He gritted his teeth.
His head was pounding, there was a sickness in his stomach. He mustn’t think of what he’d had to leave behind. All that work, all those chances he’d taken and he’d had to get rid of it when he realized they were on to him. When he knew he had to escape. Right away. And he’d left her behind too. He’d wanted her to go with him, but she wouldn’t. Said she would slow him down. She would have done, and they could have made it together. Until it was too late for her.
Come on, come on.
Almost up. He stayed for a minute, back hunched, hands on the top of his knees, still shivering, always shivering. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt warm, when his head was clear, when he felt well. He couldn’t remember.
A car. He needed a car.
Shapes grew out of the shadows. A shed, boathouses made of timber, two fishing boats resting on the concrete. The smell of fish and diesel in the swirling air.
He listened.
All he heard was the wind whistling around the edges of the buildings, then he became aware of the wind drying his body, his clothes, making him shiver more deeply, right down to his bones, to the damaged organs in his body.
Cold.
Cold was a killer.
He took a deep breath and staggered towards an old shed. Hugging its perimeter, he peered around the corner.
Nothing. Nobody.
Lights, though. On the car park. Not many, but enough. Had to keep away from those.
He set off in a crab-like run, fear giving an edge to his strides. He was better now, had to be better, had to get to freedom, had to leave this place behind.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, back at the island. Lights twinkled in the distance, making the buildings look benign. There were no signs that someone – him – had escaped. No floodlights, no shouting. But then there wouldn’t have been, would there? Too risky, even for them. He tried to listen, to see if he could hear the sound of a boat, a speedboat perhaps, coming to find him.
Nothing, even the wind had stopped its moaning.
Either he hadn’t been missed or—
The alternative was too awful to contemplate. He couldn’t have come this far for them to be waiting for him, just around some corner.
He ran. Past houses towards the road. Down the road. And there. An explosion of relief. Lights. A pub. Perhaps he could get a car. Out here, in the country, they could be careless with their security. He began to pray he was right as his breaths became ever more shallow, the kicking he’d received in his ribs making itself known.
There were cars in the car park. Swish cars, nothing old, nothing he could hot-wire. Frantic, breath coming too hard now, he looked around. A BMW. A Mazda. A Land Rover. A couple of Fords. Which one? Which one?
He limped over to the Land Rover, his muscles seizing up more with every step.
It was dirty, mud-splattered. The windows were open halfway. He peered inside. The floor was littered with empty sandwich packets, beer cans, tissues. There was an old, hairy blanket on the passenger seat. It smelled of damp and dog.
He pulled on the driver’s door. His hand bloody hurt. It opened. He leaned across and pulled down the sun visor. A bunch of keys fell onto the floor. He thanked fuck country people were so trusting.
As he jammed the key into the ignition, something made him stop. Listen. He clamped his lips together so he wasn’t hearing the chattering of his teeth. He slowed his breathing, told himself to be calm. There it was. A faint sound. Was it a motorboat? Coming from the island perhaps? His heart began to jump in his chest, and he turned the key in the ignition.
A noise like a giant clearing his throat came from the engine.
He turned the key again – so hard it could have broken off.
The engine turned over once, twice.
Cold sweat was dripping into his eyes.
It fired. He said a thank you to a god he hadn’t believed in for a very long time.
Without waiting to listen, or even to look to see if anyone was coming for him, he released the handbrake and pushed his foot hard on the accelerator.
He hadn’t turned the lights on, and the corner came up too quickly. He turned, hard. Made it round on two wheels, tyres screeching. The Land Rover bounced back onto four, he was thrown out of his seat, then back down. He breathed again.
Where were the lights? Where were the fucking lights? It was so dark. No moon. No stars. No street lights. No more comforting lights from the pub.
He looked down for a likely looking switch.
Where the fuck was it? Where the—
There. Light.
He looked up to see a pair of eyes in front of the windscreen reflected in the headlights.
He screamed and slammed on the brake, wrenched the steering wheel first one way, then the other.
The Land Rover lurched across the road, hitting the hedge on one side. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard the side of the vehicle being scratched by thorns, twigs, branches. Then, before he could think any more, the Land Rover was thrust, skidding, to the other side of the road.
A tree loomed in front of him. Once more he hit the brake.
He felt himself being propelled forward. Tried to throw himself across the seats. Slammed into the dashboard. His head thrown backwards then forwards. He was weightless. Felt a shower of glass. Time stretched, contracted, stretched again. Something trickled down the side of his face and into the corner of his mouth.
Rick’s last thought was of his sister.
The deer, unharmed, trotted off into the forest.
CHAPTER THREE
DAY ONE: EVENING
The sky was alive with a shower of red and green and yellow sparks as one rocket after another exploded in the night air. Beyond the lake, Catherine wheels crackled and whistled and Roman candles fizzed and hummed. Watching from behind the French windows, men and women in party clothes holding champagne glasses oo-ed and ah-ed their appreciation, grateful the wind had died down so they could enjoy the display. Alex Devlin sipped her warm tap water and wished she was at home, tucked up in bed with her hot water bottle.
‘Enjoying the fireworks?’
Alex turned to see a man looking down at her, a smile on his face. Mid-forties, she reckoned, swept-back black hair with wings of grey. Soft crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Laughter lines by his mouth. Could be anger lines, of course. All this she registered in a couple of seconds.
‘They’re very impressive,’ she said, carefully.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Does that mean “impressive but a waste of money”?’
A smile tugged at the corners of Alex’s mouth. ‘You may say that, I couldn’t possibly comment.’ She turned back to watch more of the display. More rockets exploding in the air. She could feel the man’s eyes on her.
‘I saw you earlier. With someone. It looked as though you were having an argument.’
‘Really?’ She wasn’t sure how to react. She wanted to ask why he was watching her and what business it was of his, but she didn’t.
‘I know it’s none of my business …’
Ah.
‘But I was watching you …’
Right.
‘Only because I was worried …’
Of course you were.
‘Worried?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t like to see couples arguing. It can lead to all sorts of things.’
‘“All sorts of things”?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m digging myself into a hole, aren’t I?’ He smiled wryly.
Alex laughed, the tension slipping from her shoulders. ‘Just a bit.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What?’
‘About the man you were arguing with.’
‘Why?’
‘So I know who I’m competing with.’
‘“Competing with”?’ Alex still tried not to smile. The arrogance of the man. She turned to look at him properly. Beautifully cut suit, blue tie, blue handkerchief poking out from the b
reast pocket, but yes, grey eyes. Wolfish.
‘Drink?’
‘Drink?’ She was confused at the sudden change of subject.
He nodded to her empty glass. ‘More champagne?’
‘I’m drinking water.’
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you? You look as though you might need a glass.’
‘Really?’ She didn’t look that shaken, surely. Still, she did feel as though she could do with some alcohol at this particular moment. Sod it. ‘Okay. Why not?’ Now she did allow herself to smile fully at him.
He clicked his fingers and a woman, impeccably dressed in a white shirt and tight black skirt, glided towards them, bearing a tray at shoulder height. Alex wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be impressed or not. She wasn’t. In fact, after the evening she’d had, it would take more than an imperious clicking of fingers and a solemn waitress bearing booze to impress.
The woman handed her a glass; Alex drank deeply, hardly appreciating its coldness and the pop of bubbles on her tongue.
‘Looks like you needed that,’ he said.
‘I did. Thank you.’ She took a more delicate sip, wanting to savour it this time.
‘Who was he?’ The man leaned against the window. The fireworks had ended.
Alex sighed. ‘He was a friend who wanted to be more than a friend.’
He was David Gordon, the head of a charity for the homeless in East Anglia, who had invited her along to the event at Riders’ Farm – an event not in aid of his charity, but for one concerned with refugees. He liked to pick up ideas, he told her. Also, he said, the Riders were big donors to Fight for the Homeless and it behoved him to be there. Alex thought at the time his use of the word ‘behoved’ was rather sweet and old-fashioned.
She had found David an interesting person to interview for The Post. He had come into money and had decided to put it to good use. He wanted to make the lives of homeless people more normal, he had told her earnestly. To fight the root causes of homelessness. It was no good merely giving money to beggars on the street, you had to put that money to good use. To fight drugs, robber landlords, the benefits system. And to that end he had set up a hostel in Norwich and another in Ipswich where people could go and not have to account for themselves in any way, but would be helped with whatever problem they had. No one would ask them questions.
Finding out about David’s hopes and ambitions had been the sort of freelance job she liked best. A good subject, an interesting cause. She’d enjoyed herself, so when he’d asked her to join him at the function at the Riders’ farm, she’d agreed. She’d heard that the event at the rather splendid farm was the place to be seen. Not that she was interested in being seen as such, but there could be some people here who would make good subjects for future features she enjoyed writing. And she might even get a news story of some sort out of it. She badly wanted to up her news credibility with Heath Maitland, the news editor at The Post.
The evening had started off so well, with David taking her to a delicious early supper at the nearby Dog and Partridge.
The party was well underway by the time they arrived at Riders’ Farm. Alex could hear the strains of a jazz band as they walked towards the large oak front door up the path lit by dozens of bamboo garden torches and strings of fairy lights hanging from the bare branches of trees.
At first David had been the very model of attentiveness, making his way through the packed rooms, introducing her to all sorts of people from the chief executive of a local hospice to the raddled drummer of a famous band of old rockers. The great and the good were in evidence everywhere. Suffolk’s Assistant Chief Constable was chatting to a prominent surgeon from Ipswich Hospital. The Chief Fire Officer was listening to the Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk – a post currently held by a countess. And the canapés were delicious and the champagne cold.
‘When do I get to meet the Riders?’ Alex asked, after spending several minutes in the company of the pompous High Sheriff of Suffolk, complete with the gold medallions of office, who was telling her how the city council was about to adopt a zero-tolerance policy towards beggars on the streets.
She couldn’t wait to get away.
‘There’s Marianne, the matriarch, I guess you’d call her.’ David nodded across the room.
Marianne Rider was tall and elegant, wearing a crimson dress that was nipped in at the waist and fell to the floor. Her silver hair was carefully twisted in a chignon and diamonds glinted in her ears. As if she knew she was being looked at, Marianne Rider turned and stared at Alex. The woman’s face was tastefully wrinkled, though the number of lines around her mouth denoted a heavy smoker. Her lipstick matched her dress. A silver necklace glinted across her collarbone. She didn’t smile. She turned back to continue talking to the man next to her.
Alex almost shivered. She felt snubbed. Marianne Rider did not look a cosy sort of person.
‘And that’s her husband next to her, Joe Rider,’ said David.
Joe Rider was as tall as his wife and stood dutifully nodding at whatever she was saying while sipping from a glass. His dark navy suit was stretched across his paunch. He was sweating slightly, and he ran his fingers around the inside of his collar as if it was restricting his breathing.
‘I can’t see the three sons, but they must be around somewhere,’ said David. ‘Apparently Marianne likes the family to present a united front, so they always have to come to these events with their wives.’
‘Wives? You make it sound as though they’ve got several each.’
David laughed. ‘One of the sons is on his third wife, but I don’t think all three have to attend. Still, I’ll introduce you when I see them.’ He tried to sound casual, but Alex could hear the excitement in his voice. She didn’t like to tell him that she had done a bit of research before the evening and knew a little about the Riders. They were an old farming family who owned a lot of land in Suffolk, an awful lot of land, including an island off the coast. An island about which there were all sorts of stories, stories of strange lights and noises at night. Screams carrying over cold air. Bodies washed up on beaches. Local people said the island was haunted.
‘… diversification. Are you listening to me, Alex?’ David stared at her with irritation.
‘Sorry.’ She tried to look contrite.
‘What I was saying was that they have diversified and done very well out of it. They have “forest lodges for the backwoodsman” on some of their land.’
‘For townies to “experience” the countryside, I suppose,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘Yes, I read about that.’
‘There’s also a centre for holistic therapy, complete with yurts, and a couple of barns that can be used for corporate events or as wedding venues. Of the three sons, Simon, the youngest, is married, and has a degree in chemistry or something. The eldest, Lewis, is on his third wife as I said, and the middle son, Jamie, has just got divorced. There we are. A potted history.’
Alex wondered if she was meant to give him a round of applause.
The evening continued. Alex was now drinking water, much to David’s annoyance.
‘I need to keep a clear head, David,’ she told him more than once. ‘I’ve got to do an interview in the morning.’
‘But you shouldn’t waste all this,’ he said, sweeping his arm around the room.
‘I’m not, I’m enjoying talking to people.’ Some, anyway.
‘But—’
It was almost as if David wanted to get her drunk.
And just before the fireworks started he had manoeuvred her into the cold air of the garden for ‘a walk to clear their heads’.
‘My head is perfectly clear, thanks, David.’
‘Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.’
He was beginning to get a little bit annoying. She took a deep breath, she really didn’t want to ruin the evening. ‘What do you mean? I’m not a spoilsport, and anyway, it’s bloody cold out here.’ She rubbed her arms, trying to get rid of goosebumps. She tried to smile at him. ‘Come on,
let’s go back into the warm.’ There was something about the way David was looking at her that was making her nervous.
He lunged towards her.
Startled, Alex jerked her head back. David stumbled, and she tried – and failed – to suppress a giggle. Then she saw his face: puce and furious.
‘David, I—’ she said, searching frantically for words to let him down gently, knowing her laugh had been cruel.
He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her towards him and managing to plant a wet kiss on her mouth.
‘No, David.’ She wriggled out of his grip, resisting the desire to wipe the back of her hand across her lips.
‘Why not? Aren’t I good enough for you?’ He flushed, his lips wet and flabby.
‘Don’t be silly. I see you as a friend, that’s all.’ She tried a smile. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now.’
‘With me?’
‘With anyone. I am sorry, David.’
‘You led me on.’ His face was suffused with anger, the veins in his neck like cords of rope.
Alex was taken aback. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You did.’ He thrust his chin forward, hands in fists.
Had she? Not to her knowledge. ‘David—’
‘Oh, forget it, you’re just like all the others.’ He marched off, leaving Alex even more confused. That had come out of absolutely bloody nowhere and there was no way she had ‘led him on’, as he put it. She really didn’t have any desire for a relationship at the moment. She’d been there, tried that.
‘It was David Gordon, wasn’t it?’
The man’s voice brought her back to the present.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Fight for the Homeless charity?’
‘You were spying on me,’ she said mildly. ‘David and I were outside when we argued.’
The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Caught. I promise I wasn’t being pervy, I was merely looking out of the window when I saw the pair of you.’ He shook his head. ‘Arguing. Is that what you call it nowadays. Poor David. Never has much luck.’
‘I don’t think luck comes into it. I hadn’t encouraged him at all when he—’ She stopped. What was she doing explaining herself to a stranger? He had no right to know anything about her. She was irritated with herself. She put her glass down on a tray being carried by a passing waiter. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must leave.’
Gone in the Night Page 2