by Tom Bale
‘But she’s not a criminal. God knows she’s driven me crazy at times, but I can’t see her doing something that would get her locked up.’
Gerard regarded his son with a level gaze. ‘What are you saying, Freddie? That you believe her over me?’
‘I want a straight answer.’
‘And I’ve given you a straight answer.’ He threw out a hand in frustration. ‘We could have done this on the phone. You didn’t have to abandon the whole holiday—’
‘I needed to look you in the eye.’ Freddie’s voice was trembling again. ‘It didn’t seem fair to stay out there.’
‘This isn’t about being fair! It’s about whether you kowtow to that bitch, or whether you stand up and fight for what’s rightfully yours.’ He waited, panting from the effort of conveying his passion, conscious that his wet fish of a son was liable to dismiss it as histrionics.
Sure enough, all he got was a weak and watery, ‘I dunno. . .’
‘Well, I do. And since possession is nine tenths of the law, I suggest you get your sorry arse back where you came from, pronto, and lie low till this is all settled.’
‘I can’t, Pa. He’s starting in year three on Thursday.’
‘And I’ve told you, a few more days or weeks won’t make any difference. The tutor’ll bring him up to speed well in time for Eton.’ Gerard grinned at the shock on his son’s face. ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s only an aspiration at this stage, but who knows? If that useless pig-fucker can go all the way, I’m sure my grandson can do it too.’
‘But I agreed with Jen. And the lawyers’ll say—’
‘Forget about that, I’ll sort it. You just need to put yourself and the boy back on a plane, and sit tight at the villa till you hear from me.’
Freddie was shaking his head: not quite buying it, but unwilling to rebel. ‘And what do I tell Jen?’
‘Don’t speak to her. There’s nothing she can do about it, not where she’s heading.’
He expected more bleating, but Freddie only stared at him. ‘You did do it,’ he said softly. ‘You set her up.’
Gerard had already turned to his computer, intending to look up flights to Crete. A knock on the door reminded him of the need to make amends with Charlie: maybe find time to kick a football about in the park before he sent them to the airport.
Siobhan put her head round the door and surveyed the room. ‘Is he hiding with you?’
Freddie was hunched over, covering his face with his hands as if ashamed to be seen. Crying like a girl, Gerard realised.
‘Hiding?’ he asked.
‘Charlie wanted to play hide and seek, but I can’t find him. Did he not come in here?’
Freddie’s hands fell away, eyes wide and bloodshot. Gerard shook his head at Siobhan. ‘Have you looked upstairs?’
‘Everywhere.’ She sounded scared. ‘I left this room till last, because I could see you wanted privacy.’
‘What about the garden?’
‘No. I’ve checked. He’s vanished, sir. He’s gone.’
44
On Tuesday morning, Jen requested an urgent meeting with Yvonne Cartwright. She wanted to know where she stood if Freddie refused to bring Charlie back from Greece.
Blessedly she had slept without dreaming, but the fear upon waking was as acute as ever, with Freddie’s taunt still ringing in her ears: You’re a loser, Jen. Traumatic though it was, she might have to accept the truth in that comment.
While she showered and dressed, she attempted to picture Charlie living a healthy, happy life in Greece, and had to concede that it wasn’t out of the question – certainly once he’d adjusted to the reality of growing up without his mother. For his sake, she had to hope it would be a swift transition.
But for herself, whether she went to prison or not, the thought of trying to build a new life on her own, trying to endure a daily existence when the centre of her world had been ripped away from her. . . it was impossible to visualise.
If only she hadn’t agreed to the holiday, or handed over Charlie’s passport without at least getting something in writing. But when Freddie had sprung the idea on her, she’d been too preoccupied by her arrest to recognise the dangers. In that moment it seemed she had been robbed, quite unwittingly, of all control over her son’s future.
The earliest Yvonne could see her was midday. Rather than sit around fretting, Jen decided to get some shopping done. She felt slightly nervous as she emerged from the building, but assured herself that Russell Pearce was long gone. Alex Wilson and his cronies seemed to have backed off, and why wouldn’t they? From their point of view, it was mission accomplished.
The car ahead of her on the steep downhill ramp into the Marina was an old Honda saloon. It had joined the ramp from the opposite direction, beating the lights by the underpass and slotting in front of Jen at a comfortable distance. Once round the corner it accelerated downhill. Seeing that the two-lane road was clear all the way to the roundabout at the foot of the ramp, Jen matched the Honda’s speed.
And then it braked.
Jen automatically touched her own brakes, expecting the Honda to speed up again, but the red lights stayed on, tyres screeching as the driver braked harder than ever. Jen tried to respond in time but she was too close, and taken by surprise. She felt the tiniest of bumps as she came to a halt, not even enough to trigger the airbags or cause any sort of jolt to the Honda. A near miss, she thought with relief.
The Honda driver was opening his door, while a woman in the passenger seat turned to stare over her shoulder. Jen released her seat belt, checked the outside lane was clear, then got out.
‘The fuck you doing?’ the man shouted.
‘Me? You’re the one that stopped for no reason.’
As he examined the rear of his car, the passenger door opened. The woman who climbed out was fiftyish and scrawny, with an orange complexion and studs in her nose and lip. The man was a similar age, short and wide and brutish. He was twisting a signet ring on his finger and muttering something abusive.
‘You’re meant to keep a safe distance,’ the woman snarled, and started prodding at the phone in her hand.
‘You gonna call the police, love?’ the man said.
Jen crouched to look at the cars. ‘There’s no damage.’
‘Can’t say without a proper inspection.’ The man was uncomfortably close, his knee almost touching her shoulder. Jen stood up and backed away. A car rolled towards them, the driver’s head on a stalk.
‘Anyway, there’s injuries to think about.’ The woman put a hand on the back of her neck, and sucked in a breath.
‘Yeah. Could be whiplash.’ The man turned on Jen. ‘Hope you’re insured?’
‘Yes, I am.’ But her heart was thumping now. Freddie had said something about his policy covering other drivers, but he was notoriously uninformed about such matters.
‘Well? Who are they?’
‘I don’t have the details with me.’ She sighed, then realised she had to stand her ground. ‘The cars barely touched. There’s no way it could have injured anyone—’
‘You a doctor, are you?’ the woman sneered. ‘An orthopaedic surgeon?’
‘Might be. It’s a pricey motor, so either she’s earning a packet – or her old fella is, and she pays him back in other ways.’
They both sniggered. A couple more vehicles crawled past in the outside lane. Jen heard grumbling through an open window, and said, ‘We’re causing an obstruction. We need to move.’
‘If it’ll start again. We’ve had cars shunted before that ended up being write-offs.’
‘That’s crazy. There isn’t so much as a scratch, look.’ She wiped her finger along the dirt-encrusted rear of the Honda. ‘This is a scam. You braked for no reason to cause an accident, and then claim on my insurance.’
The man was shaking his head, but grinning. ‘You’re guilty, love. No doubt about it.’
‘Guilty?’ Something snapped inside her. ‘Did you say I’m guilty?’
‘Yeah.’ The woman snorted.
‘Rich bitch.’
Jen staggered slightly. She pointed an accusing finger at the man before her. ‘You’re working with them, aren’t you – Alex Wilson? Sam Dhillon? Well, I know what you’re up to and I won’t let you destroy me, so pass that message on and get the fuck out of my life!’
She hadn’t realised she was yelling, or that she’d advanced on the man so furiously that he’d backed away. He looked astonished, but Jen should have been paying more attention to his companion.
With a vicious smirk, the woman was filming Jen on her phone, even moving in for a closer shot as Jen wheeled round and got into her car.
‘Looney tunes, love,’ she said, and the man, recovering his composure, shouted, ‘You’re supposed to exchange details. We’ll report this to the police!’
‘Yeah, you do that.’ Jen slammed the door, backed up without thinking to check the mirrors, then carved into the outside lane and roared past the Honda. The woman was still filming.
A car behind blasted its horn, the driver tailgating her all the way to the roundabout. Was that because she’d cut him up, or was he in on it, too?
Abandoning all thoughts of shopping, she went around the roundabout and back onto the exit ramp, accelerating hard until she was content that the car behind wasn’t following. Once out of the Marina, she took a few random turns in Kemptown, hoping to throw off any other pursuers, then drove on to the city centre and parked in one of the large multi-storey car parks for Churchill Square.
Her heart rate still hadn’t returned to normal as she switched off the engine and buried her face in her hands. What have I done?
She sat there for a long time, wrestling with the doubts. Maybe the people in the Honda weren’t anything to do with Alex Wilson. Perhaps it was a coincidence: a couple of lowlifes who spotted a woman alone in a valuable car and saw a chance to make some money from a fraudulent claim.
Or maybe the driver genuinely had overreacted to something in the road, and Jen simply hadn’t been paying enough attention. If they were innocent, and decided to take this further, Jen knew she was in big trouble.
Eventually she stirred, walked up to the shopping centre and used the public toilets to clean up and make herself look a bit more presentable. Even then, there was a glint in her eye that told of something not quite right: a woman on the verge of a breakdown. Feeling light-headed, she bought a bottle of Coke in WHSmith, worried she might flake out if she didn’t keep her sugar levels up. She didn’t want a repeat of Saturday.
At the solicitors, the receptionist gave her an uneasy smile. ‘I think Yvonne’s still with someone.’
‘I’m fine to wait.’
Jen chose a magazine at random and left it open on her lap, a useful prop while she dipped her head and looked inward instead. She fought off images of Charlie, playing right here in the waiting room last week. More and more it felt like she’d betrayed him, by what she’d done or had failed to do—
‘Oh, Jen.’
Tim Allenby emerged from the hallway, a heavy folder under one arm. He looked slightly perturbed, perhaps thinking he’d forgotten about a meeting, so she said, ‘I’m here to see Yvonne.’
‘That’s a coincidence, but quite useful, I suppose.’
The doubt evident in that phrase didn’t bode well, Jen thought. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Yes, same here.’ He checked his watch, then nodded. ‘Pop on back.’
In his office, he waved her to a seat and said, ‘I won’t leave you in suspense. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
Jen sat down and pressed her hands together on her lap. ‘Okay.’
‘I just had a call from DS Howard. They’d like you to attend at Hollingbury, tomorrow morning at eleven, where you’ll be charged with theft and burglary.’
Jen gaped at him. ‘But I only saw her yesterday, when they asked me about Russell Pearce. She didn’t give any hint. . .’
‘No. Talia was apologetic about that. It seems the decision has come from on high, so she had no more advance warning than anybody else.’ He opened his hands. ‘I expect the officers on your case are now assisting with the murder investigation – this unfortunate neighbour of yours – so it’s a matter of clearing the decks.’
Jen snorted. ‘The minor stuff.’
‘From their point of view,’ he conceded. ‘To us – to you in particular, of course – it’s a lot more significant than that.’
‘Just slightly.’ She lifted a trembling hand then let it fall away, the purpose of the gesture forgotten. ‘There’s no possibility of a mistake? The appointment wouldn’t be to tell me they’re not going ahead with it?’
‘I’m sorry. She was very clear. They intend to charge you.’
45
Gerard’s first reaction: cold hard panic. It had two components, and each one had to be brutally suppressed. There was fear for Charlie, his only grandchild and a boy who probably meant more to him than Freddie had ever done. Then the greater fear: for himself.
Seen through the lens of self-preservation, the two people present now were not his sulky underachieving son and his Irish spinster housekeeper: they were potential witnesses whose reactions and expectations had to be skilfully managed.
All this took less than a second to compute. His quick mind had leapt straight to the worst-case scenario, from which he could work his way back to the soothing possibility that Charlie was simply crouching by the steps outside or hiding in the doorway of the next house along.
‘He won’t have gone far. Come on.’
Freddie ran for the door, yelling Charlie’s name as he dashed into the street. Gerard concealed his disapproval; even this little public spectacle could be harmful. The fucking Grauniad would give anything to make him look stupid.
But he played along, after snatching a bushman hat from the hall. Freddie went one way, Gerard the other, and he sent Siobhan across the road to the gardens in the centre of the square. That was the most obvious location. Plenty of grass to run around on, trees and benches to hide behind.
Gerard reached the corner of Endsleigh Place and scanned in both directions. No sign of Charlie, or anyone carrying a small boy; no one reacting to any kind of struggle. Conclusion: he wasn’t here.
He trotted back, regarding it as beneath his dignity to run. Freddie was at the opposite corner, and nearly got mown down when he drifted into the road for a clearer view. Car horns prompted a few pedestrians to turn and stare, as did the sound of Freddie bellowing his son’s name.
If they hadn’t been in the centre of London, strangers would no doubt have come to their aid, or at least asked what was wrong. Gerard was glad of the public indifference, but didn’t want to push his luck.
He drew level with his own front door and met Siobhan returning from the gardens. ‘I can’t see him,’ she moaned, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I really don’t think he’d go that far.’
‘Me neither,’ Gerard said. ‘Let’s search the house again. Maybe he crept from one hiding place to another – down the back stairs, for instance?’
This suggestion was a godsend, offering her some much-needed hope, and more importantly getting her back inside. Gerard didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but that wasn’t relevant. Siobhan was persuaded: one down, one to go. . .
Gerard beckoned to Freddie, who came at a run and immediately started ranting: ‘Why are you just standing there? We have to get help, raise the alarm.’
‘Not till we’ve searched the house again. Imagine if he’s inside a wardrobe, and then I’m the butt of jokes on Mock the Week.’
‘Fuck your image, Pa. My son is missing!’
‘If he’d gone outside to hide, we’d have seen him, wouldn’t we?’
Freddie was almost doubled over, panting for breath and exuding an air of barely suppressed hysteria that was drawing attention from the tourists and students who infested this area in fine weather.
‘What if he’s been abducted?’
> ‘Within a minute or two of stepping outside?’ Gerard gave a scornful laugh, conveniently ignoring the many times he’d warned in print that a paedophile did indeed lurk on every street corner. ‘He hasn’t been abducted, I promise you that.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Wisdom. Experience. Let’s go in and help Siobhan with a proper search.’
He was unaccustomed to physical contact with his son, but slapped a hand on Freddie’s shoulder and guided him through the doorway. Siobhan was stomping around on one of the upper floors, calling for Charlie in a distraught voice.
‘Listen,’ Gerard said quietly after shutting the front door. ‘If he isn’t here, there’s another possibility that we have to consider.’
Freddie gave him a raking, distrustful glance. ‘What?’
‘Jen. Maybe Charlie got a message to her somehow, and she came up here and snatched him.’
Incredulous, Freddie said, ‘She wouldn’t do that.’
‘Christ, you’re gullible. She’s capable of anything, especially now she’s desperate.’ He blocked another objection, growling, ‘We’ll discuss it in a minute. Now search the ground floor and the basement.’
He hurried upstairs and had a good look in the bedrooms and bathrooms on the second and third floors, then intercepted Siobhan as she hurried down from the top of the house. Sobbing now, she said, ‘He’s not here, sir. I’m so sorry. Will we get the police involved?’
Gerard raised a hand, smiling gently. ‘It’s fine.’
A gasp. ‘You’ve found him?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ He produced his phone. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jen. The dispute over custody is heating up, and it turns out she’d instructed Charlie to sneak out and join her. They’re on their way to Victoria station right now.’
‘Oh, but that’s so cruel.’ Siobhan pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘Nearly gave me a heart attack, they did.’
‘I know, and you can bet our legal team will raise this with the judge.’ He placed a calming hand on her elbow; nowhere more intimate, because he found her unappealing. ‘I want you to take the rest of the day off. Get yourself home and have a large gin and tonic.’