Hot Pursuit (23 page)

Maggie sensed rather than saw Coleman approach and realised that there was a part of her that almost didn’t care what happened now. If she ran would he shoot her, too? Very slowly she turned towards him, her throat working over a great knot of fear and grief.

‘Come to kill me, have you?’ she whispered thickly, struggling with the conflicting sea of emotions in her chest, struggling to resist the temptation to run or cower in the face of his stony, unmoving gaze.

Coleman shrugged. ‘No, no, you’re safe,
Maggie. I did warn you that it wouldn’t be pretty. You weren’t supposed to be here, I asked the police to pick you up, keep you out of trouble. I suppose I should have known better –’ He glanced back towards the activity around Nick’s body. ‘I did what had to be done, that’s all,’ he said.

Maggie wanted to spit in his smug, murderous face. ‘What had to be done? You make it sound as if Nick was a dog that needed putting down,’ she shrieked.

And as she spoke Maggie’s mind spun. Who would ever know, who could she tell, who would ever believe her? Two more men were hurrying across to where Nick was lying. God, how long had they had this planned?

‘It’s time for you to go home, Ms Morgan, the show’s over.’

Maggie stared up at Coleman. He sounded tired. ‘Is that all this is to you? A show –’ She swallowed back a sob, the emotions finally rising like icebergs in freezing water; there were things that needed to be said and it was now or never.

‘Look, I’ve got no grudge against you, Ms Morgan,’ said Coleman. ‘I am just a solution to a problem. You have to leave –’ he caught hold of her arm. ‘I want you to go and get in the van and we’ll get you home.’

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ Maggie snapped, wriggling out of his grasp. ‘I’m not going to go anywhere.’ She pulled away from him. ‘I want to
see Nick –’ and that said skirted past Coleman, who made only a desultory attempt to hold her back.

In the car park Nimrod and Cain were already climbing back into their car – eyes working back and forth across the remaining players before they drove back towards town.

‘Stay back,’ said the man in the blue suit as Maggie got close to the body. The body?
The body?
That couldn’t be right, Nick couldn’t be the body, her mind screamed, trying to make sense of what had happened and what she was feeling.

The man waved her away more ferociously. ‘This is a crime scene, Ms Morgan. I advise you to stay well back.’ Of course it was a crime scene, one in which they had all colluded in. As she took another step, Coleman grabbed her shoulder, and this time his grip was stronger.

‘Not here, you heard what the man said,’ he told her gruffly. ‘We have to get going before things get messy. Go and get in the van, Maggie –’

This time his voice and grip were steely. Maggie spun round. ‘Why in God’s name do you think I’d do that, Coleman? You’re a murdering bastard – you shot Nick down like a dog. You were supposed to protect him – you were supposed to be one of the good guys,’ she yelled, almost hysterical now.

‘Go and get in the van,’ he said more firmly.

‘No,’ Maggie screamed. ‘Do you seriously think I would go anywhere with you?’

She saw his hand lift, and an instant later felt a red-hot searing pain across her cheek as he slapped her. Maggie screamed.

His grip faltered and Maggie broke away and dropped to her knees in the grass beside Nick, her eyes filling with tears as she saw the blood pooling around his body as dark as night.

God, how could this happen. He was lying on his side, curled up and facing away from her, almost as if he was asleep. It was so unfair, so wrong. For a moment she thought that she might faint.

‘Oh Nick, oh God, no – oh Nick, I’m so sorry –’ she sobbed, feeling a great raw, angry wave rolling up through her like an earth tremor. Seeing him there hurt so much that it almost took her breath away. There was no way she had expected it to end like this.

‘The bastards – oh Nick –’ she gasped.

Behind her the two men from the van were pulling on white paper overalls and rubber gloves, arranging a stretcher, and beside it what looked like a huge suit bag with a zip down the front. Maggie let her tears flow as she realised that it was a body bag.

And then something very, very odd happened. As she watched, the man in the blue suit looked left and right and then tapped Nick gently on the
shoulder. Very slowly he rolled over, his face splashed with blood, and then he opened one eye, and sighed. And then he grinned.

‘What –’ Maggie began, and as she spoke the world swam in and out of focus and she felt hot and cold, and then she felt herself falling forward, putting her hands down to save herself and meeting the cold sticky pool of blood under her fingertips.

‘Maggie?’ Nick said. ‘I’m all right – it was a set-up – Coleman was using blanks. It’s fake blood – Maggie?’

But even Nick couldn’t bring her back from the dark place into which she could feel her mind slipping. She could see the concern on his bloodsplattered face, felt strong arms closing around her and then the world went black. As the darkness closed over her like water she saw a stray thought scamper across the inky interior of her mind as bright as a shooting star. ‘I have never fainted in my life,’ she thought. ‘This must be what it feels like.’

The next thing Maggie was aware of was the sound of someone throwing up and the realisation that it was her. She was sitting on a picnic bench with Coleman holding her head down between her knees.

He handed her a tissue. ‘Nick?’ she began, wiping her mouth, looking around frantically. Perhaps it had been her imagination, after all. Perhaps he was still dead.

‘Take it easy, he’s all safely tucked up in the van.’ He nodded over his shoulder. ‘Where you should be, Ms Morgan – I did try to tell you.’

Maggie looked at him, trying to fathom the dark unreadable expression on his face. ‘So you
are
one of the good guys after all?’

Coleman snorted. ‘Don’t push your luck, Ms Morgan. The trouble you’ve caused me, to be honest I could have quite happily shot the fucking pair of you.’ He handed her a bottle of water. ‘The thing you have to understand is that we had no choice – unless Nick was dead those pair would never have given up.’

‘Nimrod and Cain?’

Coleman shook his head. ‘No, they were just the monkeys, not the organ grinders. No, I’m talking about their employers.’

‘Miss Organised Crime and Miss City Slicker?’

Coleman nodded. ‘As good a names as any, I suppose. Your turning up here was a pain in the arse but your reactions when Nick got shot helped to convince Messrs Nimrod and Cain that they really had witnessed an inside hit. Do you think you’re up to the walk over to the van, only we really do need to be on our way.’

Maggie nodded and didn’t resist as Coleman helped her to her feet and guided her over to the car park. ‘What happens next?’

Coleman snorted. ‘I think some of that is up to you, Maggie.’

She looked up at him. ‘Sorry?’

He grinned and then shook his head. ‘I have a feeling that Mr Lucas has something he’d like to ask you.’

Maggie looked him up and down and then laughed; Coleman was a strange choice for Cupid.

‘So what’s the food like in here, then?’ Stella Conker-eyes said, letting her gaze wander very slowly around the interior of the prison visitors’ room, all the while playing with her thick, freshly bleached, shaggy blonde hair.

Bernie Fielding shrugged. She smelt so gorgeous that he could hardly stop himself from drooling. ‘What can I tell you? It’s hardly Delia, but it’s okay, a lot better than the last place I was in.’ The room was painted battleship grey and was noisy, but in a repressed echoey way that always gave Bernie a headache. Some do-gooder or other had glued a bright yellow floral border around the room at dado-rail height. Its cheery little presence was more offensive than graffiti and made Bernie think that someone, somewhere was taking the piss.

Across the table Stella smiled warmly. ‘You look better, too – settling in. That’s good.’

He snorted. ‘What choice have I got?’

Stella tidied herself and then said earnestly, ‘I really need to talk to you, Bernie. Now that mum’s passed on I’ve been thinking about the future. Considering what to do next – you know.’ As she spoke Stella leant forward across the narrow metal table to reveal a great valley of cleavage framed by a pale pink angora sweater that struggled to contain the generous amount of creamy-white flesh.

Bernie groaned and looked away. ‘Do you have to do that, Stella? I’m going bloody crazy in here thinking about you and that body of yours.’

Stella laughed and wriggled her shoulders to make her breasts all the more obvious. ‘Oh, come off it, Bernie, I know you like a little look, you’d be disappointed if I didn’t show a little bit of skin. Would you rather I wore a nice thick cardigan and covered it all up instead, then, eh?’

Bernie reddened. ‘Well, no, I mean you can wear what you like. I was just saying how hard it gets –’ His colour intensified as the double entendre registered and Stella lifted an eyebrow to underline it ‘– to have you sitting over there no more than three feet away and me not able to get me hands on you.’

‘Oh you poor, poor thing, you. It’s not that easy on this side of the table either, you know.’ She glanced around the room. ‘And besides, you don’t really want me covering up, do you? All your friends always seem happy to see me.’

Bernie had to admit that amongst his fellow cons Stella was a very popular topic of conversation, as were her frequent letters. Two guys had already started a literacy programme on the promise of being able to delve into a photocopy of one of Stella’s more graphic efforts.

If he was perfectly honest, Bernie really hadn’t expected to hear from her again after his flit from the caravan at the Old Dairy. But – on a whim – he had decided to ring her on the off-chance just before they had come to arrest him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble?’ she’d said, sounding more concerned than he thought plausible. ‘You know me, Bernie, I wouldn’t have turned you away, you should have said something. My old mum always said I was a soft touch, but I care about people – I really do. And besides, we’re friends, aren’t we, and what are friends for?’

Bernie had nearly choked. He didn’t like to point out that they had known each other less than forty-eight hours when he had left for Somerset and his knowledge of her was mostly based on the anatomical rather than some deep spiritual connection. But apparently he was mistaken; it certainly gave bosom buddies a whole new meaning.

At that point Stella had paused and said, ‘I saw that programme they did about you on ITV. You know – the
Gotcha
special,’ she added archly in
case he had missed the point. ‘And I said to mum, God rest her soul, I said it all sounds a bit farfetched to me, Mum, he seemed like such a nice chap when he was here. Polite, considerate, the perfect gentleman. We had a lovely evening together at the Lark and Buzzard and he was chivalry itself, I said. And she just nodded and said they had to make it up to get the people to watch – just look at the Royal family and Coronation Street and that.’

And much to Bernie’s amazement Stella truly seemed to believe those good things about him, something for which Bernie was immeasurably grateful and stunned by turns.

Stella tried to jiffle the seat forward until she realised it was bolted to the floor, giving him a clear view practically down to her navel.

‘So, have you missed me, then?’ she purred.

Bernie groaned again. ‘What do
you
think?’ he said. ‘Hardly a minute goes by when I don’t think about you.’ Which, oddly enough, was also true.

She grinned. ‘A girl likes to know where she stands.’

During the time he had been in prison Bernie had wondered at first if Stella was attracted to the idea of him being a little bit risky and dangerous, a little bit of rough on the side to add spice to an otherwise dull life. After all, life in a post office didn’t strike him as being a hotbed of excitement. Worse still, he wondered whether
Stella had been taken in by Robbie Hughes’s barely veiled suggestion that Bernie had a great stash of money hidden away somewhere in a numbered Swiss account for when he got out; the ill-gotten profits of his bad-boy ways. If only it was true. But whatever it was, since he had gone down for fraud Stella had visited Bernie regularly and written at least twice a week – every week.

In fact, Stella Conker-eyes’s, wildly explicit letters were becoming legendary in prison circles, loaded with their double entendre and interesting and elaborate suggestions about what she planned to do to him once he was out and she could get her dirty little paws on his warm little body. For a postmistress, Stella had a very vivid imagination.

‘I’ve been thinking about the future,’ she said. ‘You know, where we go from here –’

‘Okay,’ said Bernie guardedly.

‘With Mum gone there’s nothing keeping me in the post office really. I was thinking that maybe it was time for me to move on. You know, look towards the future.’ Stella held Bernie’s gaze and pouted suggestively as if waiting for him to comment. He felt his heart sink and wondered what she expected him to say. Was the next letter he was going get from Stella one that began, Dear John?

In the end Bernie settled for simple repetition. ‘The future?’ he said flatly.

She nodded and then giggled, her long earrings
jangling. ‘Yes, Bernie, don’t look so worried, honey. The future – our future.’

Bernie stared at her in astonishment. ‘Our future? What do you mean
our future
?’

The giggle continued. ‘Don’t sound so stunned. A girl’s allowed to dream, a little bit, isn’t she? I’ve been thinking that perhaps we could set up a little business somewhere, you know, you and me. I quite fancied settling down somewhere nice and warm. I like the sunshine, me, and I’ve not had a decent holiday for years because Mum wasn’t keen on flying. So what I had in mind is beaches, good nightlife, nice shops –’

Bernie waited, presumably there was more to this plan.

‘I’ve brought you in a few brochures to have a little look at,’ she said, hefting her bag up onto her lap.

As she did Stella signalled to one of the prison officers, who came over and checked the sheets of paper she gave him. He smiled and nodded and paused to check out Stella’s cleavage at the same time.

Once they were given the all clear Bernie took the photocopied sheets and had a quick shufty through the various pages and photos before looking up at her in astonishment. ‘Is this some sort of wind up, Stella?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. Why?’ She sounded hurt.

‘Because these places are in the Canaries; Lanzarote, Tenerife, Gran Canaria. They aren’t bloody time-share, are they?’ he asked anxiously, worried that his past might finally have come back to haunt him in the most ironic of ways. ‘You haven’t put any money down or anything, have you?’

‘No, you’re not looking properly, Bernie – they’re mostly shops and little apartment complexes –’

‘Are you serious?’ he spluttered.

Stella smiled. ‘Well of course I’m serious. I’ve been doing a lot of research over the last few weeks. Ringing round, searching on the Net, that kind of thing, and I’ve found this really nice little supermarket down on the front in Puerto del Carmen. That’s in Lanzarote. There, that one there –’ she said, pulling a wedge of paper out of the bundle. ‘Three little studio apartments tacked on the side round a courtyard, good all-year trading figures, long lazy siestas, sangria on the terrace of a night-time. Just a four hour flight from London. How do you fancy a drop of that, then, Bernie?’

Bernie looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’ he repeated.

She nodded again. ‘Of course I am. Only thing is it would all have to be in my name on everything, what with your record and that. And I need to have my accountant have a closer look at the
figures – and until you’re done in here I’m going to have to put a manager in – but I was thinking that maybe we could make a fresh start. You and me. Our own little place in the sun.’

Bernie let the idea run through his mind like a good tune, smiled for a few moments and then very sadly shook his head. ‘I can’t, Stella.’ It was very tempting but it was time to let Stella off the hook. He had promised too much to too many gods up on the cliff top at Minehead to go back to his old ways now.

‘Please, don’t think that I’m not flattered, Stella, or ungrateful, but there is something that I have to tell you.’

Across the table he had her full and undivided attention. ‘You’re not already married are you, Bernie?’ she asked nervously. ‘You’ve not got another woman tucked away somewhere in the wings?’

Bernie laughed. ‘No, Stella, you’re all that any man could ever want. It’s that the story about me having a pot of ill-gotten gold stashed away somewhere was just Robbie Hughes’s over-active imagination. I’m flat-busted broke. When I get out of here my first job will probably be signing on.’ He set the details of the supermarket back down on the table. ‘I really am touched – believe me, it’s a lovely thought, but I haven’t got a bean, Stella, not a red cent. Nothing.’

Stella looked relieved. ‘God, is that all? I
thought it was something serious. In that case, Bernie, you’ll just have to work your arse off for me, then, won’t you.’

He stared at her; remarkably, she was still smiling. It seemed that against all the odd the gods had taken notice of Bernie’s rash promises and were rewarding him in spades. He grinned and picked up the agent’s details again. ‘Lanzarote, you say? I’ve never been myself, but it looks a nice sort of place.’

Stella nodded, and seeing his enthusiasm lifted up her handbag. ‘It is. I’ve got loads of photos that they’ve sent me,’ she said.

Meanwhile, tucked up in an enormous leather swivel chair in her new corner office, Lesley was flipping through her desk diary to check out the shape of the day. She was having a working lunch with the new
Gotcha
team, followed by a meeting with the Big Boss Lady upstairs at two o’clock. She was booked into the editing suite for a three o’clock session just to fine tune a few things for the evening’s broadcast, then a full body massage and swim at five and, after the programme was aired, she had been invited to a celebrity fundraising supper at the Café Royal with Dale Winton.

Lesley stretched, cracked her knuckles and then pressed one of the intercom buttons on her desk. ‘Could you bring me in a cappuccino, please? Oh,
and some of those nice little Belgian biscuits if there are any left.’

‘Certainly, Ms Jarman,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘And I have those letters for you to sign.’

‘Good.’ Along with a corner office Lesley had also finally retrieved her surname.

When Lesley had arrived back at the studios after her adventures in deepest Somerset with Robbie, and had got the call from upstairs, she had assumed – encouraged by Robbie – that she was most probably destined for the chop. But fortunately Robbie Hughes was about as good at predicting the moods and intentions of his boss as he was of assessing his current degree of popularity.

The boss was succinct and to the point. ‘To be honest, we feel that it’s time for a change, my dear –’ At which point Lesley’s heart had sunk like a stone; Robbie was right after all, she was getting the boot. ‘Time that we dragged
Gotcha
kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century –’

The older woman had pressed her carmine fingertips together into a steeple and peered across the great expanse of grey slate desk, her dark kohlrimmed eyes moving very slowly over Lesley’s pale nervous face. ‘We think it’s time to bring some new blood and fresh ideas on board. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Lesley, and we’ve been very impressed by your approach. You’re thorough, well-organised and come across as warm,
too. We have had several people ring in to say how much they liked your contributions to the show.’ She picked up a piece of paper and read, ‘Lesley Jarman is a real breath of fresh air –’ and then continued, ‘and you did very well in one of our recent viewer surveys.’ She paused, letting the words sink in. ‘We’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s time you had a bigger slice of the
Gotcha
pie, Lesley. You’re young – well-educated – obviously on the way up and yet you still have a certain, what shall we say? A certain untouched, rather charming naïvety without losing any sense of gravitas.’ Lesley’s boss turned her attention back to the single sheet of paper on her otherwise empty desk and scanned down over the contents. ‘You scored very well with all our target groups – which, trust me, is quite rare.’

Lesley waited nervously, still not certain where this was leading, and then the older woman smiled, revealing a perfect set of shark-white teeth.

‘Well, my dear?’ she said, leaning back in her big black leather chair. Lesley smiled back. ‘Are you excited?’

‘Yes, of course I’m excited,’ Lesley said diplomatically, still not altogether sure whether it was a trick question, or what exactly it was she was meant to be excited about, but far too nervous to ask.

The boss smiled again. ‘As from next month I
have a feeling your life may well change forever. Enjoy your relative anonymity while you can – you have got an agent, haven’t you? I can recommend one if you haven’t. Fame can be a great servant but a terrible master –’