by Scott Hunter
He stopped.
…What if they were linked?
He thought about what he’d told Crossley-Holland.
Too dangerous to backtrack to the car …
So Erjon had defaulted to plan B. A boat.
But where had he gone to ground? Next stop up river: Pangbourne.
But they’d found no tethered boat. No sign. No trace.
He’s a professional.
Where would I go?
Moran swung his key chain in a wide circle as he considered, caught the keys deftly in the same hand.
Obvious: to an already forensically-approved apartment.
‘Hi there.’
Moran turned, startled. ‘Sam. Hi, I was just–’
‘–About to enjoy a candlelit dinner with your young lady?’
‘What? My young…? Oh, no, no. She’s a colleague. I told her she could stay.’ Moran could see the disappointment on Sam’s face. ‘It’s not how it looks.’
‘Oh, come on, really. Pull the other one.’
‘Honest to God, Sam. She was abducted, held prisoner. We found her this morning. I told her she could stay, so I can keep an eye on her.’
‘Wow, really?’ Her expression softened. ‘Sorry, I thought–’
‘Understandable. Don’t worry.’
‘Well, she’s not in, I’m afraid.’
‘What? What d’you mean?’
‘I called earlier, to see if you fancied a bite to eat at mine. She answered the door.’
‘I don’t underst–’
‘Twenty minutes ago,’ Samantha explained, ‘I popped out to get milk from the service station and saw her headed past Costa on my way back.’
‘Which direction?’ Moran’s mouth had gone dry.
Samantha frowned. ‘Towards the town centre. Why?’
‘Hell. You’re sure? Look, I have to go. Catch you later.’
‘But–’
He left her outside the house, mouth agape, went back to the car. Hesitated…
No, maybe quicker on foot. Nowhere to park except the Swan – that’s no good, nightmare to get in and out.
She’s figured it. Faster than me. Damn. How to do this?
Forget the car.
Moran limped off at a brisk pace.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Tess had just gone for a stroll to clear her head, unwind a little. Perfectly natural, with the river just down the road. He’d often mentioned his water meadow perambulations. She’d be sitting on a bench, near that little spot where the moorhens and swans liked to cluster around the fishing points, hoping for a stray crumb or two from a careless angler’s sandwich.
Wouldn’t she?
Moran’s house felt like a bloke’s pad. Tess had recognised the all-male atmosphere as soon as she’d opened the front door. Comfortable, though, if plainly furnished. She made a quick inspection, went upstairs, found the spare room. A single bed, off-the-shelf curtains which vaguely matched the wallpaper.
Very vaguely…
She smiled, despite the weariness in her bones, savouring the odd sensation of her facial muscles stretching into an unaccustomed shape.
Typical bloke.
The smile faltered and she shuddered. She’d had trouble holding back tears when Moran had offered her a room, and now, out of nowhere, she felt an insistent pressure behind her eyes, demanding release. She sat on the bed and let them come, and come they did, in a roaring cascade of delayed reaction.
She cried until it felt as though every drop of moisture had been expunged from her body, and then the exhaustion hit her. She’d been planning a drink, a snack from Moran’s freezer, maybe (‘Sure, there’s plenty of microwaveable meals. Don’t judge me, now. Help yourself, no problem’). But right now, that just wasn’t going to happen. She lay down, closed her eyes, was instantly asleep.
Broken images flashed across her subconscious – Aaron Povey’s lounge, Eldon Square, glass shattering, an arm reaching in…
The scene changed. Now she wandered through a desolation of burned-out ruined buildings. The sound of gunfire came to her ears, distant yet threatening. A stray dog, half-starved came running, hoping. She shoed it away and it faded, snarling, into the smoke.
Now figures loomed out of the darkness in twos and threes, some clutching bags overflowing with sundries – hurriedly gathered clothing, plastic bottles, half-eaten loaves of bread – others dragging makeshift trailers behind them, piled with miscellaneous junk, the tattered remnants of normality.
Tess moved aside, allowed them free passage, but as they went by each shot her a look of reproach.
She tried to talk to them, reassure them.
It’s not my fault, not my fault…
She staggered through the apocalyptic landscape until she came to a square. In its centre was some kind of monument, a fountain, maybe. She walked towards it with leaden steps. She reached the lip of the basin, peered inside, recoiled.
It was littered with bodies, burned, twisted, piled one on top of the other. The fountain’s centrepiece, an enormous lion with four heads, began to swirl and pulse with some hidden pressure, like a volcano’s pre-eruption rumble. Tess backed away, horrified, as jets of blood shot into the air, covered the bodies, filled the fountain’s stone bowl until the liquid brimmed over, washed the dirty flagstones in a red river which spread out towards her like an incoming tide.
She ran, tripping and stumbling, until her breath came harsh and thick and her lungs were twin bands of fire.
And then she saw him. A wanderer, clutching a bag that was too heavy for him, dragging himself along by sheer effort of will. He looked eleven, maybe twelve years old. His face was filthy, and as she drew closer it was his eyes which struck her first – the expression, the way he looked at her. In those deep pools there was neither terror nor fear – not even grief – but rather a dark resolve, a grim determination. Should she speak to him, offer to help?
But the image faded to nothing. She was in that place between sleep and wakefulness, the waking edge. Something was ringing, a telephone, a bell…
Her eyes shot open.
Doorbell.
She swung her legs off the bed, went down. Her head felt fuzzy, stupid with sleep. What time was it? Moran’s hall clock told her it was nine twenty-three. She’d slept for three hours.
The doorbell rang again. She could see a woman’s shape outlined through the translucent glass.
It’s OK.
She opened the door.
‘Oh. Hi. I was looking for–’
‘Brendan? He’s still out, I’m afraid.’
The woman looked her up and down. Girlfriend? Moran didn’t talk much about his private life. Neighbour, probably.
‘OK. Sorry to bother you.’ The woman turned, walked quickly away.
Tess was about to call her back, explain who she was, but the moment had passed.
She shut the door, went through to the kitchen, found the kettle, a mug, teabags, half a pint of milk in the fridge – not much else.
Sipping from the hot mug, she went into the lounge, found an armchair and sank into it.
You’re safe. In Pangbourne, a sleepy Berkshire riverside village. The guv’s house.
Near Streatley, adjacent to Goring.
The boathouse was in Goring.
Tess felt panic rising like floodwater. She took three deep breaths, made herself sip the tea, burned her tongue, cursed, set the mug down with trembling hands.
Erjon had escaped in a boat. No sightings. He was far too clever to let anyone notice him, let alone spot where he’d gone, where he’d hidden the boat.
She wanted to switch her brain off, tell it to stop. It wasn’t listening, just jumping from one thought to the next. She had no control.
Where could you go in a boat? Limited choices, surely? Either north, to Wallingford, or…
South.
Towards Pangbourne.
Why Pangbourne? Tess tried to imagine herself in a boat, outboard motor full on, heading up river, to…
Near the river.
Butterfield’s apartment.
They had no proof of Butterfield’s involvement in any of this, but he’d been keen to point the finger. Grief and anger could explain that, but then so could complicity.
Erjon’s hotel was crawling with forensics.
His car had been impounded.
The boathouse cover was blown.
And Tess knew, felt it in her bones.
He’s there.
She got up, found her coat lying on the hall table where she’d left it, checked the inside pocket.
She took out the automatic, opened the chamber. One round left.
One round was enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tess walked past the car park, the Bentley and Aston Martin showrooms, under the railway bridge, and came to a halt opposite The Swan. Ahead the apartments were in darkness apart from the porch lamp, which lit up the stone steps of the approach like a beacon.
She walked on a little. The Swan car park was full to bursting, the river a silver ribbon behind it. A motor launch glided across her line of sight, a shadow in the crepuscular light, riding the swell like a cantering knight on his charger. The rain had eased since the afternoon downpour, but a fine drizzle remained, dampening her hair and making her shoes squelch in the pavement puddles.
The porch light beckoned her, a lighthouse to her foundering ship.
She felt her legs move, and her feet sploshed on another few steps towards it.
Wait. First things first.
Or last things. Whatever…
She took out her mobile phone, found the voice memos app, pressed the red button, put the phone away.
She climbed the steps, read the entry panel.
4. B’field.
She pressed the entry bell.
Nothing.
You’re crazy. Turn around. Walk away.
The door clicked with a sound like an insect rubbing its legs together.
She pushed it open, took off a shoe, wedged it in the gap, went in.
Up the stairs.
A wide landing, some kind of expensive carpet.
Rock star’s pad.
Door on the left, ajar.
No lights. Wait … a diffused glow, like a reading lamp, or a low-energy bulb.
Tess pushed gently on the apartment door; it swung open on well-engineered hinges.
‘Enter. Please.’
Her mind was a separate entity, watching her actions from a distance.
He was seated in an armchair at the far end of a wide, expansive lounge. On the polished floor beside him, a small bag.
Not Butterfield.
‘You came. I am pleased.’
Tess slipped her hand inside her pocket, took out the gun. It fitted her hand almost as though it had been designed for her. He made no move to stop her.
She gripped her wrist with her left hand, steadied the automatic. The raw skin protested, reminded her of the damage the cords had inflicted. She squeezed firmly, ignored the pain.
Levelled the gun, pointed it.
If he moves, don’t shoot at the centre mass … this time, the head.
‘I think you will not.’
The barrel wavered. Her lips were dry, her heart beating a heavy tattoo behind her ribs.
‘Why wouldn’t I? You’re going to kill my parents.They’re old, frail…’ There was so little saliva in her mouth that she almost choked on the last word.
‘No. I will not harm them.’ He moved his hands in a disarming gesture. ‘The need has passed.’
‘But you would’ve done, if I hadn’t found Povey for you.’ Tess heard her voice with a slight delay, as if it were being recorded and played back an instant later. ‘The witness.’
‘If. Perhaps. Maybe. What are these? These are things that are not certain.’
‘And what if I placed you under arrest?’
He laughed. ‘That is not why you have come.’ He uncrossed his legs and stood up. He looked different. His hair, or maybe some other aspect of his appearance, had changed. Hard to tell in the half-light.
‘Don’t move.’ Tess levelled the automatic.
‘You do not see me any more as I am.’ He shook his head. ‘You see a boy, a shell-shocked boy, stumbling through the ruins. Looking for his dead siblings.’
Tess groped for a response. Found none.
‘You have fired your shot already, at the boathouse. It was inaccurate. I do not think you meant it to find me.’
Tess lowered the automatic. Her brain was fogging, her resolve leaking away.
He was still talking. ‘You have shared something of yourself with me; that you do not wish to continue with life.’ He bent down, opened the bag. When he straightened he was holding something. A handful of rags?
No, a dress. An old, stained dress.
‘When we met in the shop, I almost forgot myself.’ He was brushing the dress down, ironing the creases out with firm, downward strokes. ‘When I saw your eyes, the turn of your mouth, the way your hair fell across your forehead, I saw something I had not expected to see.’
There was a table just by the window. Tess went to it, put the automatic down.
‘She was eighteen. I was eleven. I worshipped her.’
Tess nodded. A lorry rumbled past on the main road, filled the room with a brief burst of light, was gone.
He went on. ‘When the missiles came, we hid. But they found us. I had gone to relieve myself, against the remains of the wall of the house beside us. The explosion knocked me down. I lay for a long time, bleeding, stunned. When I went to look for my brother and sister, I found only pieces of them, and some clothing also remained. This is all I have left.’
He held the dress up for inspection. There was a ragged hole across the garment’s midriff, a dark stain. He dipped into the bag again and took out a pitiful remnant, browned with age.
‘And my brother’s shirt. His favourite.’ He clutched both garments to his chest.
‘I’m sorry.’
He dropped the shirt back into the bag. ‘Now, please.’ He held the dress out to her.
She took it from him, placed it carefully on the table beside the gun.
‘The world has hurt you, too. Deeply. But I will make you whole. I will send your pain far away. Would you like me to do this for you?’
She nodded, mutely.
‘You will feel nothing. You will be free.’
Tess began shedding her clothing – her trousers, her coat, blouse, bra. They fell, one by one, to the floor. She kicked them away, took the dress, slipped it on. It fitted her perfectly.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘You and Butterfield. You are friends?’
‘A friend? Of that sad addict? I think not. It is regrettable, DC Martin, that we cannot choose our employers – or at least their partners. But let me look at you.’ He sighed, stood back, regarded her with a look of such intense sadness that she had to lower her eyes.
Just a little more, Tess, and you can let go. Just one thing, for the guv…
She looked up. ‘Oh. But Butterfield’s partner is dead. Poor Michelle.’
‘How fine you are,’ he said. ‘You feel her passing with great sadness. Her sister however, she does not feel the same way.’
‘Of course.’ Tess nodded, keeping her voice low, casual, non- confrontational. ‘Butterfield and Gill, they were always an item. Never split up. They did this to Michelle, together.’
‘Yes, yes, that is so. But listen … can you hear them? The tanks are on the move. We must find shelter.’
Tess nodded. Erjon’s mind had wandered far from his current assignment, reliving the moment when, huddled in some burned-out building, his big sister’s arm wrapped protectively around him, the missile strikes had begun, all the while conscious of the mounting pressure in his bladder, the urgent need to relieve himself, but not wanting to be alone, not for a second…
‘The danger has passed,’ he said eventually. ‘We
are safe.’
Rain gusted against the window. The headlights of a passing car lit up the running rivulets as they danced obliquely across the pane.
He came forward and took her hand, gazed into her eyes. ‘You are her image. It is something … extraordinary. Here, please.’ He slid an upright wooden chair towards her. She sat. Surreal as the situation was, somehow, somewhere in her head, it made sense. More sense than anything had for a long time.
It’s over, Tess. Over…
He took something from the case – a box, or pouch maybe. Opened it. Held something up against the window’s lighter background, checked it, made a small noise of satisfaction.
Now he came to her. She felt something brush against her upper arm, a sharp sting as the fine needle entered her flesh.
He stood back, drinking her up, taking it all in. Remembering.
‘You will be looked after,’ he said. ‘You have friends who will care for you. Be at peace.’
She rested her head, relaxed, watched him watching her.
She could feel the drug exploring her body, beginning its journey through the miles of interconnected blood vessels.
Now she could let go. Her parents were safe – she believed it, knew he wouldn’t lie to her. Not now. Not the way he was…
Her struggle was over, the game was ended. Nothing else mattered.
She closed her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Moran hurried from the water meadow, cursing under his breath.
Why, why, why? Why did you come here, first, when you knew…
His optimism had cost him precious minutes. He limped on through the village, past the car showrooms, under the bridge.
He found the apartments – you couldn’t miss them, as the locals were at pains to point out – and climbed the steps. The door was open – wedged open by a shoe. Tess’ shoe. Above him, a security camera blinked red, recorded his arrival.
Good. Might be useful…
Moran went in, went up. First floor landing, a tall pot plant by the banister. The floor was covered by an ornately-patterned Persian rug. Moran squinted through the semi-darkness, located the apartment’s door. Just one way in. His feet sank into the rug’s thick pile, absorbed his footsteps.