pryce for her foresight, I make short work of the lane and close the access gate behind me, on my best behaviour. The journey has been so demanding that it’s left me little time to think about what I’m going to say to her, and I’m still at a loss as I refasten my seat belt. I resolve to follow her lead, to be cool and professional if that’s the way she wants to play it, and to make no mention of Thursday night unless she does. I can do cool and professional, I tell myself, and then I put the car into reverse instead of drive and hurtle backward with an inelegance I can only describe as symbolic.
“Fucking stupid thing.” I take my embarrassment out on the gear lever, whacking it into the correct notch and rejoining the tracks I’ve spun out of. The cottage comes into view around the next bend, with smoke curling from its chimney and deep snow covering its patio. I park beside Pryce’s Disco and spend a minute composing myself. Not wanting to appear presumptuous, I decide to leave my overnight bag in the boot. I’ll book into the B&B again when we’ve got everything sorted. At least I’m guaranteed to get some sleep there.
Having negotiated the steps without breaking my neck, I knock on the front door. There’s a light on behind the living room curtains, and I hear the lock disengage. The door opens fully, and I stare at the man in front of me. He’s broad and tall, mid-thirties, with fair hair, and “MAM” tattooed across his throat. Definitely not Pryce’s DI, I realise too late to do anything but stumble as he grabs the collar of my coat and yanks me over the threshold. Momentum sends me into the wall, bouncing my head off the exposed stonework, and I sink to my knees, stunned, my vision grey at the edges.
“You took your fucking time,” he says.
“Where’s Pryce?” I gasp, unable to think beyond that. “Where is she? Have you hurt her?” I drag myself up, bringing her umbrella with me, but he knocks it away and backhands me across the face.
“Behave yourself,” he warns.
I drool crimson-specked saliva onto the tiles. “Where is she?”
Instead of answering, he wraps a fist round my collar and pushes me ahead of him. It’s only five steps into the living room, not enough time to process what’s happening. I can taste copper, and my cheek feels hot and swollen, and then all of that fades away as he
stops me and jerks my head up.
“Oh God,” I whisper. I stagger back, but he rights me, forcing me to look. I don’t know which is worse, the sight of Pryce bound to a chair in the middle of the room, or that of Jez sitting on the edge of her sofa.
“Sorry, Al,” he says, as if this is just one of those things and he hasn’t got her blood all over his knuckles. “It couldn’t be helped.”
“You fucking arsehole!” I try to lunge for him, only to be anchored in place by the prick still standing behind me. “You’re supposed to be a police officer, Jez. What the fuck happened to you, you pathetic piece of shit?”
His face loses what little colour it had. He’s breathing hard and sweating, and he shifts his right hand to show me the gun in it. I bet he’s never fired one in his life, though, and he seems uneasy as he adjusts his grip.
“Like I said, it couldn’t be helped.”
“Fuck you, mate,” I spit at him, and turn instead to Pryce, who’s stirred and managed to lift her head. “Hey,” I say softly.
The tape across her mouth stops her from answering. She closes her eyes, sending tears streaking through the blood on her face, and there’s nothing but shame in the gesture.
“This isn’t your fault,” I tell her, and she chokes a sob behind the tape.
They might have forced her to bring me here, but she hasn’t made things easy for them, and she’s paid a heavy price for resisting. She’s covered in cuts and bruises, and I can see a line of cigarette burns snaking up her right arm.
I turn back to Jez, hoping I’m reading things wrong. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Too fucking long,” his accomplice snarls.
“Easy, Dee,” Jez tells him. He gets off the sofa and closes the gap between us. He’s trying to smile, assuming the role of good cop. “We need the flash drive, Al. Where is it?”
I glare at him. “Let her go and I’ll tell you.”
“Al—”
“No!” I slap at the hand he holds out to me. “Let her go! Let her go, and you can have your fucking drive.”
The bang is so loud and sudden that I stagger, unable to identify its source until Jez lowers his gun. The bullet has missed Pryce by a couple of feet, hitting the wall and sending chips of stone flying. I’m instantly deafened on my bad side, but I can see her chest heaving, her nostrils flaring above the tape.
“For fuck’s sake, Jez,” Dee says. “You couldn’t hit a barn door.” He laughs, and I sense him step away from me. I barely hear him fire, but the bullet slams into Pryce’s left shoulder, the impact throwing her back. She takes the chair with her, crashing sideways onto the floor, and I scream her name, kicking at Jez when he pins my arms behind me.
“Get it done,” Dee says, his voice a tinny echo. “I’m going for a piss.”
Jez waits for him to leave before he releases me. I dart across to Pryce, kneel by her side, and peel the tape from her lips. She’s ashen and clammy, but she’s conscious, and she groans when I clamp a hand on the ragged hole the bullet’s torn in her back.
“Shh, stay still. Stay still.”
“Alis,” Jez says. He’s right behind me, though I didn’t hear him move. “He won’t be gone for long.”
“I know,” I say, my teeth gritted. “Fucking help me, then.”
“I can’t. I need the drive. Where is it?” He crouches and puts the gun against her forehead. “I won’t miss from here.”
Despite her terror, she focuses on me rather than the metal pressing into her skin. “Alis, don’t,” she whispers, but I can feel her blood pouring across my fingers, and I know we’re out of time.
“It’s in my cast,” I tell him. I’ll tell him anything to get him away from her. “You’ll have to cut it off.”
He nods and lifts his gun clear. He’s shaking, and his breath smells weird: fruity and acidic. “Kitchen,” he says. “Come on.”
He pulls at my arm, urging me to my feet and keeping a grip on me as he leads me to the kitchen. There’s a knife block on the counter, and he selects a serrated blade, positioning my cast at an angle so he can hack into it. Starting at the top, he saws downward in awkward increments. The motion works a small Med Alert bracelet free on his wrist, and I hear a faint chime of metal as the links vibrate. The noise makes me dry-heave, and he stops cutting, confused by my reaction.
“You were there in the car that night, weren’t you?” I say, swallowing a mouthful of acid. “How the hell did you end up in the middle of this shit? Did you help them murder Krzys as well?”
He starts at the name, which is answer enough, but there’s no confession. He just resumes sawing, tearing the blade into my arm as often as he hits the plaster, and getting nowhere near the drives at my wrist.
“Jesus,” I hiss. “Use the bloody scissors.”
His lack of coordination is clearly part of a bigger problem, though, and he’s slow to exchange the knife for the scissors in the block. They snag when he tries to open them, and he squints at the safety mechanism holding them closed, unable to work out how to release it.
I glance at the door while he’s distracted. Dee is nowhere to be seen, and I know I’m not going to get a better chance. Steeling myself, I swing my arm, smashing my cast into his nose and then bringing the knife block down onto his head. He grunts, raising a sluggish hand to his face, and I use the block for an uppercut, splitting his chin and dropping him to the floor. His arms collapse beneath him when he attempts to push back up, and his face slams onto the tiles, knocking him senseless.
“Shit.” I double over, gasping. There’s no way that Dee won’t have heard all of this. “Aw, shit.”
I grab the gun and shove the scissors and a pair of tea towels into my belt. I’ve fucked up my left arm again, and my right is shaking so violently I can’t aim the gun straight. I won’t be able to take Dee on; I’ll just have to wing the bastard and hope for the best. I creep toward the living room, braced for the ambush, the gun leading the way. I don’t even know how to fire it. Point and shoot, that’s all Jez did. I can do that.
The hinges creak as I push the door, and I hold my breath, toeing it wider and peeking into the room. It’s empty, apart from Pryce.
“What the hell?” I mutter. I spin, aiming the gun into the hallway, but there’s no sign of Dee, so I run across to Pryce, almost colliding with the chair she’s still tethered to as I skid onto my knees and drop my supplies. She’s started to hyperventilate at the sound of my footsteps, and her eyes widen as she sees me.
“Where? What…happened?” She pants for air between the words, looking beyond me to the door. There’s blood everywhere, soaking into her clothes and the carpet and my jeans.
“I bashed him.” I display my ruined cast, with the drives poking from a hole near my thumb, and I swear she manages a fucking smile. “Where’s Dee?” I ask.
“Don’t know…never came back,” she whispers. “Leave me. Better on your own.”
“Not a chance. Don’t talk bollocks.” I cut the tape at her ankles and start on the band they’ve wound beneath her breasts. “Besides, we’ve got a gun now.”
“Ever fired one?” She gasps as her torso slips, and I wrap my arms around her, kicking the chair away as I guide her to the floor.
“No, but how hard can it be?” I free her wrists and wince in sympathy as I unwind the tape. “Sorry, almost done.”
“Can’t—can’t feel much,” she says, and then cries out as I bring her arms forward and turn her onto her uninjured side. “God,” she whispers. “Oh God, don’t!”
Ignoring her pleas, I knot a towel in the middle and push the knot hard against the exit wound, improvising like hell. A scream rips from her, and she tries to roll away, but I hold her still with my knees as I plug the hole in her back and tie the second towel around the first.
“All done. I’m done,” I tell her, but I know I have to get her up because it’s already been too long and Dee is going to find us and kill us both. She knows that, too, and she doesn’t make a soun
d as I lift her into a sitting position. She sags against me for a couple of seconds, and I stroke the hair away from her forehead.
“On three,” I say. “Ready?”
She’s standing by two, swaying yet somehow remaining vertical as I return the scissors to my belt and pick up the gun.
“They took my car keys,” she says.
I sling her good arm around my shoulders and pull her close. “I’ve got mine. Are we better round the back?”
She nods, and we go through the kitchen, stepping over Jez, who hasn’t moved an inch. Ink-black skies and a swirl of icy wind greet us when I open the door, and Pryce’s teeth start to chatter. She’s only wearing a T-shirt and jogging bottoms, and her feet are bare. Her shoes and coat were with her umbrella by the front door.
“Go,” she says, and I do as she tells me, helping her down the steps into the garden.
Keeping to the line of a hedge, we creep through the snow toward the front of the cottage. The men’s car is tucked at the side, a black Audi SUV with DJH 1 on its plate. I stab the scissors into its rear tyre as we duck behind it to survey the drive. The glow of a cigarette marks Dee’s location. He’s up on the front patio, blowing smoke rings, and to reach my car we’ll have to cross twenty feet of open space without him spotting or shooting us.
I put my mouth next to Pryce’s ear. “Can you run?”
She looks ready to lie down in the snow and call it a day, but her nod is so bloody obstinate that I smile and kiss her cheek.
“Okay, then.”
She squeezes my hand, and we set off, clearing the Audi and the cottage and sprinting into no man’s land. Within seconds, a flash of torchlight blinds me and sends Pryce to her knees. I haul her up again and propel her before me, clicking the central locking as I slip and slide and fight to stay on my feet. The first bullet flies wide of us and shatters my car’s rear window, the second coming closer but disappearing into the hedge. I open the passenger door, practically launch her inside, and run around to the driver’s side. Dee is right on us as I start the engine. I slam the gear lever into reverse and stomp on the accelerator, sending us into a wild turn that forces him to dive for cover.