by Gemma Fox
Easing off his new shoes, Bernie opened the fridge and flicked on the TV. Stella had already said she’d drop by around eight for a drink. He’d bought a couple of bottles of Chablis, glasses, new sheets, a selection of towels and a toothbrush just in case. She had promised to show him the rest of the sights. Bernie grinned and popped the top on a can of ice-cold Pilsner. Stella Ramsey was a girl with a lot of sights worth seeing.
Bernie unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his belt. There was just time for a shower and a shave and a – Something stopped him mid-stride on his way to the bathroom. There on the TV was a woman who looked remarkably like his ex-wife, Maggie. Weird. He looked again and turned up the sound just in time to catch some guy saying, ‘…finally tracked to ground con man Bernie Fielding.’
Bernie Fielding? Bernie spluttered and inhaled his beer, struggling to breathe as he felt an icy finger track down his spine. Then remembered that he wasn’t Bernie Fielding any more. He was James Cook, man about town, man with a healthy bank balance, looking for a new house, with a new woman and a whole shiny, brand-new life to play with. And then, hot on the heels of his sense of relief, was the realisation that it really was Maggie on the TV and that – thanks to his interfering – someone else was Bernie Fielding. The breath stayed where it was, trapped high up in his throat as he fought to exhale. Someone who he had, in a moment of divine madness, sent to Maggie’s home address, someone who at the stroke of a computer keyboard had inherited his whole life. His whole life. Lock, stock and litigation.
Bernie shrugged and flicked on the gas to heat the water; it’d be all right, Maggie had always been a smart cookie, she’d sort it out, she was good at…
The sound of the gas igniting with a dull spark made Bernie stop dead in his tracks, fingers tightening around the beer can.
He turned to look back at the TV screen, even though the action had moved on to an advert for Alpen, while something dark and cold slithered down from his brain to his belly.
‘Oh my God, no,’ he whispered thickly. It was the closest Bernie had said to a prayer in a long, long time. The gasmen.
He had stolen James Cook’s identity, an identity that was presumably already earmarked for someone else. Someone who needed to be hidden, someone whose life was at risk, someone who needed to be anonymous. What was it those men had asked him first this morning? Bernie felt the cold thing in his belly slither round and contract into a curled fist.
‘Are you James Cook?’ That’s what they had said. ‘Are you James Cook?’ He replayed the words over and over in his mind and, at that moment, Bernie knew without a shadow of a doubt that the two of them had been carrying guns and only by some miracle had he escaped being shot. But worse – much, much worse – was the realisation that because of him the men were probably already on their way to Maggie’s cottage looking for the man who really should have been James Cook.
Bernie swallowed hard. Scamming was one thing but this was way out of his league. He might be a thief, a con man and a first-class bloody liar but Bernie Fielding was no killer, and if he didn’t do something soon he might as well have pulled the trigger himself.
Galvanised into action, Bernie picked up his new mobile phone, eyes still firmly fixed on the TV screen. He called directory enquiries and then dialled Maggie’s number. At first when it rang Bernie felt a great sense of relief, and then as it rang on and on it was replaced by a terrible sense of dread. What if the two men had already found Maggie and the boys?
Bernie shuddered, his heart skipping a beat as a wave of nausea rolled through him. It was too awful to contemplate. Surely someone would have seen the advert and realised their mistake. Someone would help, surely? Mind racing, Bernie hurried into the bedroom and started to collect his things together. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was planning to do but he knew that he had to do something and he had to do it fast.
Picking up the keys to the 2CV, Bernie raced out of the caravan. As he got to the car park he was suddenly aware that a police car had pulled up alongside his car and two uniformed officers were busy giving the canary-yellow Citroën the once-over.
‘Oh bugger,’ hissed Bernie and, head down, hands in pockets, he moved off between the caravans, trying hard not to attract attention, and headed for the village.
In West Brayfield Maggie was reversing the Golf out of her driveway. Over the fence Mrs Eliot was smiling and waving them all off with a hankie. The branches of the bay hedge that Maggie had planned to prune scraped past the window and ground noisily over the roof.
‘What did you say to her?’ asked Nick, fastening his seat belt.
‘That we’d got to nip down and sort something out at the beach hut. A minor emergency but nothing that she need worry about. I told her that I’d ring and let her know if we were going to be more than a day or two.’
Nick pulled a face.
‘Oh come on,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s my friend as well as my neighbour. I had to tell her. I couldn’t just do a moonlight flit without saying something, that really would worry her.’ Maggie looked at his face and added. ‘Please, Nick, stop panicking. It will be all right, she only knows that the beach hut is somewhere down in Somerset – if I didn’t tell her some yarn or other she’d probably ring the police and cause all sorts of fuss. Relax.’ Maggie let the clutch out and the car eased across the weedy gravel. ‘And besides her memory is terrible these days.’
‘So are we going back to the beach hut, then?’ asked Ben, hanging over the back of the seat.
‘No,’ said Maggie.
‘No?’ repeated Ben.
‘No,’ said Maggie, ‘now sit down, put your seat belt on and be quiet. You’re going to Grandma’s. I’m taking Nick –’ she hesitated, wondering what to tell them.
‘Home,’ said Nick decisively, without meeting her eyes.
‘Home,’ Maggie nodded. If only she was half as certain.
‘So why did you tell Mrs Eliot that we were going down to the beach hut, then?’ said Joe.
Stumped, Maggie glared at the two of them. Joe glared right back. ‘You said that you would take us to the zoo tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You promised.’
Meanwhile, in the hotel room near the airport, Nimrod was waiting for the next part of the puzzle to slot into place; he was waiting for the call that would tell him what happened next. He’d slipped his gun, still in its holster, under a pleat of sheet on the bed so that the butt was no more than a heartbeat away. These days he felt naked and vulnerable if it wasn’t close by. Gunmetal is cold in a way no other thing ever is and has a smell that once experienced is never forgotten – a combination of the oil and cordite that settles down deep into the mind, and that if not truly present is always there in the imagination or at least Nimrod’s imagination.
Nimrod and Cain were both experts at their craft – cold, accurate, unflinching. They could strip their weapons down and reassemble them blindfolded in a matter of seconds. The weapons the two men carried, manufactured by Heckler and Koch, were familiar, trustworthy tools that fitted as naturally into their hands as the chisel of a master carpenter or the trowel of a bricklayer. Like any other tools, over the years they had become more like an extension of their personalities.
Sitting on the room’s only armchair, Nimrod felt a familiar soft glow in the palm of his hand. It was sign – a portent. They couldn’t do anything now without further orders but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the call came. He had phoned the Invisible Man with what they knew and now they had to wait. Waiting was always the worst part; it made him tetchy, itchy and prone to throwing things. Mostly tantrums.
Across the room, Cain flicked backwards and forwards through the channels. ‘So, do you still want to watch Gotcha when it comes on, then? It’s always a bit of laugh, and maybe we’ll get some more information on our man, Nick Lucas, or whatever his name is now. Bloody funny that he showed up on there, eh? Fancy him being a con man, eh? Who would have thought it.’ Cain shook his head. ‘You’d think he’d be straight as a die. Bloody amazi
ng. Just goes to show you never can tell.’
Nimrod nodded. Across the room the titles for Gotcha were already rolling. He had been running through another checklist that began with two pairs of latex gloves and a soft pair of black leather ones to cover them. Without the latex it was possible that the leather would eventually give a print as clear as if he wasn’t wearing gloves at all. Besides, Nimrod had always enjoyed the tight, slightly hot and sweaty feel of latex against his skin.
‘And tonight, in a change to our advertised programme,’ the presenter was saying, ‘we bring you a special report on…’
‘Here we go. Turn it up a bit, will ya?’ said Nimrod, moving the chair closer to the screen.
Maggie’s mum, who had been watching a wildlife programme about tree frogs on BBC2, peered suspiciously at Nick over the top of her reading glasses and then back at Maggie. The two boys had gone outside to feed the goldfish in Granddad’s pond and play in the sandpit, the sound of their voices from the perfectly manicured garden a constant backdrop to the conversation currently going on in the sitting room.
Maggie’s mother was sitting in an easy chair near the fireplace. She was a taller, greyer, plumper version of her daughter although somewhere down the line Mrs Morgan senior had ditched the sense of humour and gone for something altogether more practical and hard-wearing. She lived about fifteen minutes drive down the road from Maggie on a neatly clipped and nicely maintained housing estate in a large bungalow on a corner plot, and was currently sipping tea from a bone china cup and saucer.
‘So, how long did you say you’re going to be away for?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve got W.I. on Monday night and your dad’s got bowls on Wednesday. You know that he doesn’t like to miss it – not now that they’re through to the league.’
Maggie set her cup down on the side table. ‘To be perfectly honest I’m not sure yet, that’s why I’ve got to nip down and take a look and see what’s what. I had a phone call earlier today –’ She tried hard to sound light and bright and matter of fact even though she guessed her mother wouldn’t be fooled for an instant. Maggie didn’t like lying but couldn’t see she had much option and it was almost true; after all they had spoken to Coleman on the phone. ‘We just need to go to the beach hut and sort a few things out.’ Maggie smiled, with a confidence she didn’t feel, while trying to be as non-specific as possible.
‘We?’ Maggie’s mother sucked at a stray something in her teeth.
Maggie nodded.
‘Down at the beach hut?’
Maggie nodded again.
‘In Somerset?’
‘That’s where the beach hut is Mum,’ snapped Maggie.
Her mum looked briefly back at Nick. ‘If you had let us know earlier your dad could have driven down with you and taken a look at whatever it is. He’s good with his hands. What is the problem anyway? You know he’ll want to know. I’ve always said that place is a liability, it’s like the Forth Road Bridge – I mean I know it’s nice to have a bolt hole and all that, but the upkeep, and the petrol to get down there. It isn’t the drains again, is it? Your dad said that the whole system was past its best. I know you love that place, Maggie, but sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t just a terrible white elephant.’
It was an old song. Maggie made a noncommittal noise.
However, her mum didn’t intend to be put off that easily. ‘So how long do you think you’re going to be gone, then?’
‘I’ve already said that I’m not sure,’ said Maggie.
‘No more than a few days,’ Nick added helpfully, ‘it shouldn’t take us too long to sort it out, should it, Maggie?’
Maggie’s mum turned her eyes on him. Her gaze had the same intensity as the spotlight above the chair on Mastermind. Maggie sighed; the man really was a fool, cute but a fool nonetheless.
‘A few days?’ repeated Maggie’s mum slowly. It was a technique that had served her well over the years; simple repetition until the accused eventually gave up, broke down sobbing and confessed all. Maggie knew that for a fact – it had worked on her often enough – and like Maggie her mother had sensed that Nick didn’t hold up well under pressure. It was time to get him out of there.
Nick nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘At the beach hut?’ asked Maggie’s mother.
Maggie got to her feet with an air of brisk workmanlike endeavour. This was too much like a choral round. It could go on for hours.
‘We’ve been through this already, Mum. If you don’t mind having the boys for a day or two I’ll give you a ring as soon as I know exactly what’s happening and we’ve had a chance to get things sorted out.’
‘And if anybody asks you –’ Nick began warily. Maggie swung round and flashed him a warning glance. Instantly, his jaw snapped shut like a mousetrap. He was learning fast. ‘I mean, not that anyone is likely to ask you anything,’ he concluded lamely. Maggie held his gaze and he smiled with as much sincerity as he could muster.
As they got to the door Maggie’s mum caught hold of her arm, eyes alight with barely veiled curiosity. ‘So, before you head off into the sunset, are you going to tell me who your new friend is then? Or do I have to interrogate the boys once you’ve gone?’ she asked, nodding towards Nick’s retreating back.
‘He’s just a friend, that’s all. No one you need worry about.’
Her mother’s expression didn’t falter.
Maggie sighed into the pause. ‘If I told you, Mum, you wouldn’t believe me.’
The older woman sniffed. ‘Maybe you’re right. With your talent for choosing wrong-uns it’s probably better if I don’t know anyway,’ she said. ‘Although I have to say he seems like a nice chap. Just you be careful what the pair of you get up to.’ And then she thawed. ‘Your dad’ll be so chuffed when he hears that the boys are stopping for a few days. Give us a ring when you get yourself organised and if it’s a big problem for goodness’ sake let us know – your dad’ll worry himself sick if we don’t hear. And behave yourself,’ she added with a sly grin.
Maggie smiled and, leaning forward, kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I’m just going to go and say goodbye to the lads.’
As Maggie headed out into the garden Nick said his goodbyes and then went out to wait in the car. Maggie couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as she came back; he looked very lonely sitting there all on his own.
8
‘And tonight in a change to our advertised programme,’ the presenter was saying. ‘We bring you a special report on…’
‘Here we go. Turn it up a bit, will ya –’ said Nimrod, moving the chair closer to the screen.
Cain hit the sound button and, scrunching up a couple of pillows, settled himself down on the bed. Cain and Nimrod were both all ears, all eyes, as the Gotcha credits rolled up on the screen.
‘…the rise of street crime in our inner cities. Muggers, pickpockets aggressive begging and unlicensed hawkers are fast becoming the bane of modern urban life.’
Cain grunted and swung round to stare at Nimrod. The female voice continued. ‘Some areas of our cities are virtual no go areas – a veritable thieves kitchen for the unwary.’ The shot widened out to reveal the Gotcha studio where a thin redheaded woman was sitting on a desk, holding a clipboard and looking terribly earnest. ‘In Dickensian London we might have expected these things but, as crime figures about to be revealed by the Home Office show, statistically, it appears we are more likely to be mugged or killed on the streets of London than in New York…’
The two men looked at each other in bemusement, at which point the telephone rang.
‘Yes?’ said Nimrod as he snatched up the handset.
At the other end of the line, the cool voice of the Invisible Man said, ‘Get yourself a pen and paper – I’ve got Mr Lucas’s new address here for you.’
Nimrod beckoned to Cain. ‘Paper, pen, pronto.’
Cain did as he was told.
The man at the end of the phone con
tinued, ‘Isaac’s Cottage, thirty-four The Row, West Brayfield – it’s in Norfolk. You know where that is?’ He spoke very slowly and precisely, enunciating every word as if Nimrod might not understand.
‘Yeah. I’ve got it,’ snapped Nimrod, scribbling the details down on a menu card.
‘Good. In that case it’s time to rock and roll – and lads, let’s try and get it right this time, shall we?’
Nimrod was about to say something but stopped himself; he was too much of a professional to point out that it was hardly their fault that they hadn’t got the right man last time. The Invisible Man should be bloody grateful they hadn’t shot the guy in the caravan.
‘He was a con man apparently. They pulled the telly programme that I phoned you about, the Gotcha thing, you know?’ Nimrod complained. He had been quite looking forward to watching it although he didn’t like to say so. Nimrod decided not to go into the whole Bernie Fielding versus Nick Lucas thing; in his experience it was the faces not names that counted.
‘Well, well well, what can I tell you? Looks like the other side have got some influence after all, probably hoping we wouldn’t see the trailers,’ his contact said with a grim laugh; it was not an attractive sound. ‘Right, so you know where you’re going now?’
‘Yeah, we’re already on our way,’ said Nimrod and nodded towards Cain as he hung up.
‘What?’ mouthed Cain. For a moment he seemed too big, too heavy for the anonymous little hotel room, and it struck Nimrod that, a little like seals or killer whales, the pair of them were only truly at home and at their best in their natural environment.
‘Switch the bloody telly off, will you,’ snapped Nimrod, pulling a road map out of his briefcase. ‘We’re on the move.’
‘All right, all right, there’s no need to shout, I was looking forward to watching that,’ Cain growled back. ‘I was looking to see if there was anyone on there that we knew. I saw my brother-in-law on a couple of weeks back.’