by Tom Bale
‘We can probably risk a drive past, maybe.’ She signalled, then pulled out on to the road. ‘But we have to be careful. They’ll want to search Renshaw’s house. And they’ll be sure to leave a couple of guys in the area, in case he comes back.’
‘He’s got to come back!’
‘You’ve seen the people that are chasing him. It’s suicide to return.’
‘So what about Alice and Evie? How do they get home?’
‘I expect he’ll drop them off somewhere.’ Ruth seemed to be choosing her words carefully, and Harry sensed the weight of what went unspoken.
‘But that’s not the only possibility?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘He may decide to keep hold of them for the time being.’
‘So they could end up as hostages, effectively?’
Ruth kept her eyes on the road. ‘Effectively, yes.’
They turned into Port Hall Road, went past Lavinia Street and drove around the block. Harry could barely concentrate on anything other than the idea of Alice and Evie being held by someone in desperate trouble, someone willing to use them as pawns. And not only was he unable to help them, he’d probably left Alice with the impression that he was cheating on her.
‘Fucking disaster,’ he muttered, not realising he’d spoken aloud until Ruth responded.
‘Put that aside for now. Have you noticed anything different along here? Anything out of place?’
‘Uh, no. I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Keep low and we’ll take a look at your street.’
She made the turn, and Harry felt anxiety clawing at his stomach. The sight of a woman pushing a buggy across the road produced a savage longing to see his wife and daughter, quite safe, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll.
At number 43 there was no obvious sign of a disturbance, but as they rolled past Harry sensed that something wasn’t quite right: too much shadow around the frame, as if the door was slightly open.
A moment later they were level with his own home. Here the front door was firmly shut. No movement at the windows.
‘Keep an eye on parked cars,’ Ruth told him. ‘If anyone’s just sitting there, we’ve got a problem.’
They reached the end of the street. Ruth decided on another circuit, finally parking in Port Hall Road, facing towards Dyke Road for a quick getaway. His home was about thirty seconds’ walk away; half that time if he ran.
‘I think it’s clear. I’ll keep watch while you go in.’ She saw the alarm on his face. ‘I take it you want to check out the house?’
‘Of course.’ He swallowed, hurriedly opening the door so that she wouldn’t see how nervous he was.
But I’m allowed to be nervous. This isn’t my life. This isn’t what I do.
He took out his keys and caught Ruth giving them a thoughtful look.
‘Hold them in your fist, with a couple sticking between your fingers. Works like a knuckleduster.’
Harry stared at her, appalled.
‘Oh, and pack a bag. Enough for a couple of nights away.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Precautions.’ She flapped a hand. ‘Go.’
The afternoon sun had a brittle warmth to it: fine weather for yomping over the Downs in jeans and a thick sweater. For a few seconds he indulged in a fantasy where bunking off early on Friday was a delicious treat, rather than this nerve-wrenching ordeal.
He walked jerkily along the street, feeling about as natural as he had on the red carpet at the BAFTAs. He reached the front door and fumbled the key into the lock.
Once inside he stopped, the keys gripped in his fist in the way Ruth had suggested. His instinct told him the house was empty, but he had to be sure.
First he checked the kitchen. Nothing out of place. Breakfast dishes in the sink; an empty mug on the worktop. He touched the kettle and felt a hint of warmth; again came that awful craving for normality.
In the living room Uncle Steve’s new lock was intact. The handset for the landline phone was sitting on the arm of the sofa, and he snatched it before climbing upstairs, dialling 1571 to check for messages. There were none.
The bedrooms were undisturbed, but the sight of Evie’s change bag jolted him in a way he could never have foreseen. Her change mat was on the floor, together with a pile of clean nappies and a packet of wipes. The house was like the Marie Celeste: everything left as if Alice had merely intended to pop out for a minute or two. And yet he had no idea where she had gone or when he would see her again.
The phone was still in his hand. Impulsively he pressed the green button for a dialling tone and then stabbed out the number.
9.9.9.
As it began to ring, he turned his head to the window. There was a blue car drifting past. An Audi.
He felt his mobile buzz but had to ignore it, because a voice was asking which service he required.
‘Er, police.’
A second’s delay while he was connected. In this time his mobile appeared in his other hand, though he hadn’t consciously reached for it. He had a missed call from Ruth. As he stared at the display, a text came in.
A steady female voice said, ‘Hello, you’re through to the police. What’s the emergency, please?’
‘They’ve, uh … it’s my wife.’ Harry’s mind had gone blank. He knew what he wanted to say but the words couldn’t be assembled in order.
‘All right, sir, just take it calmly. Can you tell me your name?’
‘Harry. Harry French.’
‘And this is your home you’re calling from, Mr French?’ She asked him to confirm his phone number and address, which he did, and then he found himself suddenly babbling:
‘My wife’s gone, with my daughter. She’s only eight weeks old. They don’t have spare clothes, no nappies or wipes or anything …’
‘I see. And are they in danger?’
‘They might be. We had these … these men. Came to the house, the other night.’ He heard himself laugh, as if from a distance, and wondered if he was losing his mind. ‘Sorry, this probably isn’t making much sense.’
‘Like I say, Mr French, nice and calm. What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Uh, Alice. But that’s not …’ He tailed off, because his fingers had taken it upon themselves to operate his mobile phone and open the text. It said:
They’re watching your house. Call me.
Twenty-Six
‘Mr French? Harry? Are you there?’
‘Sorry. Yes. I think those men are back. Can you get someone round here now?’
‘We’ll have a car on the way, but I need to know a bit more about the nature of the emergency. Now, these men. Where are they right now?’
‘Uh, they’re outside, I think.’
‘So you’ve seen them? Can you describe—’
‘I can’t actually see them. But they’re watching the house.’
‘And is it these men that have your wife and daughter?’
‘No. She – they – went off with someone else …’ He faltered, aware that it was impossible to explain it coherently.
‘All right, Mr French, let’s go back to your wife and little girl. When were you last in contact with them?’
To Harry the question seemed to be coming from the end of a long tunnel. Much closer was the sound of his mobile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted. ‘This is a mistake.’
He cut the landline over the operator’s protest, answered his mobile and Ruth said: ‘Jesus, Harry, where were you?’
‘I thought …’ He felt his body slump. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter. They’re here, right now. Luckily it doesn’t look like they’re preparing to break in. My guess is they want to follow you, hoping you’ll lead them to Renshaw via your wife. That means we need to lose them, okay?’
Harry shuddered, thinking: I don’t want to play this game …
‘Harry?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Good. Now focus. Be ready to move when you get the signal. R
ight?’
‘All right.’
The signal was the bleep of a horn, and it came only a few minutes after they’d agreed on a plan. While he was waiting he received a text from Sam, asking if he was okay. Harry realised it was now past two o’clock: he should have returned from lunch more than an hour ago. He texted back, saying he’d been forced to take the afternoon off because Alice had come down with a migraine. A feeble excuse, but it would have to do.
When the taxi pulled up outside, Harry locked the house and got into the back seat, trying not to scan the street for the vehicle that was set to follow him.
‘Station?’ the driver queried, as if such a short journey wasn’t worth his while.
‘Please. And I’m late. Can we hurry?’
The man scowled, slotted the car into gear and pulled away. Harry didn’t risk glancing back until they were turning the corner, but when he did he saw the blue Audi on their tail.
In the short time it took to reach the railway station, Harry tried to steady his nerves for what lay ahead. Already he was at a loss to understand why he’d called the police. But it was equally chilling to consider how isolated he was, despite being in his home town. He couldn’t approach his family or friends without placing them in danger.
Like it or not – and even though he still didn’t trust her fully – Ruth Monroe was his only hope right now.
The taxi pulled into the station’s main entrance. Harry found a ten-pound note and reluctantly handed it over, knowing there wasn’t time to wait for change. The driver’s scowl was now tinged with disbelief at the scale of the tip.
Harry got out and hurried towards the concourse. The blue Audi was several cars back, queuing to turn into the station. There was a man in the passenger seat: grey-haired, a rounded, reddish face and a piercing gaze. Eye contact lasted less than a second but Harry felt sure this was the man from Wednesday night – the one with the gun.
Niall Foster, if Ruth was correct.
As the Audi came to a halt, the passenger door was swinging open. Harry had guessed they would pursue him on foot, to see which platform he made for.
He picked up his speed, muttering apologies as he bumped shoulders with other passengers. He spotted a large party of students and used them for cover, cutting away from the barriers and instead making for the station’s rear exit.
Once he’d passed the row of ticket machines there were fewer people around and he could run properly. This felt like the closing straight, his footsteps thudding on the timber boards of the long walkway that led out to Stroudley Road. In seconds he’d reached the roundabout next to the short-term parking bays.
He looked back and saw an elderly couple on the walkway, veering to one side as someone came up behind them. The man from the Audi was hurrying forwards, but with his head turned towards the station platforms, as if he wasn’t certain which route Harry had taken.
Dashing past a rack of pushbikes, Harry grew frantic as he realised there were very few places to hide. A few more seconds and he was going to be in plain sight.
He sprinted faster still, detouring on to the road because of a construction site that had swallowed up the pavement. Just beyond that was a hotel, the Jurys Inn, and slotted between that and the building site was a narrow walkway with steps leading down towards the lower section of Stroudley Road. In other words, a valuable shortcut – but only if Harry could move a lot faster than the man behind him.
He reached the walkway and darted along it, not even daring to look back. There were four flights of steep concrete steps, and he descended them at a reckless speed, using the handrail in the centre for balance and leaping five or six steps in one go.
By the time he reached the bottom his ankles were in agony. He’d agreed to meet Ruth at a bus stop just round the corner, but as he ran down the hill he heard the whine of an engine being pushed to the limit. The Corsa burst into view and he dashed towards it, waving at her to stop before she turned into Stroudley Road, which went nowhere other than the station.
As she screeched to a halt, Harry grabbed the door, threw himself in and they were moving again, Ruth in the midst of a rant about the city’s road layout, its idiotic twenty mph speed limit, the endless fuckwittery of other motorists. Harry had to interrupt after checking the junction as they drove past: ‘No sign of Foster.’
‘That’s something,’ Ruth muttered. ‘Much better if they don’t know I’m involved.’
She floored the accelerator to beat the lights at the junction with New England Road, but didn’t spare him a glance until they were on Preston Road, heading north out of the city.
‘You haven’t brought any stuff.’
‘Wasn’t time – uh, speed camera coming up.’
She braked hard enough to pitch him forward, crawled past the camera and then accelerated once they were beyond its range.
‘What do you mean? You had plenty of time.’
‘Sorry.’ He felt foolish now; ashamed. ‘I called the police.’
Ruth groaned. ‘And told them what?’
‘Nothing that made any sense.’ He thought back over his garbled explanation. ‘In fact, I bet it sounded like my wife had run off with someone, and I’d cracked up as a result.’
‘Did they say if they were sending a car?’
‘I’m not sure if it got that far. Shame, though. If they’d turned up and seen those guys acting suspiciously—’
‘I’m glad they didn’t. Would you want a couple of dead police officers on your conscience?’
Abashed, Harry shook his head. ‘No.’
‘I understand why you were tempted, but you can’t do anything like that again. No unilateral decisions whatsoever, you hear me?’
The dressing-down made him bristle for about six seconds, until he accepted that she was right. If he’d wanted help from the police he should have called them at four o’clock on Thursday morning.
Belatedly he recognised that they were making for the A23, following the route that Alice and Renshaw had taken, though by now there was no chance of picking up their trail.
He glanced at Ruth. She had a quiet, unshowy driving style, quick to read the traffic, controlling the vehicle with small, deft movements. She looked relaxed but alert, in a way that hinted at professional training. He pictured her driving down this road on Wednesday night, in determined pursuit of Laird’s men.
He frowned as a thought came to him. ‘When you followed them down here, did they go anywhere else?’
‘Say again?’
‘You told me you followed them to Brighton. Did they head straight to Lavinia Street, or did they go anywhere else first?’
Now there was a grin, little more than a twitch of her mouth. ‘Where do you think we’re heading now?’
Twenty-Seven
They drove on past Hickstead, the Seat labouring through the long climb up Handcross hill. Evie had quietened at last, and her eyes were growing heavy. She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the carrier, although various limbs kept prodding into Alice’s stomach and legs. Alice wondered how long she could stave off the next feed, if Evie grew hungry.
The conversation with Harry had left her feeling sick with worry. As a new mother her emotions were volatile enough already: the last thing she wanted was to turn into a weepy, raging nut-job while she was in a car with a stranger. But Renshaw would fall silent for a minute, only to worry away at the issue once again.
‘You cannot say who this woman might be?’
‘No.’
‘But she was with your husband? Alone with him?’
‘I think … I think they might have been in a car.’ She frowned as this occurred to her. Why wasn’t he at work?
‘The woman knows about me. That I do not like.’
‘I don’t understand – we promised not to say a word.’ She fretted over it, trying desperately not to let her imagination run wild. ‘He said she could help us.’
Renshaw’s snort might have been cruel, except that Alice now found it all too easy
to see it the same way he did: As if anybody could be that gullible …
The A23 became the M23, and the motorway traffic grew heavier once they were past the junction for Gatwick airport. A plane was coming in to land, crossing the carriageway just seconds before them. It was a sight that normally made her dream of holidays, of foreign travel and grand adventures, but now it made her yearn to be home.
The periods of silence grew longer. Alice had any number of questions but Renshaw seemed dangerously out of his depth on the busy road, often failing to anticipate the actions of other motorists. Whenever a vehicle nearby changed lanes, he braked and swerved unnecessarily.
‘Is anyone following us?’ she asked.
‘I cannot say for sure. I think not.’
‘In that case, can you pay a bit less attention to your mirror and a bit more to the road ahead? Otherwise we’re going to crash.’
‘We will not crash,’ he said, but he seemed more offended than angry that she had criticised his driving.
She yawned. ‘Do you know where we’re going yet?’
‘All I can say is this: when I know, you will know.’
His tone was gentler than before: perhaps a conscious effort to be more civil. She thought of all the time he must have spent holed up alone. His social skills were bound to be rusty.
‘Surely we have to go to the police?’
‘Probably, yes. But later. Please relax, try not to worry. You are safe.’
Alice yawned again, overcome by a sudden weariness and an almost reckless disregard for the future. Right now, wasn’t it enough to be away from those men? Away from Harry and his mystery woman friend?
Actually, she thought, what she craved was oblivion.
She looked down. Evie was asleep. Good for her.
A moment later Alice closed her eyes, too.
It was a struggle to keep his temper in check as Ruth revealed that she’d known the whereabouts of their intruders – and she, of course, was sharp enough to see it.
‘If you’re pissed off with me, Harry, just come out and say so. You feel I could have done more to help. If I knew where Foster and Bridge had gone after they invaded your house, I should have called the police and had them arrested at the hotel—’