Gone in the Night

by Mary-Jane Riley

  It worked. Sort of.

  He rolled off the cot, landing on the floor with a loud bump. He cried out in pain, then closed his eyes again.

  Cora looked around, hoping no one had heard his shout. Then she kicked him in the ribs. ‘Up you fucking well get, now. I haven’t come all this way so we can get murdered on this godforsaken bit of bloody land. Up. Now.’

  Rick sat up, rolled onto all fours. He stayed like that for a second or two, and then, with what looked like a monumental effort, he hauled himself up onto his feet and stood there, swaying.

  ‘They gave me something, Cora. So thirsty. So thirsty.’

  She ignored him. ‘We have to get out of here. There’s a ladder. You can do it.’ She draped one of his arms across her shoulders and somehow, with a combination of shuffling and pulling, they reached the ladder. How she was going to get him up there, she didn’t know.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  DAY SEVEN: EARLY MORNING

  Alex was pulling at the handcuffs and trying to move the chair towards the door when it opened.

  ‘Sam.’ A core of volcanic rage rose in her chest that almost overwhelmed her. ‘Come to finish me off, have you?’ she shouted, making her cheek throb even more. She rocked the chair back and forth. ‘You needn’t bother. I’m going to go up with whoever else is left. I can’t get out of this, but that’s what you wanted. They’re going to blow half the island up and I’ll go with it. Unless Cora finds me.’ But she didn’t think Cora would find her. She had either been killed or had somehow hightailed it back to Gisford. Or she could still be looking for Rick, which would mean she, too, would be caught in the inferno.

  Sam ran over to her chair and looked down at her wrists.

  ‘Handcuffs, Sam,’ she spat. ‘I expect you provided these, didn’t you?’ Then, annoyingly, she felt the tears start. ‘Why? I thought you were one of the good guys.’

  ‘I was. I am.’ His eyes were darting about the room.

  ‘Then why throw your lot in with the Riders?’

  His eyes settled on her. ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘My wife. Look, there’s no time. Here. The key.’ Sam picked it up from by the water bottle on the table. Jamie must have left it deliberately, moving the bottle so his father didn’t see it. Alex knew she should feel grateful, but she had neither the time nor the inclination.

  Sam went behind her and unlocked the cuffs. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to go. The meth lab is about to blow and one or two of the other buildings.’

  He pulled her out through the door along a corridor and into the cold, damp open air. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a boat hidden near the lighthouse. There’s a quick way, but we’ve got to get past the meth lab before it goes up.’

  ‘You never did analyse the glass, or get Sadie’s death investigated, did you?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘No. Now will you come on.’

  They began to run, Alex following behind, not deviating from his path.

  Suddenly there was a loud explosion from behind them. They both fell to the ground. Alex covered her head as stones and mud and shingle and sand rained down on her. It lasted forever. There was ringing in her ears. Then it was eerily quiet. She looked up. Sam was already standing, blood from cuts on his face running down his cheeks, his body covered with grime and grit. She guessed she looked similar.

  ‘We’re not there yet,’ he said, his voice coming from far away. ‘And there’ll be more explosions to come.’

  She got to her feet. They were both coughing, but there was no time to think about it. They had to get to Sam’s boat.

  But where was Cora? Was she still here? And Rick? After all this, she couldn’t leave Rick.

  ‘Sam,’ she shouted. ‘I need to find Rick. And I can’t go without knowing Cora is safe. I can’t.’

  Sam looked at her, undecided. ‘You go. Find somewhere to hide. I’ll go and look for them.’

  ‘But Sam—’

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ he roared.

  Alex nodded.

  Sam turned away.

  Joe Rider stepped out from behind one of the nearby buildings.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DAY SEVEN: EARLY MORNING

  Rick picked himself up off the ground after the so-called living quarters were blown sky-high. A part of him was pleased that hell-hole no longer existed. He knew the meth lab was next – he had heard the men talk about it as they rigged the room in which he was lying. The Riders wanted to cause chaos and confusion on the island so that the emergency services – police, fire and ambulance – would be so tied up they wouldn’t see the family ride off into the sunset in their fuck-off speed boat. The women and the men – the slaves – were already on their way abroad, and the goons would melt away into the countryside. He had to get to Gisford.

  He looked around for Cora. She was sitting up, cradling her head, blood trickling down her cheek. Then he noticed her leg was at an odd angle, and the white of bone was sticking through her trousers. He felt sick. How was he going to get her off the island? Perhaps they should wait it out until the coppers arrived.

  But he had to stop the Riders if he could.

  ‘Cora?’

  ‘I can’t move, Rick. I can’t move. You’ll have to get help.’ She was white with dust and pain.

  ‘Help will come now after that lot went off. But I have to stop that fucking family from winning.’

  ‘Rick—’ A spasm of agony crossed her face. She waved at him. ‘Go on, then. I’ll be okay. That’s what all this has been about anyway. Get that camera.’

  Rick glanced at her one more time, then loped off towards the lighthouse. That’s where he’d buried the camera, to the left of the door.

  ‘Keep to the paths,’ Cora shouted after him. ‘Mines.’

  He waved his hand in acknowledgement.

  He could see three figures in the distance, and as he got closer he realized one was Joe Rider, the other was the woman with the soft voice who had tried to rescue him when he crashed the car. The man was that detective bloke, what was his name? Sam Slater, that’s it. He was the crooked copper he’d heard talk about and who had come to the island to watch them work in that deathtrap of a meth lab more than once. But he seemed to be arguing with Joe Rider. Joe Rider was gesturing with a gun in his hand. Rick knew Rider wouldn’t think twice about firing it. He kept on running, adrenaline giving him strength and speed for the first time in a long time.

  He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the weakness in his legs. All he could think about was the woman with the soft voice. He had to save her.

  It wasn’t until he was close to the three that they noticed him.

  Joe Rider levelled his gun at him. At any moment he expected to suffer the slam of the bullet, feel it tear through muscle and sinew, blood vessels, vital organs.

  Don’t think. Don’t think. Run.

  He saw Slater jump towards Rider, knocking him down before he had any time to react. They grappled on the shingle, rolling over and over until they were well off the path.

  Run.

  Joe Rider was a fit man for his age and knew how to fight dirty. He could see the woman was about to join in, to try and help Slater. He knew she shouldn’t.

  ‘Don’t,’ he yelled at her. ‘Stay where you are. It’s too dangerous. Mines.’

  She looked up, startled, but stopped moving towards Rider and Slater.

  Now the fighting pair were several feet off the path and for Rick, time slowed. He saw what was happening as if in a dream.

  He saw himself reach the woman, knock into her, fly through the air, fall away and tumble into a heap. Safe.

  A bang. A white light. Rick felt the heat. Rider and Slater were tossed twenty feet up into the air before landing, like ragdolls, down onto the earth. There were pieces of bone, flesh, clothing scattered around. Something – a shoe? – was hanging grotesquely from a thorny bush. Neither of them moved. He wanted to cover his ears. This
is not Afghanistan, he told himself. This is not Afghanistan.

  He was aware of the woman lying beside him. Shrapnel wounds in her arm, her side, her shirt soaked in blood. Her leg was bleeding pretty badly. He made himself get up, tore off his shirt and made a tourniquet to stem the bleeding. He felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  ‘Come on, come on, stay with me,’ he muttered.

  There. A flutter, maybe?

  He heard the whir of a helicopter crossing the water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  She took the stairs very slowly and very carefully followed by Ethel and Ethel’s unique stink. Alex still wasn’t used to the crutches, though Gus was watching her every clunky move.

  Gus. He’d come very quickly after the hospital had called him and was now her guardian and her minder. She was loving every minute of his attention. Almost every minute. There was a tiny part of her that would be glad when she was on her own again and could draw breath and relax.

  ‘Take it easy, now, Alex.’

  Heath was guarding and minding her too. He had come charging to her bedside when he’d heard what had happened.

  ‘Worried about your story, Heath?’ she’d managed to ask.

  ‘Don’t be an arse, Devlin,’ he’d replied. ‘And your text didn’t come through until it was too late.’

  She could have been mistaken, but she thought she saw tears in his eyes as he held her hand.

  Now both Gus and Heath were trying to outdo each other in their solicitousness.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and freedom was through the door.

  John Watson came out of his flat, walking on his one leg and his prosthetic. She almost laughed. What a pair they must look.

  ‘A couple of disableds, now, Alex, eh?’ he said, trying and failing to get low enough to fondle Ethel’s ears.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, John. It still hurts.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Getting there, John, getting there.’

  And she was, she thought, as she emerged from the door of her apartment block and into the weak February sun. Better than that bloody rain, anyway. She knew she was lucky; she had nearly died on Gisford Ness, her life saved by Rick to whom she would be forever thankful. Her injuries would have been so much worse had he not hurled himself on top of her and rolled her out of the way. As it was, she’d had to have several pieces of metal removed from her body, though doctors had warned her they couldn’t get it all. Some would work their way out over the years, some would get inflamed and she would need further treatment. But she was alive, and the bandages and crutches would be gone soon. Rick, too, had many wounds and was recovering at home with Cora. She’d also heard from Cora that Rick’s wife and his two daughters were staying with her. Alex hoped he and Helen could build some bridges.

  She didn’t know what to feel about Cora. She knew from Rick that Cora had been ready to abandon her to her fate. And although she could understand her reasoning – Rick was her brother after all – she wasn’t sure she was ready to meet with her yet. But Rick had saved her life, had pushed her the right way. And she would make sure Rick was cared for properly. If she could get near him. She rather thought Cora might be too protective. At least the brother and sister had achieved what they had set out to do – the ruin of the Rider family. Though that damn camera had never been found.

  Of course, Joe Rider and Sam Slater hadn’t been so lucky, both blown apart. There was no chance of DI Slater being awarded any sort of medal for bravery; he had confessed to his crimes as he called the emergency services to Reg’s hut. And that had meant they were nearer than they might have been when the explosions tore through the island.

  Sam’s wife had died two days after Sam. And for that, Alex was glad. Heath had told her what he’d heard: that the home where his wife was living with Huntington’s was expensive, and the Riders had come up with the money in return for spreading a little bit of misinformation, making sure his colleagues looked in the wrong places when bodies turned up. ‘There may have been more,’ said Heath. ‘But that’s why he did it.’

  ‘For his wife.’ Alex had nodded, had grieved a little for him.

  She hobbled around the harbour and towards her favourite bench.

  Sitting down, thankful for the rest, she took out her phone and scrolled through BBC News.

  There it was. The story about the arrest of Lewis, Jamie, Simon and Marianne Rider for slavery offences. Marianne was pleading ignorance. Somehow Alex thought that wouldn’t wash. Two boats of men and women had been intercepted in the North Sea, their captors arrested. Then a story detailing the charges: forced labour, money laundering and conspiracy to traffic with a view to exploitation. A family slavery gang.

  ‘I’m glad Karolina’s back with her family,’ said Heath, stretching out his legs and turning his face to the weak sun.

  ‘And that Nobby turned up on one of the boats.’

  ‘And has been given a decent screw for his story,’ said Heath, wryly.

  ‘Come on, it was worth it.’ She gave Ethel a biscuit, then wiped the drool on her jeans.

  ‘Do you think Boney will ever turn up?’ asked Gus, scratching Ethel under her chin. ‘Because if he ever does—’

  ‘You won’t do anything,’ said Alex, sharply.

  ‘He’ll turn up’ said Heath. ‘His sort always do. Maybe then he’ll be arrested and join the rest of them in prison.’

  ‘And talking of prison, I wonder what’ll happen to David Gordon’s charities when he goes down.’ Alex put her phone back in her pocket.

  Heath mumbled something.

  She turned to him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The hostels have been taken over by another charity.’

  Alex was surprised. ‘So soon?’

  Heath blushed. ‘Pulled a few strings,’ he mumbled.

  Alex leaned across and planted a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. He blushed some more.

  ‘I thought I was the one that blushed,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Mum! Purleese!’ Gus gave a mock shudder.

  Heath laughed too, then was sober. ‘But I’m afraid there’s no news about Martin.’

  ‘I’m writing their stories,’ said Alex. ‘The people on the streets. Their families, too. I owe it to them. The ones who died and the ones who survived.’

  ‘They’ll be published, Alex. We owe them that.’

  A couple walked by with a little dog on the end of a lead, somewhere between a Jack Russell and a chihuahua. Ethel perked up, wagged her tail. A lot.

  She was ignored, so she went back to lying at Alex’s feet, her chin on her paws.

  ‘Sasha’s doing well,’ said Heath, after a silence.

  Alex nodded. ‘Got an exhibition in London now, later in the year.’ She paused. ‘Come with me if you like.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  Suddenly, Alex had the unsettling feeling that someone was watching her. She turned her head. Sure enough, a man was standing on the path, looking her way. He was slim, clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and a waterproof coat.

  He raised his hand and waved enthusiastically.

  Alex smiled. Who was it?

  The man walked towards them.

  All at once Ethel leapt to her feet and started to wag her tail so much it almost felt as though she might take off.

  The man reached them and dropped to his knees, burying his face in her fur. ‘Ethel. Ethel. I’ve missed you so fuckin’ much.’

  Alex frowned. Was it – ‘Martin?’

  The man looked up. ‘Yeah. That’s me. They told me you had ’er.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said.

  ‘At me sister’s. She didn’t want Ethel, and Tiger was supposed to take care of her, but he forgot, din’t he? And then he was got by them murdering bastards. I didn’t know till I came back to fetch ’er. Me sister’s changed her mind, you see. Saw how unhappy I was without her. I tol
d her she wasn’t no trouble. Apart from her farts. But I didn’t tell her about those.’ He took her lead. ‘Thanks ever so for looking after her. She looks great.’ He beamed, then frowned as he caught sight of her crutches. ‘I heard what happened and that. Glad you’re all right.’

  ‘Thanks, Martin.’

  ‘S’okay. See ya.’

  ‘Right.’

  Alex watched sadly as Ethel trotted away by Martin’s side without a backwards glance. Gus took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Teresa Chris, who is always on my side and is a fierce champion of my writing. Thanks also to my editor, Sarah Hodgson – your insight and support is invaluable. And to all the team at Killer Reads/Harper Collins – what an incredible job you do! There has to be a special mention for Claire Fenby for helping to launch the book, and Janette Currie for preventing several gaffes going out into the world.

  Love and thanks to Jenny Knight, with her coffee/pastries/flowers/Prosecco and all round fabulousness, for reading an early draft, for digging me out of a plotting hole and for keeping my spirits up. You are rightly having your turn in the sun now. And to Jamie Knight for letting me borrow his name for a rather nasty character – you are, of course, nothing like my Jamie…

  Thanks to Beth for keeping me entertained with baby pictures and James for advice on money markets and banking and to Georg Childs for her brilliant Booksmart site on Instagram.

  Thanks to Kate Rhodes, Valentina Giambanco, Chris Curran and Jackie Baldwin who are always a support.

  Thank you to the book bloggers who do a fantastic job reading books and writing reviews for the love of it, to Emma Welton of damppebbles.com for organising the blog tour, and to you, the readers, without whom there would be no book.

  To Melanie McCarthy – always love and thanks.

  Thanks to my children, Edward, Peter and Esme, and their partners Emily, Jenni and Nick, who unfailingly love my books and shout about them at all times.