by Gemma Fox
Maggie shivered; it felt like something had been ripped away from her leaving a great, gaping hole in its place, but what could she do other than watch in stunned silence as the panda car pulled slowly away from the kerb.
‘Bugger,’ she snorted, banging her clenched fist on the steering wheel as the police car moved off. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger. How could he just leave me like that? It’s not bloody fair. The bastard – bastard –’ Great, hot, wet tears of frustration rolled down her face.
Now what was she supposed to do? Go home to West Brayfield and get on with her life? Pretend that none of this had ever happened? Just as Maggie was getting really angry something caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. A car was coming up behind hers. Some survival instinct made her drop down low in the seat, instinct and the fact that she recognised the silhouette of Bernie Fielding picked out against the back window.
Maggie lay very, very still across the seat as the car slowed down to a crawl as it passed her, and then sighed with relief as she heard it accelerate away. Maggie hadn’t been spotted but guessed that the two hit men were following the police car into town – the last time she had seen Bernie was on his way to her beach hut. Was that where they had found him? She shivered – a little earlier and it would have been her and Nick they had found, instead.
Did the police have an idea about the danger Nick was in? Would Nick be all right? Where was Coleman, and had it been him who had betrayed Nick in Blenheim Gardens?
Maggie sat for a few minutes trying to calm her anxious mind while the assassins’ car drove out of sight, and then she turned the key in the ignition. Maggie had made up her mind. It didn’t matter what Nick thought she had promised; there was no way Maggie was going to leave him to deal with all this on his own. Checking her mirror she pulled out and headed into town.
As she drove it occurred to Maggie that someone had to have tipped the police off about her car. She couldn’t imagine that Nick had told them what she was driving. Which brought her suspicions squarely back to Coleman.
‘Can you still see them?’ asked Lesley. She had had no luck at all finding anything even vaguely suspicious-sounding on the car radio.
Robbie nodded, ‘Yes, they’re four cars ahead.’
Bernie and the thugs were heading back into town. Robbie was tucked in behind a delivery van and try as he might he couldn’t get past it.
‘Get the little map book out,’ he said. ‘There is one in the glove compartment with town centres in it –’ He wasn’t holding his breath that she would be any help at all, but at least it would give Lesley something to do other than criticise his driving.
Lesley flicked through the pages and then peered round like an owl to find a road sign. ‘We’re heading down towards the police station,’ said Lesley, pushing the glasses back up onto her nose.
Robbie smiled indulgently. ‘Really? Are you sure you’ve got the right continent?’
The mobile in Nimrod’s pocket peeped, once, twice. Hastily he pulled it out and opened up the text message. ‘Hang fire,’ it read.
‘Stand down. That’s our call. We’re out of here,’ said Nimrod, pointing towards the next junction.
‘Home?’ said Cain expectantly. Nimrod couldn’t quite miss the relief in his voice. Behind them Bernie sighed.
Nimrod shook his head, ‘No, not yet, old son, just a little respite until we get fresh orders. We need to park up and keep an eye on what’s going on. Take a left up here.’ His instructions made Bernie groan – this time Nimrod suspected it was with despair.
‘I think we may have found out what spooked your man in Blenheim Gardens,’ said the tinny voice in Coleman’s ear. ‘We’ve picked up the CCTV footage from the park, and it seems that we had two old friends taking a little stroll – a little constitutional – while you were waiting for your man to show up.’
‘Uh-uh,’ said Coleman. ‘Cut to the chase, who exactly are we talking about?’ He was sitting in the car a street or two away from the police station waiting for Nick to be brought in.
‘The names Nimrod Brewster and Cain Vale ring any bells?’
Coleman laughed without a trace of humour and pulled out the nasal spray that went everywhere with him. He squeezed and inhaled, relishing the cold wet chemical droplets as they delivered their hit, waiting for his nose to clear. ‘Well, now there’s a surprise, and how come no one spotted the pair of them before? What are bloody security doing at the airports? No one thought to mention that those clowns were in the country until now?’
‘Apparently not, Sir.’
‘Okay, well no point dwelling on it; get photos out to everyone and keep an eye out for them. Oh, and do make sure that the whole team knows who they are and what they’re up to – and be careful. Those guys play for keeps.’
‘Just one more thing, Sir; it looks like they’ve got company.’
‘Company? Who?’ asked Coleman. He had never known Nimrod or Cain to carry a spare before.
‘We’re not sure at the moment, Sir, but don’t worry – we’re on the case.’
‘Okay,’ said Coleman grimly, but then before he could say anything else the line went dead. Bloody technology. Coleman looked at his mobile phone – at least they hadn’t used sign language. What was next; morse? He wondered whether to ring Dorothy but then what was the point? There was nothing she could do about Messrs Brewster and Vale, and without the CCTV footage she would be none the wiser about who the third man was.
Coleman wondered what it was exactly that had made Nick run in the park, some uncanny sixth sense that had told him when he saw Nimrod and Cain that these men meant trouble. Or was it Maggie Morgan who had pulled him out? If Coleman were a betting man his money would have been on Maggie.
As Robbie Hughes was about to pull out to overtake the delivery van his mobile phone rang; plugged into the hands-free frame it played the theme from Dambusters very loudly. Robbie jumped in surprise and missed his moment, nearly hitting a red Datsun as he swung back in.
‘Who the hell is that?’ he snorted furiously, stabbing at the handset with one pudgy finger.
Lesley was already leaning across and in front of him and plucked the phone out of the frame before he had time to stop her.
‘It’s the studio,’ she said, peering at the caller display window. ‘Upstairs.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ growled Robbie. ‘That woman certainly knows how to pick her bloody moments.’
‘Do you want me to answer it?’ asked Lesley helpfully.
‘No, no, give me it here. Madam won’t take kindly to being fobbed off with a minion,’ said Robbie, and then, pressing the button to open the line said, in a warm and cheery tone, ‘Hi, and how are you this morning?’
‘Don’t give me all that crap, Robbie, where the fuck are you?’ she shouted.
Robbie sniffed; maybe letting Lesley answer the phone would have been a better idea after all. ‘I’m out on a story at the moment,’ he began, but Madam had other ideas.
‘Really? I suppose it slipped your mind that we had an editorial meeting at ten, Robbie – remember? And then you were supposed to be out with Crew Two on that market trader’s story. It’s taken weeks for us to set things up with that dodgy video guy.’
‘Right,’ said Robbie, treading water, ‘well – the thing is, I –’
‘The thing is, Robbie, you’re an arrogant stuck-up little arsehole who –’ He held the phone away from his ear to avoid the tirade of abuse. It didn’t sound as if his boss actually drew in a single breath, which was quite some trick. After a few minutes the volume settled to an angry rumble and then she said, her voice still tight with anger, ‘Is Lesley there with you?’
‘She is.’
‘In that case put her on; I might get some sense out of her.’
The line into Coleman’s ear crackled again. ‘Yes?’ he snapped irritably. No matter how well-fitting the earpiece it always gave him a headache.
‘We’re still no wiser who the guy with Nimrod and Cain is, Sir, but H
Q thought you might like to know that he was picked up on security cameras going into the Colmore Road offices early last week – and guess where he ended up?’
Coleman was in no mood for games. ‘Go on. Surprise me,’ he said.
‘One of the offices with a direct access terminal to Stiltskin.’
Coleman felt his stomach tighten; so there was their link. ‘Well, well, well – there we are, then,’ he said dryly. ‘Now all you have to work out is who the hell he is and who he’s working for and what he’s up to and we’re home and dry.’
As he spoke he saw the police car bearing Nick Lucas turn the corner and pull into the car park.
‘Yes, Sir, but the thing is –’ said the disembodied voice.
‘Not now,’ snapped Coleman, ‘I’ve got another problem to solve.’ He screwed up his face and turned the key in the ignition, wondering which was the best way to play this. Act now or wait until all the other players were in place? The sounds in his earpiece crackled and died.
In Robbie’s car the mobile phone rang again.
‘Oh bloody, hell, now what?’ snapped Robbie, throwing a furious glance at Lesley. ‘Answer it, will you?’ And then after a few seconds, once Lesley had worked her way through the social pleasantries, Robbie said, ‘Come on, then, what does the old bag want now?’
Lesley blanched and put her hand over the phone. ‘Actually, Robbie, it’s your wife; she said she rang the studio to talk to you and they said that they had got no idea where you were.’
Robbie felt his heart shudder messily before it kick-started back into a regular rhythm. Bloody women; they’d be the death of him.
‘Right you are, well I’m glad that we’ve finally got a signal –’ he said briskly with false heartiness, and then pretending to talk to some imaginary other person in the mythical middle distance, called, ‘Let me just take this call and then I’ll be right with you – just two minutes – no, it is urgent – no, no, that’s a great shot, I’m so glad you could spare us the time for the interview. Yes, really. We’ll go with that –’ and then more loudly to the phone, ‘Who did you say it was again, only Mr Straw is a very busy man, Lesley?’ All the while making a throat-cutting gesture with his finger.
Lesley pulled a face that implied incomprehension.
‘Turn the fucking phone off,’ Robbie mouthed.
Still Lesley did nothing, just stared at him, eyes wide.
‘Turn the fucking phone off,’ Robbie hissed.
‘I heard that you miserable, adulterous, two-timing little bastard,’ said a small disembodied voice on the line, just as Lesley finally got the message and pressed the off button.
Some instinct made Coleman hang back for a few moments, just long enough to see Maggie Morgan drive past towards the police station. He sighed; that woman was getting to be a real pain in the arse.
16
Maggie pulled into the police-station yard and sat for a few minutes in the car park trying to collect her thoughts, and also work out exactly what she was going to say once she got inside. The last thing Maggie wanted was for them to think she was hysterical or trouble or worse still plain crazy. She brushed her hair, took a mint out of her handbag and straightened her clothes so that she looked a little more respectable; more like a thirty-something schoolteacher on holiday.
She got out of the car, mouth set into a determined line, and headed across to the front door, her stomach churning, all the while running over what she planned to say, calmly and with confidence. Once inside, Maggie rang the bell for attention and waited, tying her fingers into an anxious knot. A few seconds later a hatch in the wall opened and a heavily set policeman smiled pleasantly.
‘Good morning, Madam, and how can I help you?’
Maggie painted on a warm smile to match his. ‘Good morning. A friend of mine was brought in a little while ago –’ she spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, so that there could be absolutely no mistaking what she was saying, in the kind of voice she normally used for assembly. ‘I wondered if it might be possible to see him, please. His name is Bernie Fielding.’ Only now did Maggie hesitate. What if they knew that he was really Nick Lucas? ‘A policeman brought him in a little while ago. The officer said that they were going to bring him here –’
The Duty Sergeant looked Maggie up and down. ‘A policeman?’
Maggie nodded. ‘In a police car. We were on the way back from Selworthy – I’m not hundred per cent certain what the name of the road is – and he pulled us over. Blue light – you know.’ Maggie tacked the smile back on, trying very hard not to flounder or gabble in the face of the man’s determinedly neutral expression.
The man nodded. ‘Right you are, Madam, I’ll just go and see what I can find out for you. What did you say your friend’s name was again?’
‘Bernie Fielding.’ Could she risk saying that that was the name he was using – could she tell them that he was really called Nick Lucas?
‘Bernie Fielding?’
Maggie nodded, while trying very hard to keep calm. ‘That’s right.’ How hard could it be?
‘And you say he was picked up in a police car?’
Maggie nodded again, this time not trusting herself to speak. It was not unlike having a conversation with her mother.
‘And have you any idea what it was in connection with, Madam?’
‘Well, yes, I have –’ Maggie began, leaning closer and peering in through the hatchway, well aware that there was a part of her which hoped Nick would be sitting there, large as life, his long fingers cradling a station-house mug of tea.
In fact all she could see was a hessian-covered screen that obscured the view of the office beyond. ‘He was brought in for his own protection; although there is a chance he’s using his real name – which is Nick Lucas.’ There. It was out now.
‘Right.’ The man nodded again, his face totally impassive, expression unchanging. If he knew anything about Nick he most certainly wasn’t going to let it show. Maybe he just thought that Maggie was mad and was humouring her so that she didn’t make a scene. As he spoke the sergeant flicked through a book on the desk in front of him and then, smiling helpfully, said, ‘If you’d just like to take a seat I’ll go and see what I can find out for you. Won’t be a minute.’
Maggie sighed and sat down, feeling – as she had with the patrol man who had taken Nick away in the first place – that somehow, despite being unfailingly polite, the police officer was blocking her every step. Surely if Nick was there this man already knew – didn’t everyone come into the station via the front desk?
Quelling further rebellious thoughts she waited. The moments tick-tick-ticked past and as they did Maggie could feel the tension building in her belly. She got up and then paced up and down, read the crime-prevention leaflets and every public-service poster in between, all the while trying very hard to remain patient and stay calm.
A couple of streets away, Nimrod and Cain were waiting, too, their car silent except for the beeps and crackles and stilted patois of the police frequency coming in over the scanner, and sounds of Nimrod sucking on yet another sweet. Outside, the sun shone, a light breeze scuttling cheerily through the trees and rifling through the leaves on a hedge beside them. In the car it was hot, the air as charged and live as the prelude to a summer storm.
Nimrod stretched and let out a long slow breath – he was working on stilling his conscious mind. He glanced across at Cain who seemed to be having no trouble at all stilling his.
Crouched in the back seat of the car, Bernie waited, too; the constant nagging fear making his heart pitter-patter, pitter-patter in his narrow chest. Nimrod had put the childproof locks on the rear doors and locked the electronic windows so that Bernie couldn’t get out or open them for a breath of air, which made him feel sick and horribly claustrophobic.
Bernie had already decided that it wasn’t worth trying to escape – by the time he had broken a window and clambered out over the shards of glass he would be history. It didn’t take a psychic to guess that
the end was nigh and Bernie was busy thinking about not if, but when, his two companions planned to shoot him. A trickle of cold sweat ran down between his shoulder blades.
Surely this wasn’t what was meant to happen when you did the right thing? He’d been trying to save Maggie, surely that had to count for something, didn’t it? It wasn’t fair, he never had any trouble at all when he was being a complete bastard. Bernie closed his eyes and swallowed hard, all the while making all sorts of rash promises to various deities to change his ways and turn over any number of new leaves, if only they could get him out of this alive.
A little further up the road Robbie Hughes and Lesley were waiting, too – they could just make out the car where Bernie was sitting without being in a direct line of sight. Robbie was still a little shaken up after the phone call from his wife, although he hadn’t said anything to Lesley; it didn’t pay to let a woman know exactly what you were thinking, because inevitably they would take it down and use it in evidence against you later.
His wife had already told him several times that if she ever caught him playing away again she would leave him. No discussion, no excuses, no second chances. She would take the kids, the cars, the house and then screw him for every penny she and her lawyer, the Rottweiler, could get their sticky little paws on. Oh, and while she was at it she would sell her story to the tabloids; the real inside story behind TV’s Mr Squeaky-Clean. It didn’t bear thinking about. Robbie shivered. He’d never work again.
Robbie took a deep breath. What he needed was a good alibi. What he needed was film – some really good footage of Bernie Fielding doing something dodgy, preferably illegal, preferably something spectacular – to prove that he and Lesley were away on a shoot. That was it – perfect. Get the film in the can and all would be well.