Something in Warren and Midge’s enthusiasm had been infectious. At the time our own children were three and one, so foreign travel had lost a lot of its allure, and the idea of holidaying only two hours from home had a real ring of convenience. Plus, of course, we’d drunk a lot of wine. And lo and behold, they still needed another family to buy the last quarter share. Only £55,000, and this at the height of the property boom. For that, we’d get sole rights to the cottage for a quarter of the year, a week every month, and Christmas or New Year every other year. Warren even had the property details with him, and the cottage did indeed look idyllic. The plot was close to half an acre and included woodland, the nearest property over two hundred yards away. The price seemed a bargain – not that we had that kind of money. But within a month we’d got it, having released some of the equity in our own property, and had become the proud owners of 25 per cent of Sandfield Cottage, along with Warren and Midge, Warren’s brother and his family, and one of Midge’s fellow accountants at their City investment bank and her partner.
That was two and a half years ago, and I suppose, in hindsight, it had been a waste of money. It was nice when we got the chance to go there, but we used it far less than we’d anticipated. In the last year, I reckon we’d spent no more than a week there. As with so many things, there never seemed to be enough time, which was probably why I hadn’t thought of it before as a possible location for Kathy. But now it seemed like one, mainly because I couldn’t think of anywhere else she might have fled to – on the assumption, of course, that she had fled somewhere and wasn’t being held against her will. She’d always appreciated the fact that the cottage did indeed represent a retreat from the rat race, and the one time I’d suggested selling our share to raise some capital, she’d been against the idea. ‘I need the solitude it offers now and again,’ she’d told me, and I suspected that now, assuming she knew she was in trouble, she would need the solitude it offered more than ever. It was also our allotted weekend, making her presence there even more likely. I considered phoning her on the cottage landline, but I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask, and I was beginning to think that if I told her I was coming she might not hang around to answer them. Plus, the possibility that she was in the cottage gave me hope, and I didn’t want that snuffed out.
At first as we drove, I asked Daniels a lot of questions about the undercover operation, trying to get as much information as I could about the man called Lench, but he was vague with his answers and didn’t seem in the mood for talking. The traffic was light as we left London, heading from the M4 to the M25, and then south-west on the M3. Daniels drove fast, the speedometer regularly touching a hundred, even though it was wet outside and the rain continued to plunge out of the black night sky. I asked him on the M4 for another of his cigarettes and he told me to help myself. As the journey progressed I continued to help myself, and he had to stop at some services on the M3 to buy another pack, plus some water and chocolate. I offered him a couple of quid in payment, thinking that he wouldn’t accept it, but he told me a fiver would be nearer the mark and took it without even a thanks, which I thought was a bit much. ‘You don’t get far in life unless you contribute,’ he said, seeing my reaction.
Daniels, I had to admit, was a strange character. On the one hand he was calm and collected, his words, when he did speak, delivered in the slow, even manner of a man who always felt in control of a situation. He liked to let slip languid pieces of philosophy too, like the ‘not getting far in life unless you contribute’ bit, and I think he fancied himself as some sort of eastern mystic warrior, dispensing justice, righteous violence and snippets of useful advice. But there was also an air of stiff tension about him, as if there were secrets in his soul he was fighting a silent yet terrible battle to keep from view. When I looked at him driving, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched, his pale eyes concentrating hard on the road ahead, I could tell there was plenty going on in his mind.
I didn’t trust him. He was too complicated, and in my experience, complicated people always have some sort of hidden agenda.
After we’d left the service station and were back on the road, I asked him why he’d allowed me to get beaten up by his colleague, Mantani, and why he’d carried out the charade of threatening me with the gun. ‘You must have had some idea how scared you were making me,’ I told him, between mouthfuls of Mars bar.
‘I was thinking,’ answered Daniels.
‘That’s nice to know,’ I said. ‘About anything in particular?’
‘You know something, Meron, your problem is you mistake sarcasm for humour. Don’t bother with it; I’m not in the mood. I didn’t react instantaneously to your misfortune because I was thinking about what the hell I should do, and how I was going to do it. I’d spent six months weaving my way into this organization, and I still had nowhere near enough evidence to convict any of them of anything. I knew that if I pulled you out, six months’ work would go up in smoke. But because you were in trouble, I made the move. Now, be thankful for it, all right? Because if Lench had got hold of you, you’d be in pieces by now.’ He delivered this broadside without taking his eyes off the road once.
‘OK, OK, I understand.’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I don’t think you do. I don’t think you’ve got any idea what it’s like to act a part every day of your life, knowing that if you make one mistake and the people you’re working out find out who you really are, then that’s it, you’re dead. The problem with you civilians,’ he continued, this time deigning to look at me, ‘is that you live a nice easy suburban life and you don’t see any of the shit that goes on out there in the big wide world day after day – the violence, the killing, the kids on crack who’ll do anything for their next fix – because we protect you from all that. We do the hard work, we sweep away the problems that are right in front of your noses, if only you could be bothered to look for them, and we make sure they go under the carpet so you don’t have to worry about any of them. And consequently, you end up having no fucking idea how lucky you are.’
I was surprised at how animated Daniels had suddenly become. It was like a pressure being released, and he seemed visibly to relax once he’d spoken.
‘Congratulations, Meron,’ he added. ‘Today, you’ve seen that other world, and now you’ll be a wiser man for it.’
I didn’t say anything. He was probably right, but it wasn’t a statement I saw much point in commenting on. I took a cigarette from the new pack. Ten years free of it, and I was already redeveloping my old bad habit. When all this was over – and for some reason, maybe the presence in the car of a hard bastard who wasn’t actually trying to kill me, I was now more optimistic that it would be – I’d kiss Kathy, hug my kids, crack open a £10 bottle of wine and make a vow never to touch a smoke again.
In the meantime, though, I wasn’t going to let a little thing like my long-term physical health worry me. I had to get through the short term first.
25
Forty minutes later, we turned off the A31 west of Southampton and drove into the New Forest national park. Sandfield Cottage was set back from the road behind a thick screen of pine trees in a quiet stretch of woodland not far from the village of Bolderwood. It was reached via a potholed drive about thirty yards long that was almost impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. On my instruction, Daniels slowed up and made the turning, and as we approached along the drive I saw a light from the house appear through the trees.
There was someone there.
As the driveway opened out into the parking area and lawn in front of the cottage, Kathy’s new Hyundai Coupé – her pride and joy – came into view, parked over near the fence that separated the front and rear of the property. It was the only car there, and I let out an audible sigh of relief.
‘That your wife’s car, is it?’ asked Daniels, parking up behind it.
I nodded.
‘Then I guess she’s safe.’ He turned off the engine.
I looked over to
the cottage. The only light was coming from the upstairs bedroom. The downstairs area was in darkness, and the curtains were open. There was no sign that Kathy had heard us, and I experienced a small twinge of nerves.
‘Can you let me go in first? I don’t want to scare her.’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
I got out, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I found the right one and hurried over to the front door, my shoes crunching on the gravel. It was still raining hard and I had no desire to be out in the open any longer than I needed to be.
As I passed the big bay window at the front, I looked directly into the sitting room. It was empty, but the cushions on the sofa were out of place and there was a coffee cup and an empty glass on the coffee table. Someone had definitely been here very recently.
At the front door, I bent down and opened the letterbox, peering inside. It was deadly silent in there, the only sound the relentless pounding of the rain. I wanted to call out, but something stopped me. Instead, I eased the key into the lock and gently turned it. There was a click, and the door opened with a soft whine. When it was part-way open, I slipped through the gap and stepped into the porch area. Pairs of hiking boots were lined up neatly on the floor to my left. Kathy’s shoes weren’t among them. I looked up at the coat rack but couldn’t see her coat there either.
But her car was here so she would be too. Somewhere.
I went further inside, the sitting room opening up to my right. Beyond it, straight ahead, was the door that led through to the new kitchen/dining area that had been added to the back of the cottage as a single-storey extension by the previous owners. To the left of the door was the staircase that led up to the two bedrooms on the first floor. I walked slowly towards it, listening for any sound of human presence.
‘Kathy?’
My whisper sounded artificially loud in the dead gloom of this old house with its low timbered ceilings and floorboards that creaked and sighed in time with the wind and my heavy footfalls.
The scream exploded to my left, a shocking, high-pitched screech, and a figure shot up from behind the staircase’s solid-wood banister, one hand clutching a knife that gleamed viciously in the darkness.
As I threw up my hands in a desperate protective gesture, the figure vaulted the last two steps and leaped on me, the weight knocking me backwards into one of the chairs. My weight in turn knocked the chair out of the way and I landed hard on my back, one hand grabbing the knife wrist, the other encircling my attacker’s throat. I squeezed hard, and would have squeezed a lot harder but for the fact that I realized I was staring into my wife’s contorted, rage-filled face.
‘Kathy, it’s me! For Christ’s sake, what are you doing?’
She was struggling like a fish on a hook, breathing in short, angry gasps, and slapping at me with a free hand, the knife still held in a stabbing position above my head, her grip on it so tight that her knuckles were white. And then, suddenly, her expression softened, her arm went limp and she dropped the knife, which clattered onto the pine flooring, narrowly missing my shoulder. For the first time, there was recognition in her face. I let go of her, but instead of falling into some kind of reunion hug she clambered off me and sat nearby on the floor, head in her hands. She was dressed in the same clothes she’d left the house in that morning: jeans, a suede jacket and ankle boots with jagged heels.
‘Oh God,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t take this any more.’
‘It’s all right,’ I told her, getting up and putting a reassuring arm across her shoulders. I held her against me, adding soothingly that everything was going to be fine, and at that moment I meant it. We were reunited, we hadn’t done anything wrong. We could dig ourselves out of this hole.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Daniels had stepped over the threshold and was waiting awkwardly next to the coats.
Kathy took a couple of deep breaths and composed herself, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite fathom. She was upset, but her eyes were dry, and there was a hardness in them I only ever recalled seeing when she was angry with me. Of relief, or any other similar emotion, there was no sign.
‘I’m OK,’ she said distantly. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for hours on the mobile.’
‘It doesn’t work down here, does it? There’s no reception, and I’ve been here since this afternoon. Are the kids all right?’
‘They’re fine. They’re at your mum’s.’
I wondered then how much she knew. She couldn’t have been aware of Jack’s phone call, or his murder, but I assumed she must have known about Vanessa’s death, as they’d both been at the university together today. But there were a lot of questions she needed to answer.
Before I could think where to start, she motioned towards the doorway. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Daniels. He’s been helping me. Daniels, this is my wife, Kathy.’
As Kathy nodded an acknowledgement, he walked into the room, switching on the light. The room suddenly seemed very bright as he came forward and put out a hand, which she took.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, with a tight, humourless smile.
Which was the moment when Kathy snatched back her hand and the expression on her face changed completely. A new emotion now dominated it.
Fear.
26
It was ten past ten when Bolt and Mo pulled up at Jack Calley’s house. Several police vehicles were still parked at the side of the road, and the glow of floodlights came through the trees up on the hill where the SOCO officers continued to work in the area where the body had been found. They were atrocious conditions to be operating in, but nothing could stop the hunt for forensic clues. Rather them than me, thought Bolt as he and Mo got out of the car. No-one seemed to be around, which was convenient as he didn’t fancy having to explain himself to Lambden, who he knew would be pissed off, and might try to cause trouble.
They walked swiftly through the rain up to the neighbouring house, where the older couple had been standing outside earlier. It was a bigger place than Calley’s, a whitewashed two-storey building constructed in the style of a Mediterranean villa, with shutters on the windows and fingers of ivy running up towards the gently sloping roof. A covered porch, dotted with plant pots, ran the length of the ground floor, and two hanging lamps like orbs guided visitors to the front door. Bolt would have loved to live in a place like this, although he would probably have transplanted it to Italy or Greece, or somewhere where there was a better class of criminal.
They darted under the porch roof, dodging the streams of water running down onto the patio, and got their warrant cards ready as Bolt rang the doorbell. After a long pause, they heard footsteps coming from inside and then the door was slowly opened on a chain. The same man they’d seen earlier, silver-haired and in his late sixties, appeared in the gap, wearing a cautious expression that wasn’t surprising given that they were both in civilian clothes.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Bolt did the introductions and said that they were working on a case related to the murder. ‘We know it’s very late, and I apologize, but is it possible that we can come inside for a minute?’
The man nodded slowly. Behind him they heard his wife ask who was at the door. ‘The police,’ he answered, releasing the chain and stepping aside to allow them in.
They followed him through the hallway and into a large and comfortable sitting room whose walls were lined with numerous tourist-shop ornaments and other bric-a-brac. There were china plates with maps of Greek islands on them; wine bottles in baskets; paintings of Mediterranean beach scenes; even a couple of model donkeys. It should all have looked very garish, but somehow it managed to avoid it.
Their host introduced himself as Bernard Crabbe. His wife, a small, very round woman of about the same age who milled about them like an indecisive mother hen, was introduced as Debbie.
‘We’d like to ask you some questions about J
ack Calley,’ Bolt told them both.
‘Please, would you like to sit down?’ asked Mr Crabbe.
‘No, it’s OK. We don’t need to stay long. I’m sure you’d like to go to bed.’
‘It’s a bit difficult with all this excitement going on.’
‘Jack was a very good neighbour,’ added Mrs Crabbe. ‘He always fed Monty and Horace, our cats, when we went away. It’s such a tragedy to have his life taken away from him so young.’
Bolt and Mo made sympathetic noises.
‘Did you know that Jack was Lord Chief Justice Parnham-Jones’s solicitor?’ asked Mrs Crabbe, sounding very excited by this fact.
‘Yes, we did,’ said Mo, who was gazing with interest at a lace doily with a pair of flamenco dancers in the middle that had pride of place above the television.
‘We saw him come to the house,’ added Mr Crabbe. ‘Not that long ago either. Perhaps two or three weeks. I asked Jack about it and he told me that he did personal legal work for his lordship.’
‘It’s a tragedy about him too,’ said Mrs Crabbe, who was still clucking about. ‘I felt he was a very humane Lord Chief Justice who didn’t pander to the demands of populism. It’s about time someone stood up to the tabloids.’
Bolt wondered if she’d still say the same thing if she heard the allegations about him that had been made tonight.
‘The main reason we’re here,’ he said, ‘is to find out if you’ve ever seen this man with Jack at all.’ He held out the photo of Tom and Kathy Meron.
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