He drained the mug and put it on the table. ‘And, as for Cora—’ he left her name dangling.
‘What about Cora?’ Her jaw ached from gritting her teeth, thanking the moon and the stars that she had met Cora on the walk and not here, at the apartment.
‘Persuade Cora to give up on the search.’
‘How do you expect me to do that?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t fucking care, just do it. Tell her he’s no good. Best left, dead or alive. Tell her he got in touch with the hostel to say he didn’t want looking for.’ He stroked her cheek with two soft fingers. She tried not to flinch. ‘Or tell her she’ll get hurt again if she doesn’t. Like you will. Goodbye Alex. Don’t make me come here any more. It’s a long fucking way from Norwich.’ He went to the door.
‘Who sent you, Boney? Somebody did. You haven’t got the brains for this.’
He turned, eyes flashing. ‘I have, Alex, believe you me.’
‘But you’re still someone’s jumped-up messenger boy, Nigel.’ Why was she doing this? Putting herself in jeopardy when he was almost gone? Because she was furious her space had been invaded. Had it not been for his threats against Gus she would have thrown him out, not caring if she hurt him. And she could hurt him. She hadn’t taken self-defence lessons for nothing.
He shook his head. ‘Oh, Alex, you don’t know the half of it. I almost feel sorry for you.’ He grinned. ‘But not quite.’
He shut the door quietly behind him.
Alex sank to the floor and put her head on her knees, the adrenaline making her feel sick. She would not cry. She breathed deeply and evenly.
A wet tongue licked the side of her face. She tangled her hand in Ethel’s fur, waiting to hear the slam of the downstairs door. She got to her feet. Trying not to shake, and not entirely succeeding, she found her phone and tapped out a message to Gus on WhatsApp. It took several times to get the letters right.
Hi darling. Give me a ring when you get this message xx
She went to Sasha’s chat stream.
Hi Sash. Looking forward to the exhibition tomorrow. What time does it start?
Her phone rang almost immediately. ‘Hi Mum, you okay?’
She gripped the phone hard. It was so good to hear her son’s voice. ‘I’m fine, Gus. I only wanted to …’ What to say? She hadn’t thought this through. ‘Check everything was going well.’
‘All good here, Mum. I might be able to get back in the next couple of weeks.’
Next couple of weeks? Whereas a couple of days ago she would have welcomed Gus saying that, now she would rather he was safely far away in York than near danger here.
‘There’s no rush, love.’ There. She hadn’t thought she’d be saying that in a month of Sundays. ‘Whenever you can make it. And Martha. I might even come to you.’ Yes, that was it. ‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s cool. We could go out for meals and stuff. I could show you around. Me and Martha could show you around,’ he corrected himself.
‘I’ll let you know. And, take care, won’t you, Gus. Don’t speak to any strangers.’
He chuckled. ‘What do you think I am? Six? I’ll be very careful who I talk to, don’t you worry. See you, Ma.’
‘See you darling.’
Maybe not six, but he would always be her baby.
Putting the phone down onto the table, she saw her hands still shaking.
Stop it. Take control.
She had rattled someone’s cage.
And now she had to know more about Cora and Rick and the Riders. Sitting at her computer, she brought up the search engine and typed in ‘Cora Winterton’. Nothing. Rick’s name brought up a couple of stories about his time in Afghanistan and a little bit about the injuries he suffered while he was on duty. Before he went into the army, before he was married, he had lived with his parents and Cora in Bury St Edmunds. But they had lived near the Riders when they were children. Rick had been at school with them. She drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking. He had been part of the school cross-country team. So had Lewis Rider. Different age groups but same team. She would start there. Lewis Rider’s name gave her little more than she already knew – successful businessman, farmer, diversification. She carried on looking. There had to be something. More articles about Lewis Rider the successful businessman, the philanthropist – he really did have an excellent PR department.
Bingo.
An image buried deep in the search engine, probably deliberately pushed down – a clever lawyer could ensure good news stories rose to the top and bad ones were buried. It was a blurred reproduction of a press photo. 1994. Twenty-four years ago. Captioned: Lewis Rider leaving court today. And, if she wasn’t much mistaken, standing behind him, a young Rick Winterton with a murderous look on his face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DAY FOUR: LATE MORNING
The sand was soft beneath his feet and the sun high and hot on his head. Too hot. It hurt so much. The wind was swirling around him. He had to screw up his eyes to see anything.
He rounded a corner and there was a small village. Is this where the girl with the gentle brown eyes lived? Surely it had to be a mirage.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. His eyes were gritty and the taste in his mouth sour. The sand turned to loose stones mixed with sand. tufts of grass tripped him up. The sun was not high and hot. There was no sun. The sky was grey, with a black promise in the distance. The wind was cold, icy, briny.
His arm was throbbing. As were his head and legs. He was weak with hunger. He had been walking for God knew how long. He’d had to stop so often. Had he slept? He wasn’t sure. How many days had it been? One? Two? Three? More? He wanted to see his children, oh, how he wanted to see them. If he got through this, he would be a better Dad to them, that he swore. A much better Dad.
Now here was a village. Not so much a village but a ribbon of houses huddling together for warmth beside a windswept beach. He had found the coast. Did he want to be here?
The wind was pushing and pulling at him, slicing through his wet clothes. There were other people around. Walkers. Birdwatchers, maybe. There were kites in the sky. Or maybe they were kitesurfers.
Rick heard his teeth chattering. He stumbled along a track. Past the line of cottages – one that looked like an old coastguard look-out. There was a Martello tower in the distance. Defensive forts built to protect the British Empire.
Soon he found himself on a shingle beach dotted with vegetation. Sea kale. Yellow stonecrop. These names came to him, he knew them. He’d been here before, a long time ago. When the sun was warm and the wind not so fierce. He had swum in the lagoon-like waters. The waters were not lagoon-like today. The wind was whipping up the waves that crashed down onto shore, sucking back the shingle as it moved angrily out again. White horses raced across the water out to sea. Large ships lay sluggishly on the horizon. A few brave souls were standing by the shoreline, jumping the waves. A couple of walkers. And yes, in the distance, a group of kitesurfers, their red kites flying and swooping. And if he looked over there, barely visible through the sea spray and mist, an island.
The blood roared in his head. It roared around his body.
There was something …
‘Are you all right, mate?’ A man in a thick eiderdown coat, backpack slung over one shoulder, a camera over the other and a bobble hat jammed on his head, looked at him, a frown on his face. ‘Only you don’t look too good.’
‘I-I, I lost my stuff.’
‘Lost?’
Rick nodded. ‘Lost. Taken.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ He was so cold and tired and hungry he had stopped shivering. Not a good sign, he knew.
‘What’s your name, mate?’
Name? He knew his name, but something made him bite it back. ‘Dan. It’s Dan.’
The man gripped his bad arm. It took every ounce of strength he had not to cry out in pain.
‘Come with me, Dan. I’ll get you a cuppa.’
‘A cuppa?’
‘Yeah. There’s a little café at one of the cottages. C’mon. I’ll buy. I might even throw in a cake. At least you can get warm there.’
As if in answer, his stomach rumbled. He nodded, and followed the Good Samaritan.
The café was in the front room of one of the cottages. Four scrubbed wooden tables with a vase of early daffodils made for a cheerful atmosphere. A ruddy-cheeked older couple were sitting at one table with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches in front of them. A couple with a baby in a high chair at another. The third table was taken up by four young men in running gear. A fire cheerfully crackled and burned in the grate.
The man guided him to the last table. Rick lowered himself down gingerly onto one of the hard chairs.
The man put his camera on the table, his rucksack on the floor. Rick stared at the camera. Photographs. That’s what he’d been doing. Taking photographs over on the island.
‘Mate?’
The man was talking to him. ‘Sorry. Yes?’
‘What can I get you?’
Rick worked hard at not wincing at the pain from his cuts and bruises and infected arm. The man had a kind face. A worried face. He must look like shit. ‘Any chance of a full English?’
The man winked. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘So,’ said the man, sitting down, having reappeared after presumably ordering something from someone somewhere, ‘I’m Mike.’
‘Hi, Mike.’ Rick smiled weakly.
‘What’s your story?’ He looked expectant.
‘I have no story. Just someone down on his luck who can’t remember what happened.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Dan—’ Mike leaned forward, ‘you look as though you need a friend.’
‘Maybe.’ He tried to smile, bit his lips were cracked and sore.
‘I wonder if you’ve ever thought about bringing the Lord into your life?’
He looked puppy-eager.
Rick felt world-weary.
A thin woman with a large smile and a frilly apron rescued him. She bustled forward with a tray loaded with plates and teapots and cups and milk and toast. ‘Here you are, my lovely. A full English with extra toast for you and muesli with almond milk for you, sir.’
Rick ate in silence, trying not to shovel the food down. It was good, very good. Every mouthful made him feel better. He had to figure out what to do next.
‘The Lord can help you, Dan. I know he can. If you would let Him into your life.’
Rick ignored him. Carried on chewing. He could feel his clothes drying on him. He thought he probably smelled.
‘So how about it?’
Mike was persistent, Rick had to give him that. He meant to keep his head down, avoid getting drawn in, when a sudden cold breeze made him look up.
Two men had walked into the little café. Rick’s stomach lurched. The two men who were hunting him. Rick buttered his toast, not looking at the two, wondering what they would do. And what he should do. There were too many witnesses for them to take him by force.
At that moment, the elderly couple vacated their seats and gestured to the two men with a smile.
They sat down.
Now they were only metres from him. They fixed him with a stare.
Rick felt the violence and dislike radiating off them. They wanted to take him back to the island. That was it. That was where he’d escaped from. He was starting to remember now. Memories like shadows, but they were becoming more solid minute by minute.
The thin woman with the large smile and frilly apron bustled up to the two. ‘What can I get you, lads?’
‘Tea,’ said the one in the too-red jacket.
‘Please,’ said the man in the smart coat.
This was said without taking their eyes off Rick.
Rick knew he had to do something. If he didn’t he thought the men might cause trouble, hurt some of these people.
Red-Jacket stood up, far too close to him. Invading his personal space was what he was doing, thought Rick. ‘You need to come with us.’
‘Why?’ asked Mike.
‘Not you, him,’ Red-Jacket said, pointing at Rick.
‘I know that’s who you meant. And I’m still asking you why?’
‘He needs to come with us.’
Mike turned to Rick. ‘Do you need to go with them?’
Rick put his knife and fork together and wiped his mouth with one of the paper serviettes. ‘No.’
‘Come on.’
‘You heard the man,’ said Mike. ‘He doesn’t want to go with you.’
Rick had to admire the strength in Mike’s voice.
Red-Jacket bent down and gripped Rick by the arm. The second time he’d been held by his bad arm. Again, he could feel himself sweating with the effort of not crying out.
There was a scraping of chairs against the floor and the four runners appeared at the table. The room was beginning to feel very claustrophobic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DAY FOUR: LATE MORNING
Alex had wanted to clean the flat from top to bottom after Boney left, so contaminated did it feel, but she needed to get that glass to Sam Slater. He’d said he would be at Bethel Street station today and she didn’t want to wait any longer. If he wasn’t there, she would bloody well find forensics herself. And she would not have her family threatened. By anybody. She bundled Ethel into the car and set off for Norwich.
Wait a minute. What had Boney said? We will find him eventually.
Bloody hell. She banged the steering wheel. It was obvious now. Whoever Boney was being messenger boy for was also looking for Rick. He must have got away from those men who’d picked him up at the accident. He was probably trying to get away from them in the first place. Rick Winterton must know something that someone, somewhere wanted to keep quiet. But what? All she had to do now was to find out who and why. She felt excitement fizz through her veins.
Finding Rick was even more important now. They had to get to him before those men.
Where to go to from here?
After she had parked the car she tried to ring Cora. No answer. Damn. She left a message on her answerphone. Then she walked as quickly as she could to the police station, telling the dog to wait while she went inside. Ethel dropped to the ground immediately, her head on her paws, her look one of abandonment. Alex tied her to a post. Ethel would be used to lying and waiting, she thought.
It was the same police officer on the front desk. Still the same smell of sweat, vomit and fried food. Alex gave the officer a wide smile.
‘Hello officer, I’m here to see DI Slater.’
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Yes.’
The officer raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but picked up the phone.
‘I put in a missing person report the other day for Rick Winterton. Do you know if anything has happened on that one?’ said Alex.
‘Nope.’
‘Nope?’
‘Nothing has happened yet. Not a priority.’
‘Says who?’
He stared at her. ‘Says Norfolk Constabulary.’
‘Alex.’
Alex turned at the sound of Sam’s voice.
‘Come on,’ he said, buttoning up his coat. ‘Let’s brave the wind and the rain and go and get a coffee.’
‘What have you got, then?’ Sam asked as they sat down in a booth away from other customers with their coffee – cappuccino for him, mocha for her. Alex had also picked up a very squidgy-looking brownie.
At least the café was warm and snug, with the smell of fresh baking in the air. The decor was plain and simple – scrubbed tables, leather benches in the booths. A vase with a single artificial flower. Alex liked it. It was in the Royal Arcade so it meant Ethel was out of the dreary, drizzly weather.
She brought out the hanky-wrapped glass from her pocket and pushed it over the table to him. He unwrapped the cloth and carefully put the pieces of glass in an evidence bag.
‘I�
��ll do my best. But as I said to you, our budgets are shot to hell so it won’t be easy to get it looked at, especially as there is no ongoing investigation—’
‘There should be.’ Alex took a bite of her brownie. It was every bit as chocolatey as she had hoped. ‘Anyway, I’m pretty certain it came from the Land Rover, I feel it in my gut.’
He smiled. ‘You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that. Again, as I said, I’ll do my best, but it’ll be days before they come back with anything.’
She swallowed her cake. ‘Come on, Sam. I’m sure you have strings to pull.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘What about the Land Rover? Was it stolen?’
Sam nodded. ‘It was found burnt out in Ipswich. Joyriders, they reckon.’
‘Joyriders?’
‘There is no evidence to suggest otherwise.’
‘Hmm.’ She thought she would leave that one for now and try a different tack. ‘What do you know about Boney?’ She thought she would see what his reaction would be.
‘Boney?’ He looked amused. ‘You mean the man with the shaved head, the piercings and the Dracula teeth?’
‘So you know him?’
He drank some of his coffee, as if considering what to say. ‘Let’s say he is known to the police. I trust you haven’t had any dealings with him?’
‘Cora Winterton—’
‘The sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should be careful around her.’
‘Why, Sam? What do you know?’ Why was everyone telling her to be careful around Cora?
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me about Boney. Has he threatened you?’
‘And why do you say that?’
‘Because that’s what he does best. Threatens people. And my best advice to you is to stay away. He’s a drug dealer. Oh, some people say he’s got a heart of gold because he helps people find a place to stay, food to eat, but he also gets them drugs and anything else they want.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Boney is a piece of work.’
She played with the spoon on her saucer. ‘Cora and I went to see him, to ask about Rick—’
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