27
“You should rest.” Charles turned his attentions to the tired features of Matthew. “You look ill. Some sleep would do you good.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said sarcastically, “but no thanks. I can’t sleep ... not until this is over.”
“It may take days before all of this is over.”
Matthew nodded slowly to himself. “Good point,” he reasoned. “I’ll try to get some sleep.” He propped his arm up against the side door, rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. Within seconds he had fallen asleep; his body shutting down as soon as his eyes saw black.
***
A noise floated through a dense thickness, filtering through layers of noise before it descrambled itself in Matthew’s ears: the words, “Matthew, wake up.”
He opened his eyes, startled. He was in his bedroom, a thick cream duvet covered his lower body. He could feel silk sheets underneath his naked body.
“Are you awake?”
The room was filled with the fog of morning. Matthew’s eyes slowly adjusted to the drastic light changes – from midnight to morning – and he began to recognise more of his surroundings.
To his left, at the edge of the bed, was his cabinet. A glass of water sitting on top of it. He stared at the glass momentarily, a flash of something odd disturbing his sense, a touch of deja-vu. A feeling of something that shouldn’t be.
“Earth to Matthew.”
He had only just become alert to the voice. He shot a glance in its direction, distressed. “Jennifer,” he said slowly, playing with each syllable.
On the windowsill, cigarette in hand, the sun catching glints in her hair, sat Jennifer Wilkinson with a smile on her face.
“Good morning,” Matthew said, smiling back.
Jennifer’s features changed, her smile disappeared. She turned her attention to the window, her face devoid of expression.
Matthew scrambled out of bed and felt the need to stretch when he stood, extending each of his muscles to relaxation point. “I had the weirdest dream,” he said yawning loudly.
Jennifer turned to him. “What was it about?” she asked.
Matthew opened his mouth, began to explain, but no words left his lips. He couldn’t remember what he was going to say.
“It was so weird that you forgot it already?”
“Apparently,” Matthew conceded.
He walked over to Jennifer and embraced her, something he felt an unusual urge to do. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear, his eyes closed as he hugged her closer.
She didn’t reply.
He opened his eyes and looked at the top of his girlfriend’s head. He planted a kiss on her soft hair, tilting his head until his eyes met hers.
Her eyes were empty, blank. “Jennifer?” Matthew asked, worry in his voice. “Jennifer?” he repeated. She didn’t answer. She merely sat, her eyes staring into nothingness, her body limp in his grasp.
“No …” Matthew backed away, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
He woke again. He was back in the car. Next to him, Charles was looking concerned. “Nightmares?” he asked.
“Sorry?” Matthew was still muddled with the world of his dreams and the sudden onset of reality.
“You woke with quite a start,” Charles explained. “Are you okay?”
Jester turned his attention to the road through the front windscreen. Rain was still falling heavily, streaks of lightening lit up the horizon, thunder crashed the skies and wind rocked the world.
“I’m fine,” Jester said solemnly. “How long was I out?” he asked after the car rolled around a tight bend, its headlights on full beam but barely penetrating the rain sodden darkness.
“Not long,” Charles said bleakly. “I didn’t even know you’d dropped off.”
Jester shook his head. “I’ll sleep when this is over,” he affirmed, the image of Jennifer’s cold, dead eyes prominent in his mind’s eye.
Charles could only nod, deciding against asking Jester any further questions.
“We need a plan,” Jester spoke, turning in his seat so he faced the driver. “Where are we going to go, what are we going to do, et cetera, et cetera.”
“It’s getting late,” Charles said, his eyes flickering across the time display. “And this weather is difficult to drive in.” He leaned forward and looked to the heavens as if to exemplify his point. The sky was black – rain-filled clouds, storm damaged air and an ashy fog decorated the gothic atmosphere – the sun had gone into hiding. “It’s nearly seven,” he said. “And it’s going to get darker.” He paused to contemplate. “If that’s possible.”
“You know any places we can go around here?” Jester quizzed.
“We passed a bed and breakfast a couple of minutes ago,” Charles began. “Well, we didn’t actually pass it,” he corrected himself, “we just missed the turn off. I’ve been there before, with my wife.” A tone of nostalgia entered his voice, a warm smile crossed his face when he mentioned his wife. “We could turn around and head back,” he said, a ‘but’ ready and waiting on his lips.
“I don’t think we’ll be welcome,” Jester said, taking the words out of Charlie’s mouth. “I have a ten million pound price tag on my head. Finding a welcoming place isn’t going to be easy.”
Charles nodded to himself, seemingly lost in thought. After a few moments of silence he spoke again. “When,” he began, stopping himself for a correction, “if … we find a place to spend the night, then what? Finding shelter is the least of our worries.”
“Let’s just take things one step at a time,” Jester said calmly.
Charles sighed. “We can’t just drive ...” A light bulb flickered on over his head. “I do have a place we could go,” he said, his voice unsure enough for Jester to question his intentions with a simple look of anticipation. “There’s a caravan park …” he paused. He lip-synched a round of numbers and locations, miles and landmarks, speed and distance. “About thirty minutes from here,” he continued. “I bought a caravan there recently. I was going to surprise Julie for our anniversary next month, take the caravan on the road, do a little mini-tour of England, maybe France …” He allowed his words to trail off.
“She doesn’t know about it?”
Charles shook his head, with his right hand he worked the glove box, popping it open for Matthew to explore. “In there,” he said, motioning towards the open compartment. “I have the keys. It’s parked in a small secured lot. Only the owners have the keys to get through the main gate.”
“How big is the caravan park?” Jester asked, removing a set of keys from the glove compartment.
“It’s a decent size. About the size of a couple of football pitches. It’s all fenced off and well-guarded.”
“How many caravans? How many owners?” Jester wanted to know, holding up the keys. “How many people have access to the gate?”
“Ten caravans,” Charles said bluntly. “Including ours. Ten people will have the key to the main gate, plus any security personnel, maintenance men, onsite workers, et cetera.”
“Security personnel?” Matthew quizzed. “Are the gates staffed?”
“Occasionally,” Charles said. “I’ve only been there a few times to clean up and do a spot of decorating. I’ve only seen a security officer onsite once. Just hide in the back and pretend to be asleep if there’s one on duty. He won’t check as long as we have the key, then they won’t mind.”
Jester nodded. “Okay,” he said. “To the caravan it is.”
28
Outside the English country manor owned by billionaire oil tycoon Ahmad Fadel, in the luscious gardens, underneath the shading branches of an elm tree, Ahmad Fadel carefully played croquet. The evening had closed. The air was fresh from the rain showers that had cleansed it through the afternoon. The stormy conditions hadn’t ventured this far south.
Ahmad Fadel stood, legs slightly apart, with his facial features set deep on concentration mode; his tongue hanging out of his mouth slightly, c
aressing his upper lip. Behind him, waiting with a bottle of isotonic sports drink, stood Fadel’s personal servant. He watched the billionaire playing croquet with awe in his eyes.
Inside the mansion, watching out of one of the back windows, Dennis Maloney laughed. He was staring at the Arab – who was wearing his full golfing gear, down to the ridiculous striped socks – and laughing in disbelief. “What next?” he asked.
Behind him Mark Chambers puffed slowly on a fat cigar. “Have you ever played?”
“Croquet?” It’s for rich English people,” the American said brashly.
“It’s a lot like golf actually.”
“It’s nothing like golf,” Maloney walked away from the window and sat down on a wooden chair, padded with stuffed velvet lining. “It’s mini-golf for old people,” he said dryly.
“Fadel seems to like it,” Chambers noted.
Maloney nodded distantly, his eyes on the window. “He’s bored, that’s all,” he said blankly. “He told me he’s getting fed up with England. I can’t say I blame him.”
“Hey, watch it,” Chambers warned. “This is my country, don’t knock it.”
Dennis shrugged impassively. He turned away from the window and looked Mark Chambers directly in the eye. “I brought you here to talk about the kid,” he said simply. “Let’s talk.”
Chambers blew a cloud of smoke in front of them and then spoke through it, “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“This Charles guy, tell me all about him,” Maloney instructed, resting back in the chair.
Chambers leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay,” he said. “As you already know, I sent him after the kid.”
“In the forest,” Dennis interjected.
“Yeah.” Chambers nodded. “I knew he’d find him, he may be a slack-arse waste of space, but he has his uses; he’s good with people.”
“I don’t care,” Dennis said bluntly. “All I care about is the kid.”
“Anyway,” Chambers said, hurrying along. “He’s maybe a little too good with people, if you know what I mean. He’s not like us.”
“We’re heartless businessmen, Mark,” Dennis said in a deep tone. “Most people like us are in jail or in government.”
“You know what I mean. He’s empathic. The man has morals.”
“Shame on him,” Dennis said with a great deal of sarcasm.
Mark Chambers raised his eyebrows, took a long draw from his cigar and rested back in his seat. “As I was saying,” he continued. “I sent some guys to follow him.”
“You sent him to follow Jester and sent hit men to follow him?”
“Yes, and they found him.”
Maloney brightened up. “That’s promising,” he said. “Where is he?”
“I’m getting there,” Chambers said in a relaxed tone, taking a huff of thick cigar smoke. “They saw Charles entering a cabin where the kid was, so I told them to kill him. Clearly he was siding with the kid–”
“What!” Dennis bolted upright, alert again. “If they kill the kid, the game is over.” He snarled at Chambers. “If the game is over, you’re no longer any use to me.”
“Don’t threaten me, Maloney,” Chambers warned.
Dennis paced the floor, shooting occasional glances of disgust the way of Mark Chambers. Eventually he sat down.
“The kid is alive,” Chambers said.
Dennis’s face sparked back into life.
“I never heard back from my men,” Chambers added.
“Do you know their location? Get some men out there.”
“I did,” Chambers said with a nod of his head. “I sent three more lads. They phoned me just before I got here.”
“And?” the American pushed eagerly.
“The two hit men were dead ... executed, the lads said.”
“Holy shit,” Dennis said, a sly look his eyes. “He killed again?”
Chambers nodded bleakly.
“Okay,” Dennis was nodding to himself, his thoughts racing. “Okay,” he repeated. “We need to start the show – up the ante.” He looked instinctively towards the back window. “Did your men touch the bodies?”
“No, they’re still there. I told them to clean the place up and wait further instruction.”
“Phone them now, tell them to stop,” Dennis said quickly.
“Why?”
“We need that crime scene, we need those bodies.”
Chambers’s face described another, ‘why?'
“I have an idea,” Dennis said smiling. “Just bear with me on this.” He sat back in the chair as Mark Chambers brought a mobile phone out of his pocket, tapped out a series of numbers and then pushed it to his ear.
29
The short journey to the caravan park felt like hours to Jester and Edinburgh. They were both tired, their bodies destroyed, their minds in dire need of sleep. Barely half a dozen words were spoken during the final half hour of the journey. The car had been in complete silence.
The park was at the end of a long country road, flanked on either side by tall hedges, over which were lines of fields, farms, and holiday homes.
Charles slowed the car and cruised to the entrance of the park, his foot hovering over the brake when he saw a security man in a booth near the entrance.
“Shit,” Jester said. He quickly sprung into life, looking over both shoulders before staring at Charles. “You fucking idiot,” he hissed. “It’s a two seater.”
“What?”
“You said to jump in the back if there’s a guard on duty. It’s a two seater!”
“Shit,” Charles instinctively looked over his shoulder. “I’m not used to this car. It’s my wife’s.”
“I told you it was a woman’s car.”
The car was edging closer to the booth. Next to the security guard’s small hut was an electronic gate, operated from inside the booth.
“It’s dark,” Charles said. “Just stick close to the window, turn your head, he’ll only see me.”
Jester did as instructed, turning his head towards the side window and resting his chin on his palm, his eyes staring out of the window.
Charles stopped at the inspection point. He rolled down his window and the security officer on duty, a balding middle aged man listening to a portable radio, looked inside. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly.
“Hello,” Charles said, clearing his throat to rid his voice of the anxiety that flooded his body. “This is all new,” he said, indicating to the gate and the booth. “When did they set up this?”
“Last week,” the security officer said. “Been a few problems with youths. Usual stuff.”
Charles nodded and handed over his caravan keys. Attached to the keys was a key ring given to him when he bought the caravan. It was this that the security man inspected.
“It’s a bit late to start your holiday, isn’t it?” the security man said, handing the keys back to Charles and sneaking another look inside the car.
“My wife kicked me out,” he said. “Just needed a place to stay.”
The security man caught sight of Matthew Jester, practically sticking his head through the open window to look at him.
“Friend of mine,” Charles said, noticing the guard’s stare.
“Okay,” the guard said after a few moments. “Go through, enjoy your stay.” He disappeared back into the booth and pressed a button. The gate swung open.
When Charlie started the car back up and drove into the caravan site, Jester came out of hiding.
“What a cheeky bastard,” he said. “Peeping in like that. You should have smacked him.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Charles said. “We’re here.”
Jester scoured the park from inside the car, his eyes peering through the smudged passenger window. Through the fog and thick lashings of rain, he saw a well maintained, spacious park. The road they were on was narrow and twisted, flanked on either side by grass. Underneath the tyres, pebbles and gravel chips popped, some crushing on impac
t, some shooting out of the tyre grips like stones from catapults.
Jester watched as they passed a line of shops, closed for the night, hidden underneath the shadow of a low hanging sign which protruded from the front of an arcade.
Passing a children’s park – placed in the spotlight of a solitary lamp post that stood near a set of swings – the car rolled up onto the grass, its headlights breaking through the darkness to pick up yards of empty lawn.
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 18