Hot Pursuit

by Gemma Fox

  Robbie was standing outside the bathroom door, his mouth pressed to the crack between the door and the frame. He had had to book the two of them into separate rooms, obviously – surely Lesley ought to understand that. What would people say back at the office if he’d just booked a double? His reputation as a clean-cut family man was very important to him and to the company. He and his wife had been in a double-page spread in one of the Sunday magazines at Christmas: TV’s avenger at home with the family. It had gone down very well with Gotcha’s target audience.

  And all right, so Lesley’s room wasn’t quite as nice as his, but surely she must understand that it was all about rank and position and prestige, and besides Robbie hadn’t planned that Lesley should spend much of the night in her room anyway.

  ‘I’ve got some Anadin in my briefcase if you’d like some?’ he said more gently.

  The wood muffled Lesley’s reply.

  ‘I was just thinking it might help, you know, if you’ve got a headache or something.’ He was beginning to lose patience and thumped on the door with the butt end of his clenched fist. ‘If you’d just let me in, Lesley, we can talk about this. I’m a very reasonable man but I draw the line at conducting our relationship through a closed bloody door. Open up, will you? This is totally and utterly ridiculous.’ Particularly, Robbie thought, as this was his bloody room anyway and there was no way he was going to go and sleep in that broom cupboard over the kitchens that they’d given her. Bloody women.

  ‘Lesley!’ he barked.

  Caught in a jaundiced arena of lamplight Coleman had in front of him the complete data trail that traced Nick Lucas’s life to date. He almost knew it by heart he’d read it so often. He could even see where the data had branched and the point at which everything had gone tits up. Up until now one of the great givens in Coleman’s life was Stiltskin’s infallibility. Witnesses may come and witnesses may go but Stiltskin lived forever. Under normal circumstances Coleman took on the new relocations until they were settled in, had calmed down and relaxed, and then he handed them onto someone lower down the food chain. If Stiltskin was compromised the repercussions were almost unthinkable. How many people would get caught in the fallout?

  Despite interviewing the whole Stiltskin team one by one Coleman still didn’t know and couldn’t fathom was how this had happened and if it was likely to happen again. Or, come to that, where the fuck Nick Lucas was now.

  He rubbed his eyes and tried hard to suppress a yawn. The crash team had gone in to pick Nick up from West Brayfield. They’d given the cottage the once over and come up empty. Coleman stared at the phone, willing it to ring, and for the first time in years wished that he had a cigarette. He pulled the nasal spray out of his top pocket and took a chug, relishing the little chemical hit it gave him as it cleared his sinuses.

  The door to his office cracked open an inch or two. Coleman looked up in surprise. ‘What are you still doing here?’ he asked as a familiar face appeared around the door jamb.

  Ms Crow tipped her head on one side. ‘Funnily enough I was just going to ask you the very same question, Danny. I’ve been to the theatre this evening but I can’t get this Nick Lucas thing out of my mind so I thought I’d just pop back and –’ She looked down at the file of computer paper spread out across Coleman’s desk and raised an eyebrow. ‘Two minds with but a single thought?’ she observed.

  He nodded. ‘And still no answers.’

  ‘Well I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that I’ve found the source of one glitch. I’ve just come up from talking to the night shift and one of the girls downstairs owned up to having dumped James Cook from the data base in favour of Bernie Fielding.’

  Coleman pulled a face and then threw his pen across the desk. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. And her excuse was what exactly? PMS? A bad day? What was she hoping, that nothing would come of it? That it wouldn’t show up somewhere? That it was her little secret? Jesus – there are error protocols that need to be followed. Has she got no idea that we are dealing with people’s lives here, or what we’ve been frantically trying to sort out for the last two days?’ he roared furiously, livid with frustration.

  ‘Of course she knows – just calm down, Danny. She said it was an accident. She’ll be formally reprimanded; and she certainly won’t do it again. I just don’t think she had considered the possible repercussions. You look like you could use some coffee.’ Dorothy Crow turned towards the percolator and added casually, ‘Has our man rung in yet?’

  Coleman shook his head. ‘No. Looks like he ran away and to be perfectly honest I can’t say I blame him. In his shoes, and given our recent track record, I’d have done exactly the same thing. We just need to find out where he’s gone – simple.’ Danny held up his hands in frustration.

  Ms Crow took two mugs down off a shelf and swilled the thick slurry of coffee round the bottom of the pot on the machine.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll ring in – they all do. You want to drink this or shall I make fresh?’

  Coleman shrugged; he’d drunk far too much already. If they opened him up now his gut would be lined with a skin of coffee as black as tar and probably two inches thick.

  ‘We’ll track him down and bring him in, don’t you worry. It’s what we do best. We’re like the Mounties; we always get our man. I’ll just go and fetch some fresh water.’

  Coleman snorted as Ms Crow headed off to the staff kitchen. He hoped that she was right and that they got it sorted out quickly before anything else went wrong. He looked down at the files again. He already knew from the notes made by the original investigating and assessment teams that Lucas’s case was a Code Red; the two women and the organisations they were working for wouldn’t stop until Nick Lucas was a stain on the carpet.

  In the beach hut in Somerset, Nick was huddled up on one of the boy’s bunk beds under a tartan picnic rug, two beach towels and a sheet. He was shivering. Or at least that was what Maggie had convinced herself. He had kissed her goodnight, and now he was in bed, shivering. All on his own. Two totally unrelated events that she was replaying over and over in her mind.

  Outside, a raucous summer squall had rolled up off the Bristol Channel, and was currently backcombing the trees, bringing with it great sheets of driving rain. Maggie, snuggled up under her king-size duvet, was way beyond tired, with only her guilty conscience holding her eyelids open. Wide open.

  She had been in bed ten, maybe fifteen minutes now.

  ‘Go,’ Nick had said, waving her away after she’d finished her tea. ‘I’ll be just fine. Really. It was my own stupid fault. Go on, go to bed, you look all in. I’m a big boy and after all it’s only for tonight. I can always buy a sleeping bag tomorrow if Coleman doesn’t come and get me –’

  Outside, the wind ran round the bins, tipping the lids. Rain lashed against the windows, Mother Nature cheerfully doing Hammer House of Horror movie impressions. Maggie’s conscience poked her again; that poor man lying there in the dark, all alone, cold, probably freezing by now. She surrendered, sighed, got out of bed and, pulling on a shapeless tee shirt and dressing gown, headed out into the hallway.

  She tapped on the door to the boys’ room. ‘Nick?’ she whispered. ‘Are you still awake?’

  It was dark now, with just the light of a watery moon sneaking in through rain-crazed windows.

  ‘Uh huh, what is it?’ he said thickly, although Maggie couldn’t work out exactly how awake or asleep he was.

  ‘Nick, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but would you like to come and sleep with me. In my bed, I mean – I mean, that’s not an offer – you know, I don’t mean, er –’ Maggie reddened, while struggling to find the right words. Any words. ‘And it’s raining outside.’ She sounded pretty pathetic, she thought grimly.

  ‘Come in,’ Nick said, and as Maggie opened the door wider he switched on the bedside lamp. He looked ridiculous. He was curled up on the bottom bunk covered in sections by the plaid picnic rug and two beach towels with dolphins on them. He was bare-ch
ested, with one long, slimmish but nevertheless muscular leg peeking out from under Flipper’s artful beak. His feet hung over the end of the bed.

  ‘So, do you want to come and sleep with me, then?’ Bugger; that wasn’t how she’d meant to say it. Maggie reddened up to a nice shade of rose the instant the words were out.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, with a slow sleepy grin.

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ Maggie muttered as he followed her back into the main bedroom. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  Under his amused gaze Maggie very carefully arranged a wall of pillows down the middle of the bed.

  ‘I can take a hint, you know,’ Nick said as he clambered in alongside her and pulled up the duvet. He was dressed in black cotton boxer shorts – she tried not to think too much about that – and en route from his room he had pulled on a tee shirt, too. Ummmm, yes, nice bum and very nice legs purred the salacious part of her brain as she switched off the light.

  As soon as she was horizontal Maggie closed her eyes and willed her mind to let go. After all, Nick was warm and comfy now. Her body was still hanging on tight to consciousness by its fingernails. If it would just let go and jump, Maggie knew that sleep would catch her on one of those big rubbery mats that fire crews always had in American films. She closed her eyes tighter and tried hard to block Nick out.

  He smelt nice. Nice in a warm, musky, male way that made her mouth water. It had been so long since she had slept with a man. Maggie stiffened as the thought gelled and then Nick moved, snuggling down, settling, rolling into a comfy space.

  Damn. She lay in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, eyes resolutely closed, worrying that he might move closer, worried that he might not. For God’s sake this was even more ridiculous than leaving him freezing in the spare room, complained one side of her brain, while the other side whined and struggled away from sleep’s hold like a badly behaved child. What exactly did Maggie know about Nick Lucas anyway? He could wait until she was sound asleep and then do God knows what to her. Why hadn’t she left him in the spare room? Eh? Could she explain her reasoning? A peck on the cheek and a hug was neither a promissory note nor a guarantee of good behaviour.

  Alongside her, Nick let out a long sigh and then rolled over. If he started to snore now she would murder him herself.

  ‘Maggie?’

  His voice sounded odd and overly loud in the darkness.

  ‘Yes? What do you want?’ she hissed.

  ‘This isn’t going to work out, is it? I appreciate the gesture but it’s like trying to sleep next to an ironing board. I can feel how tense you are from here. Why don’t I just go back in the spare room, I don’t mind. Honestly.’

  ‘No, you’re okay, I’m fine,’ she lied.

  ‘No you’re not. I’m not going to jump you. Honestly – I promise – it’s just that I haven’t slept with anyone since my wife left. It feels odd sleeping with someone I don’t know.’

  Maggie snorted. ‘We’re not exactly sleeping now.’

  ‘What I meant to say was –’ Nick began, but Maggie was way too quick for him.

  ‘And at least you’ve got a good excuse for feeling a bit odd. I haven’t slept with anyone since, since the last ice age. Or maybe even the one before that.’ She was annoyed by the sound of her voice; it came out brittle and sharp and needy despite the veneer of humour.

  There was a long, pregnant pause and then Nick said, ‘Do you want a cuddle?’ He spoke quietly into the stillness.

  Maggie sighed. ‘God, yes.’

  Nick made as if to move closer.

  ‘But I’m not going to have one,’ she snapped, thrusting a pillow into his chest.

  Nick laughed. ‘You really are completely and utterly crazy.’

  The affection in his voice made something tighten low down in her belly. Maggie groaned. God, this was all she needed.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ she snapped and with that rolled over, taking most of the duvet with her.

  11

  It was barely light when the alarm clock beside Nimrod’s bed went off. The rolling, roaring beep was raw and insistent and inescapable. He groaned and stretched, slamming the button down, collecting his thoughts – an instant later Nimrod’s eyes snapped open and he smiled, his expression cold and lizard-like. Today was the day, he could feel it; the waiting was finally over.

  ‘Wakey, wakey campers,’ he called to Cain, as, naked, he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. His companion grunted and turned over, pulling the bedclothes up over his head. In the corner of the room the TV was still on, sound down, picture flickering like manic candlelight.

  Nimrod savoured the sensations of the cool shiny tiles under his bare feet and admired his body in the full-length mirror beside the hand basin. He had an all-over tan, a belly like the underside of a turtle, and the rest of his frame was nicely muscled up without being too obvious or too heavy. Nimrod struck a Mr Universe pose and smiled wolfishly at his reflection. From the other room he heard the sounds of Cain stirring and climbing out of bed. Not long and it would all be over and done with.

  He stepped into the shower and switched it onto full blast, letting the needle points of hot steamy water drive away any last remnants of sleep. He soaped his body with the tender caress of a lover. When he had washed, Nimrod turned the dial to cold. A long, long time ago, one of his instructors, a man who professed to be a psychic and who had taught him martial arts, had explained to him that a cold shower first thing in the morning cleansed and sealed the aura, the electrical field that encased every living thing. Cold water made a warrior stronger, more alert; he was less likely to be caught out if his aura was crystal clear.

  Nimrod gasped as the water hit him. It was like a body blow driving the breath from his lungs. He hoped the psychic was right because whatever it did to his aura it always gave him a blinding headache.

  Curled up on a damp wooden bench in the West Brayfield Memorial Jubilee Pavilion, Bernie Fielding dreamt that he was stretched out on the village green just outside the post office in Renham. It was raining hard and he was stark naked, and so it appeared was Stella Conker-eyes – although it had to be said she didn’t look best pleased with the situation. Funny things, women. Bernie thought she looked bloody gorgeous. In the dream he was cold, partially covered in damp leaves, and the grass was wet and some old lady kept poking him in the back with her umbrella, telling him that he really ought to get himself covered up – he should be ashamed of himself. It wasn’t decent. Hadn’t he got a home to go to? Bernie was just explaining to her that in fact he hadn’t, when it struck him he was asleep, dreaming, and on his way back to the surface.

  Very slowly, Bernie headed up towards consciousness, opened one crusty eye and took a look around. The sports pavilion was filling with pre-dawn light, tentative fingers of vapid yellow picking their way through the piles of damp netting and stacks of metal-framed chairs.

  It was unnaturally early for Bernie to be awake and his mouth tasted as if something had died in it overnight. Bernie stretched and instantly regretted it. There was still something jabbing into his spine – which on closer inspection turned out to be an old football boot – and every bone in his body ached as if he had been kicked. For a few befuddled seconds he couldn’t quite work out what the hell he was doing in the pavilion but then, very slowly, it all came back to him in glorious detail. Maggie, James Cook, Gotcha, the gasmen, and what felt disturbingly like a guilty conscience.

  Moaning, Bernie pulled himself up onto one elbow and looked out of the dusty, cobweb-decked windows at the new day. The prospect of heading off into the grey, drizzling misty morning didn’t cheer Bernie up one iota. But the sooner he started the journey to Somerset the sooner it would over, and there would be lots of lorry drivers on the road at this time of the morning who wouldn’t give a shit how rough he looked.

  Bernie tidied himself up as best he could, combed his hair, and then clambered unsteadily back through the pavilion window. Banging his elbow on the way out
, Bernie stopped long enough to pull on his jacket and have a pee up against the bike shed. The steam rose up from the damp grass as if he had uncovered a vent straight to hell. Shivering, Bernie made his way back towards the village and the main road.

  Nothing stirred, not even the birds were awake yet. It felt as if he was walking into a ghost town, and for a few seconds Bernie wondered if he might still be asleep. He looked up and down the deserted main street; there wasn’t a car in sight. He shivered again as the cold nipped at his bones. It had to be at least a mile walk down to the nearest worthwhile road. Bernie sniffed, stuck his hands in his pockets and set off towards the new day. It struck him that being good really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Danny Coleman woke up with a peculiar sense of pleasure. Somewhere in the disconnected bliss of sleeping and dreaming he had had an idea on just how to fix the whole Nick Lucas problem once and for all. One that would suit everyone, including the women currently banged up on both sides of the Atlantic. Danny let the idea run through his head frame by frame and wondered why nobody had thought of it before. If you can’t beat them, join them. He smiled wolfishly; although the smile still didn’t warm anything above his mouth.

  A few miles further south, Robbie Hughes was up as well. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to Lesley as he got into the car, or maybe it was the other way round. He wasn’t sure. He had seriously considered leaving her behind at the hotel to teach her a lesson. He would have, too, until it had occurred to him, as he tried to sleep despite the clank and groan and wheeze of the hotel’s central-heating system below the room that he had booked for her, that he had left his bloody car keys on the bedside table in his suite.

  Not that he had planned to spend the night in the little room over the kitchen. He had been trying to make a point. After a lot of fruitless banging on the bathroom door and pleading, Robbie had announced that he’d had quite enough of her behaviour and that she was being unreasonable and childish and that he was fed up and hungry. He was going to go and eat and by the time he came back she had damned well better have calmed down. Oh yes. All right, so maybe he had shouted at her, but that had been in the heat of the moment. He was creative, passionate, in tune with his emotions – isn’t that what she had said about him once? Well, it was a doubleedged sword. She had annoyed him but he wasn’t cross with her now, quite the reverse. He wanted nothing more than to spend a nice quiet evening in her company. Just the two of them – all alone together. Now would be good. Lesley?