by Mick Herron
‘That’ll be his lift,’ Zoë said.
‘Do you think this boat goes any faster?’
‘Now would be a good time to find out.’
He had retreated from the harbour wall, and watched the boat dock from the doorway of a waterfront shop, where, for amusement as much as protective colouring, he’d been writing a postcard: Enjoying Retirement! Will Catch Up With You Later! This, he’d send to Howard’s boss.
The sky was grey; the sea was grey. Only the car, parked thirty yards down the road, was blue.
Amos Crane turned his attention to the scene unfolding by the water’s edge; two women disembarking; one of them – Sarah Trafford – handing a piece of paper to Jed. The other wore a red top, and as he focused on her face – not using binoculars, not here on the street – he felt the dizzying sensation he’d had before when he noticed disparate events falling together in a tidy heap. It was the woman from the train. The one who’d stolen into his dream.
He didn’t know who she was, but then she didn’t know him either . . . You could look on that as level ground.
He also noticed something else funny; that Sarah Trafford was carrying the bear. Bet that’ll please Howard, he thought; quite pleased himself. He had, after all, brought it here. Looked like Howard would be reaping the benefit, though.
Amos pulled his wallet from his pocket; pulled a stamp from his wallet. Dabbed it on his tongue, and attached it to the postcard. It was nearly time to go. Either these women would lead him to Downey, or they would not. Either way, they couldn’t remain on the board much longer. This had turned out to be one of those games where you burned your pieces as they fell . . .
Nutted. Scorched. Splatted.
He popped the postcard in the waiting box. When he looked up, the women had gone.
‘Ladies,’ Jed said.
‘It’s been your pleasure,’ Sarah assured him, handing back the cheque Zoë had signed an hour before.
Zoë said, ‘And Jed? We were never here.’
‘Never where?’
‘Good point.’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Sarah said, once they were fifteen yards away.
‘Well, that’s pretty shrewd, Sarah. Seeing as we already know he takes bribes.’
Sarah hoisted the teddy bear under her arm. She couldn’t keep lugging this toy around; on the other hand, she couldn’t just dump it in a bin. At least she could, but it wouldn’t feel right, somehow.
Zoë caught her by the arm. ‘What now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Try having a think.’
‘I just want to put as much space between us and that place as possible.’
‘Now you’re talking. Any special direction? Are you still checked in anywhere?’
She was, but suddenly that didn’t seem important . . . She could leave, they could leave; she could settle her bill later. Send them a cheque. She owed Zoë money, too. Better get her life in order.
‘We should head for a city. Head for Glasgow if we can. Get a train back south.’
‘You need to talk to someone,’ Zoë said.
‘I know.’
‘Press. Someone big.’
‘Who’d believe me?’
‘Believe us.’
‘. . . Thanks, Zoë.’
‘Bus stop. We need a bus stop.’
Sarah hadn’t said all she wanted to say. Thanks was not enough. But Zoë was already on her way, as if the bus stop wasn’t going to hang around if they didn’t get a move on. She swapped the bear from one arm to the other, and took off after her friend.
The ’copter put Howard down right where it had picked him up: the corner of a field just out of sight of the main road: not too far from his car; a bit too close to a herd of cows. Which scattered. All but one, who held her ground, lowered her head; watched the crazy machine through huge brown eyes as it tilted up and pulled away. With her right front hoof she prodded a lump of grass, which until recently had commanded her full attention.
Howard dropped his briefcase. Picked it up. Looked at the cow. He was certain it was a cow: bulls have horns, cows have tits, and that was a rule of nature. But there was no point hanging round, so tucking the briefcase under one arm, he half-marched half-trotted across to the nearest gate, scrambled over it without damaging anything important, then kept on at the same ungainly pace until he reached his car, a hundred yards down the track. The cow had forgotten him by then; was deeply involved in her grass.
Behind the wheel, Howard luxuriated for a moment in motionless comfort. Then, hey-ho, back to work. From his briefcase he took a laptop; this he opened, and tipped a switch. A blue screen flickered into life. He adjusted its radius until it was operating within a two-mile area, which still left both major points in view, A being the laptop itself, dead centre, and B being the bear. Unfortunately, the area was laid out on a grid Howard couldn’t actually drive along; without a map, it was worse than useless – he had a map; he unfolded it, spread it over the passenger seat. All he had to do now was work out where he was, superimpose his position onscreen mentally – and, theoretically, he’d be able to follow the bear.
What he really needed now, he decided, as point B began to move, was someone who’d operated one of these damn things before.
The bus stop had the air of long-ago abandonment. It was just a metal upright with, chest-height to Sarah, what had once been a timetable hooped round it, but was now a mating diary for the local blades: Daz loves Peanut. Dish 4 Traj. What hellish name abbreviated to Traj? Or Daz, come to that. Shit. Her mind, which had slowed to the point of stopping – the inertia born of emergency – was now all fizz and pop: none of it, though, any use at all.
Zoë said, ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘Yup.’
‘We’re bound to get lucky.’
‘Yup.’
Think about it: we’ve had bodies, bombs, drugs, thunderstorms . . . Life was a country song: If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.
There was a car coming, a blue car, and it slowed as it reached the stop.
‘Local rapist,’ Zoë muttered.
A man leaned out of his open window. He was alone in his car. He said, ‘You weren’t waiting for a bus, were you?’
Before Zoë could make any one of a dozen responses, Sarah said, ‘We are, yes.’
‘Because unless they’ve changed things recently, that bus doesn’t run any more.’
‘You local?’ Zoë asked.
‘No. But I work the roads. I’ve driven this stretch for years. Trust me.’
Oh, sure . . .
‘The name’s Keller. David Keller.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Zoë.
‘And if you’re heading this way, I can give you a ride. Far as the next town, anyway. Somewhere you might find a bus.’
Zoë looked at Sarah. Sarah looked right back.
‘Thanks,’ said Sarah. ‘We could use some help right now.’
So could Howard. He’d had to alter the tracker’s parameters already: four miles and counting – either they’d got transport, or that bear could really move. On the main road, where he could locate himself on his map, he’d pulled into a lay-by and was fussing over details: a power pylon to his right, or probably east, meant he was either here or here . . . So they were back on the water or heading down the coast. Something of a toss-up, really. But he had no choice but to act like they were still on the road.
And at the back of his mind, with that part of his brain he used for crosswords, sexual fantasies, and other mental activities demanding attention to detail, he was clocking through the possible identities of a woman in a red jumper and, he was halfway definite, a gun in a leather shoulder bag.
The detective. That was what his subconscious came up with a minute or so before passing it on. She was something to do with that detective Sarah Trafford had hired, and Axel had pacified.
That was the trouble with loose ends, he decided, starting the car up again, heading in what he hoped
was the right direction. You didn’t pay attention at the time, the whole blasted ball of wool came apart.
He didn’t know yet if he was capable of wrapping this up himself. Maybe he’d get lucky, and Amos Crane would do that for him. But one way or the other, he was going to get his hands dirty, because if he didn’t put Amos Crane away first, Amos Crane would bury him . . .
Point B slowed to a crawl and stopped. Maybe that was his luck changing direction, Howard thought . . . then realized he couldn’t swear as to whether his luck so far had been good or bad.
Images of something else buried flashed through Sarah’s mind: the sun on heavy leaves, and old stone, and decorated glass. The kind of image that tugs at you and you can’t pin down, because it never actually happened; it’s a detail from a radio show or a page in a book – something described that your mind has coloured in, allowed to become as real as memory. But what was stone and glass and hidden among the trees?
‘. . . Pharmaceuticals?’
‘You’d be surprised how many people give me the wink when they hear that word.’
‘Stop the car,’ she said.
‘Sarah?’ said Zoë.
Zoë was up front, talking to . . . David Keller; that was his name. And she’d turned round now, frowning at Sarah, wondering what the hell was up now; you couldn’t blame her, Sarah decided; I act like I’m bonkers half the time these days. Maybe I am. And none of this is happening.
‘Sarah?’
‘I’m sorry. David? Could you stop the car, please. I’ve just realized something.’
Obediently, he stopped the car, and turned to look at Sarah too. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’ he asked.
Shrewd. Maybe. Though it didn’t take a genius.
‘Kind of. Do you have a map? A local map?’
‘I might have. There’s all kinds of stuff in the glove box.’ He nodded at Zoë, meaning: Sure, go ahead, look in the glove compartment.
There were maps: also packets of extra-strong mints, sunglasses, wet-wipes, Opal Fruits, much of which tumbled into Zoë’s lap when she released the catch . . . Three maps down she found the one they were after, and handed it to Sarah without a word.
A little way up the coast. We found a church by the side of a wood. Well, a chapel.
‘Is it something special you’re looking for? I do know the area quite well.’
Deserted, it was . . . We sheltered there that first night. Sanctuary, you’d call it.
‘Sarah?’
‘I know where they are.’
‘What makes you –’
‘Zoë, please. Trust me. I know where they’ll be.’
She fell back to her map-reading: never one of her greatest skills. But she knew a little cross when she saw one: bang next to that densely green patch, which must be Michael’s wood.
‘I know this is none of my business,’ their driver began.
‘David. I’m sorry about this. We both are. You can let us out here, there’s somewhere we need to be.’
He turned in his seat to face her. An old face, or looking older than it actually was, perhaps – funny, Sarah found time to think, how some people can look older than they appear to be. He’d stopped to help them, and here she was telling him they didn’t need his help. Didn’t seem the type to turn nasty, though. His face crinkled when he spoke.
‘I see a lot of people on the roads . . . I don’t mean you look desperate. But you get a sense for it, after a while. You need help. That’s okay. I can take you where you need to go.’
‘She doesn’t know what she needs,’ Zoë muttered.
He looked at her.
‘Sorry.’ Zoë turned to Sarah again. ‘But listen, I thought we’d decided this? We head for the nearest exit.’
‘They’re near here,’ Sarah said. Sounding stubborn, mulish, even to her own ears. But hell, she’d come this far. ‘I know they are. And you said it yourself, we need Michael. Without him, who’s going to listen?’
‘But –’
‘And he’s got Dinah.’ And he’s dangerous, she didn’t add. Didn’t need to. He’s killed people; for all we know, he’ll kill her too – kill himself, kill her, who could tell, after everything else he’d done?
‘Sarah –’
‘I’m sorry, David. This isn’t fair on you. And thanks for your offer, you’re a kind man, but I can’t drag you into this. It’s okay, Zoë.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘I can manage –’
‘Shut up.’ Zoë opened her door. ‘So we’re going. Or staying. Whatever. Come on.’
The car rolled forward a couple of feet, and she almost fell out.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Did I get your attention?’
‘David?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. He turned to Sarah once more. ‘Miss? I’ll say it again. You want to go somewhere, I can take you. I don’t like leaving you here, the side of the road like this.’
‘But –’
‘It’s not for your sake, it’s for mine. You know? This way I don’t lie awake all night, wondering if you got where you needed to go.’
She was still holding the map, folded over now so the little cross, the dense square of green, looked a hop and a jump away. But why walk when they could ride? He could give them a lift, then drive off: his good deed done.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Zoë shut her door again. ‘This is what I like. Firm decisions, swiftly taken.’
He held his hand out; Sarah handed him the map. Showed him with a finger: ‘It’s that church. Or chapel, or whatever it is. I just remembered . . .’
‘It’s of consuming historical interest,’ Zoë finished.
‘So we go there,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. Okay?’
And proved to be good as his word.
Two more things:
Howard, who’d worked out where he was, started after point B just as point B started to move . . .
. . . and Amos Crane, who’d been following all this, smiled, as he moved too.
IV
There was a small wooden door, very old, with fresh splintering around the handle; with iron nails stamped into it like bullets. There were bushes round this door, clawing their way out of the stony ground like an illustration of a parable.
There was a stained-glass window too; a somewhat Celtic cross. There was no name to the chapel that Sarah could see. Nothing to tell you where you were.
There was a blue 2CV parked lopsided to the back of the building; its rear left wheel an inch or so above the ground, as if its front right had found a ditch.
Sarah stood taking this in while Zoë waved distractedly at the car now heading away from them, reversing up the track through the trees, towards the main road. ‘Nice man,’ she said.
‘Hmm?’
‘He didn’t have to help us.’
‘No.’
She was going to take a few steps forward, push on the door, go right in. Any minute now. That was what she was going to do.
‘So what’s the story, Sarah? Ten minutes ago, you had no idea where they were.’
‘I remembered.’
‘You remembered he said he’d meet you here?’
‘I remembered he talked about it. Back when he and Tommy Singleton escaped. This is where they hid.’
Zoë took it in. Shook her head. ‘Well, if you ask me,’ she said, ‘it’s fucking spooky,’ and she reached into her bag for her gun.
Sarah didn’t notice. She was taking those few steps forward, pushing on the door. Which swung open.
. . . What it reminded her of, those first few seconds, was the chapel in that awful place where she’d first gone looking for Dinah. Arimathea. Here, now, walking into another chapel, she suffered again that sense of old air, of air locked in stone, and the feeling crashed in on her that this was what had become of her life: it had degenerated into a succession of moments, each of which had to be lived through in turn. Brief flashes of memory ignited for
her, like sudden views of a bright room: the distant thump of a house collapsing, and sparks flying upwards into a dark sky; a man with blood like a necktie pooling down on to his desk; another with a rope of dental floss he was trying to kill her with . . . And herself, all those years ago, falling from the roof, with lights cartwheeling like a circus attraction. All of that. And all leading to where she was now, in another old, cold chapel, looking for a girl who was a survivor, as she was herself. So far.
There were no benches in the chapel. No altar. No furniture of any kind. Just a bare room with a filthy stone floor, some old cracked windows and naked beams low overhead. And a man sitting against the wall opposite, with a small child in his arms . . . Dinah.
Michael was levelling a gun at her.
That was almost it. Right there. Not a matter of her past life flashing before her eyes – not again – more a case of seeing her future, all of it, folding into a single instant, an instant in which he fired the gun, she fell, the world went black . . . None of it happened. Instead he lowered the gun as she stepped out of shadow, raised it again as he saw Zoë – who was right behind her – then put it down once more. No matter Zoë held a gun. He looked, Sarah thought, so tired – so tired, he was maybe half dead himself.
‘You came,’ he said.
‘You forgot your jacket.’
A stupid thing to say, she knew; one of those flippant comments she’d be embarrassed about afterwards, if there was an afterwards. She came forward, his jacket feeling baggy on her shoulders. ‘This is a friend of mine.’
Zoë nodded at Michael. She was still holding her gun. Michael simply stared at her, then looked back at Sarah.
Only a matter of hours, after all, but what had he done with them? Killed how many people? And look at him now, holding a small child, who seemed very like she might be sleeping: what did she say to him? What did she say to Dinah?
I left my life behind to find you, and I can’t remember why . . .
‘You didn’t have to kill them,’ she said. The words had a life of their own. Too much life for Michael, perhaps, who put his head on one side, as if getting out of their way. ‘Michael? You didn’t have to kill them.’
Zoë brushed past her. Michael seemed not to notice; he’d put his gun on the ground now, and folded his arm back round Dinah.