by R. D. Nixon
‘Can I help it if I’ve got a big mouth? He never knew it was me, though. He didn’t know I even knew about it. At least I thought not. That was when I got the divorce, the injunction, and then the all-clear. What a red-letter time that was.’
‘Is that what he was talking about downstairs earlier? About forgiving you?’
She nodded. ‘His brief let it slip, apparently.’
‘And are you okay now?’
She nodded. ‘Lopsided, boob-wise, but happy to be here.’
He squeezed her hand again. ‘So, you divorced him. How did he take that?’
‘Not well, but there wasn’t anything he could do from inside. He’s only done four years of his sentence, but I suppose since he’d already been on remand... I don’t know.’ She shook the questions away. ‘Why was he trying to get at Jamie though, not me?’
‘That would still punish you, wouldn’t it?’ Mackenzie looked uncomfortable. ‘I suppose you should know; some of the pictures he’d taken on your camera were, well, I think…’ He hesitated, then pushed on. ‘I think maybe he wants to make up some lost time with you. Prove something.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I was flipping through faster than I let on. There were a lot of pictures, and none of them were of Jamie except that one with the tent that you took.’
Charis stared. ‘Photos of me, you mean? And you let him go?’
‘I’ve marked his card; he won’t be back.’
She struggled for a moment with the anger, but remembered the look on Daniel’s face and conceded the point. ‘He’s a wimp when it comes right down to it. All mouth and no trousers. Besides, the minute my hair fell out he lost interest in even pretending to try. That’s partly why I keep it so short now. No, he’ll have gone scuttling back home to find another doormat to wipe his feet on. I just want to know why Suze told him where we are.’
‘Was she one of the ones who believed the show he put on in public?’
‘No, she knew what he was like by then. I had to tell her during the trial, ’cause she kept urging me to help him.’
Mackenzie’s voice was grim. ‘In that case I’d check on her. Now.’
But Charis was already moving. She had no idea of Suze’s mobile number off the top of her head, but she had punched the entire landline number in before realising she needed to obtain an outside line first. Almost screaming in frustration she hit 9 and tried again. At last the connection was made, but it seemed to ring out forever, as Charis imagined her sister stumbling sleepily into the sitting room.
Finally a groggy voice answered, ‘Who still uses these things? This’d better be good, whoever you—’
‘Suze! Two things; first, are you okay? And second, why did you tell Daniel where I was staying?’
There was a long silence, then, as her sister burst into tears, Charis gripped the phone and met Mackenzie’s concerned gaze across the room.
‘I’m going to kill him.’
When she hung up a few minutes later, Mackenzie was looking at her with a silent question on his face.
‘He went round there a couple of days ago,’ she said dully. ‘She knew he’d never hit me or Jamie before, so she let him in, thinking she’d fob him off with some story or other. He didn’t give her the chance to think of one though – blacked her eye the second the door was shut.’ She folded her arms tight across her chest. ‘It seems he’s changed since he’s been inside. A lot.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘Not really. Physically, I think so, but she’s really shaken. Now she’s scared she’s put me and Jamie in danger, but she couldn’t reach us because I left my stupid phone at home.’
‘And now he’s here, and he wants you back.’
‘I don’t care what he wants.’ Charis stood up and went to the door. ‘Suze knows he’s on his way back, so she can at least go round to mum’s. Jamie’s the important one now.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere.’ She opened the door and gestured to the hallway beyond. ‘Bugger off, Mackenzie, I need to try and get some sleep if I can.’
Mackenzie pulled on his jacket. ‘You’ll be safe here now, and tomorrow we’ll get the answers we need.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to keep looking up at him; his manner was gentle, and so were his hands as he pressed her shoulder. The swift change in her opinion of him was making her uncertain of her own emotional state. Kindness was likely to tip her over the edge.
‘What will you do?’ she stammered.
‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but Stein’s never going to tell me where he’s taken Jamie. All we can do now is find out where the figurines are, so he can let the lad go.’
Charis started to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘He just wants to do it right for Sarah. He’s not a…’ He swallowed the word she knew he’d been about to say again. ‘He’s not a bad bloke.’
‘How will you find the statues?’
‘I’ll text Maddy first thing, see if she’s found the address we were looking for. If I can talk to Rob Doohan, we’ll hopefully know where to start. Then Stein will get what he wants, and we’ll have Jamie back to you safe and sound.’
‘Thank God,’ Charis breathed. She closed her eyes briefly, and only when she realised he hadn’t released her shoulder did she allow herself to ask, ‘And what do we do with...this?’
‘This?’ His voice was rough, and his fingers gripped her more tightly. He looked down at her, his face set in the harsh light from the hallway. ‘So, I wasn’t imagining it?’
‘I don’t think so. But we can’t think about it. Not yet. I don’t even want to sleep, really. I know I should, but I can’t stand to not be doing something when he’s out there at night, all alone.’ Her voice cracked, and he pulled her close.
‘Stein wouldn’t have put him somewhere dangerous,’ he told her, his chin resting on the top of her head so she felt the low vibration of his voice. ‘I know it’s easier said, but try not to worry, Jamie’ll need you to keep your head together.’
‘Like you did when Josh was missing?’
He froze, then released her. ‘I’d do things differently if I had another chance.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I know.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s late. I’ll be on the road first thing.’ In the doorway he looked back with a faint smile. ‘So, does this mean you’re going to start calling me by my first name?’
Charis, who’d been kicking herself for her thoughtless comment, was surprised into a short laugh. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Anyway Paul doesn’t suit you. I think it means small, doesn’t it?’ She looked him over critically, taking in his height and breadth of shoulder, and shook her head. ‘Nope, you’re not a Paul. What’s your second name?’
‘Stuart.’
She thought about that for a moment, then shook her head again. ‘It’s better, but all I can think of is Stuart Little. Mackenzie’ll have to do, until I come up with something that suits you.’ She darted a quick glance up and down the corridor. ‘What will I be doing while you’re out looking for these figurines?’
‘I’ll get Maddy to come back over here soon as she’s up and about. See if she can work some more magic on Stein. You’d better lie low in here for a bit. Soon as I hear anything, I’ll either come back, or call you.’
‘If there’s a choice, do the first one. Please?’ While he was here, she somehow caught his optimism that Jamie would be okay, but as soon as he was gone all her fears would pile in on her again.
‘I will.’ Mackenzie touched her cheek, and though he smiled there was a determination in his expression. ‘Wild Scousers couldn’t stop me.’
Don Bradley knew he was dreaming. Knew it but couldn’t stop it. The flames were spreading, licking painlessly around his ankles as he tried to identify the shadowy figure in the distance. The flames were crawling higher. Bradley began to run – he was much younger in this dream; there was no way he’d be able to move this fast now. He was starting to feel the heat, but still he
knew he wouldn’t burn – he would lose something in this fire, but not his life.
He followed the figure, now no more than a blurred shape, as it pulled open a huge door, and realised for the first time that he wasn’t in his own home, but somewhere bigger, older – a place full of corridors and hidey-holes, and rooms off rooms. Not like his own large, but plain new-build box.
The figure paused in the doorway, looking back – Bradley saw a pale face, lit by flickering flame and shimmering heat haze, and he almost recognised the fleeing figure. He ran faster, dodging a flaming beam that crashed beside him, sending sparks spinning high into the domed front hall, momentarily distracting him as the snaking lights shot ceiling-ward. So pretty, just like...something else. Something he desired. But it was gone. He cast about, trying to understand what he lusted after so violently, and trying to remember, too, where he was. What this huge hallway was, that seemed to stretch forever as the figure in the doorway vanished.
‘Don!’
The voice pulled him back from his quest for cool air and safety. It was the owner of the house, a woman, the voice becoming more and more urgent as Bradley struggled with his conscience. He should try to help, but he needed to know who had started the—
‘Don!’ Then it came to him, the name. It was...Mary, Mary, Mary...
‘Wallace!’ he shouted, and woke, beating at his hair where the flames had finally taken hold. A firm hand gripped his arm as he struggled to sit up.
‘For God’s sake! That again?’ Janet sank back on her own pillow. ‘That’s the fourth time in as many weeks. What was it this time?’
‘The fire,’ Bradley mumbled, lying down again. He glanced at his wife; time was when she’d have taken him in her arms and soothed him, reminding him over and over again that he’d not even been there that night; he could neither have prevented the fire nor saved Duncan or Mary.
Now she just sounded bored; she even yawned. ‘The lodge burned twenty-odd years ago – what’s brought all this up again?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe something on TV, maybe nothing at all.’
‘Well try and get some sleep.’ She yawned again and settled back down.
Let you get some sleep, you mean... Bradley glanced at the clock: nearly four am. There was no way he’d sleep again now, and even though it was Sunday he had to be up at six-thirty to sort out that bloody Stein and his delaying tactics.
He got out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. He could do with a bit of peace and quiet anyway, to think things through, and, unable to completely shake off the dream, he went downstairs and switched the kettle on. It was getting harder to leave the dreams behind these days, and more and more often it had been the one with the fire. The fire and the Fury. He gave a short, dry laugh. Maybe it was that book about Trump that kept linking the two in his mind; he couldn’t hear the title of it without shuddering. Bad enough that they shared a first name.
He poured the coffee, still in a semi-daze, and took the cup into the living room. As he reached to switch on the light, the central heating kicked in and he jumped at the sudden, dull boom. His hand shook, and shadows made the room appear unfamiliar in the limited light from the kitchen – he might have been back in his dream; in Duncan Wallace’s house twenty-five years ago.
He switched on the light, and as normality reasserted itself the roar of the heating returned to its usual, barely noticeable level. Why the hell did Janet insist on having the heating on in August anyway? She’d bankrupt him at this rate. Although to be fair it was cold for the time of year, and more rain was forecast – still the chill in his bones was not from the temperature in the house. He sat down on the sofa, cupping his hands around the mug to warm them.
The crazy thing was, he hadn’t been anywhere near Glenlowrie, the Wallaces’ estate, the night it burned down. He’d arrived late the following afternoon to see the dark shell that was all that remained of the once grand lodge, the smell drifting heavy and acrid across the glen, but his familiarity with the house had forced him to endure it as if he’d been there.
His first thought had not even been for the Wallace family, and that guilt had hung with him for a while; his initial concern had been for the stunning black opal that Duncan Wallace had shown him over and over again, before putting it away one last time, refusing to bend to Bradley’s oh-so-casual questions: where could he possibly hide it that was safe? Wouldn’t he at least tell him?
‘In time, laddie, in time,’ Duncan had said, smiling. Bradley had believed him; he’d known that Duncan couldn’t possibly keep that mesmerising stone to himself, but still it irked him that he was keeping its whereabouts secret from the man who’d worked in his service for five years.
The evidence that might have convicted Wallace had been easy enough to render inadmissible, but that didn’t mean it had been no risk to himself or his career, or that he deserved anything less than his share of the spoils. And he’d not stopped there, either; keeping Wallace’s name out of the scandal that had ensued had been no trivial matter. Well known as a good friend to the now-deceased Sandy Broughton, and to Rob Doohan, Wallace was bound to be kept under the spotlight until everything was cleared up. But Bradley had managed it.
The question of what had happened to William Kilbride, on the same night, was one that had been quashed with such ferocity that Bradley knew there was more to it than an accident, but he’d learned not to mention it. It had no bearing on the robbery anyway, and the man had been unlikely to come out of his coma, so where was the use in pursuing it?
Wallace’s daughter, Sarah, was the only person left who knew the true origins of Bradley’s connection to her father. Pillow talk, of course, and he regretted it later, but at the same time there was the possibility that he might have been able to use her, albeit unwittingly, to find out where the stone was. She could easily ask her father about the Spence collection without knowing what comprised the lost part of it.
Being Daddy’s girl hadn’t worked this time though. Even when she told him she knew of his part in the robbery, her father had stubbornly refused to budge, raising an anger in Sarah that was as unexpected and astonishing as it was white hot...
Bradley put down his cup and swore softly to the empty room. He’d been a police officer all his adult life, for Christ’s sake, so how had it taken him this long to figure it out? Was Sarah that convincing an actress that even he’d believed in her grief, her inconsolable sobbing? Had he really been that gullible? If she had been acting the part, then Hollywood was definitely the right place for her to have gone.
He brought his clasped hands to his mouth, chewing on his knuckles as he thought it through. He’d never be able to prove her involvement in the fire, and if he told her what he knew, his career would be over. He was dealing with a whole different animal than he’d realised. Someone who could cold-bloodedly murder her own parents in what amounted to no more than a fit of pique, was someone to watch very closely. He couldn’t help comparing Sarah to Mulholland, and thinking what a very good, if frightening, pair they’d make.
It would all be worth it, all of it, if only he could get his hands on the Fury. And if the other jewels were safe, wherever they were, then the Fury was too. Did Sarah know about it yet? Chances were she did; her father had been unable to resist showing it off to selected and trusted individuals at every opportunity, and if it had worked its dark, mysterious magic on her as thoroughly as it had on him, she would have been equally under its spell. She was already keen enough on the Spence jewels, so if he were to dangle the Fury’s continued existence in front of her...
Bradley picked up his coffee cup, smiling against the rim as the confusing spirals in his brain began to arrange themselves neatly again.
Chapter Twelve
There was no moment of sleepy adjustment to his surroundings; one minute he was in Tesco, filling a trolley with Mars Bars, the next he was wide awake and all too aware. Jamie looked around him, only half-registering the fact that this was actually possible now. The stone-built
room was windowless and small, about big enough for a single bed and a wardrobe, he supposed, though it contained neither. Instead of a window there was only a small vent, high up where the wall met the ceiling, and through which struggled a feeble, grey light.
Daylight. But what would today bring, when only yesterday morning he’d been laughing with his mother over burnt bacon and squashed bread? He closed his eyes, determined not to cry, but the tears leaked out anyway; what if this was the day she died? Or the day he did? Jamie rubbed his eyes, angry with himself; this wasn’t the way an intrepid detective got things done. He wasn’t going to be a baby about this – his mother’s life depended on him. He stood up on legs that not only shook but ached from hip to ankle with the cold, and from sitting hunched in the same position for hours at a time.
He couldn’t reach the vent, but after a moment of walking around the tiny space and stretching, he gave a few experimental jumps and found the aches melting away. He shouldn’t exert himself – one glance at where the useless inhaler lay in the corner reminded him sharply of that – but if he could just see the outside... The tumbling water sounded tantalisingly close, and he could imagine its spray on his face, and how it would feel to be out there beside it. In all that fresh air.
Standing beneath the small rectangular hole, he bent his knees and jumped as high as he could, his hands flat against the wall as if, Spider-Man like, he might be able to grip there long enough to see what lay beyond his prison. A glimpse of sky, a breath of cool air, and he was back down onto the stone floor again. It had been a mistake. That tiny glimpse of out there made his situation seem even worse, and he began to cry again. Furious, he kicked at the wall with his bare heel, crying harder at the pain as the skin broke on the rough stonework. It was all Mackenzie’s fault. If he hadn’t been so mean to his mum, and wrecked their stuff, and then gone blabbing to that American about him... Maybe he was out there now, standing guard.