Hot Pursuit (7 page)

‘Oh good morning,’ said a cultured female voice. ‘Could I speak to Margaret Morgan, please?’

‘Speaking,’ Maggie said guardedly, not exactly sure what might follow; being a teacher she had toyed on more than one occasion with the idea of going ex-directory.

The woman sounded relieved. ‘I’m sorry to ring you so early but I wondered if you could help me. I’m trying to track down Bernie Fielding – and I –’

‘Oh right. Good,’ Maggie said, cutting the woman short. Down in the garden they had finally agreed to settle the problem with a penalty shootout. ‘He was expecting someone to be in touch – if you can just hang on a minute I’ll go and get him for you.’

‘Get him? What he’s there?’ said the woman incredulously. ‘With you?’

‘Well, of course he is, I could hardly throw him
out on the street, could I? Although I have to admit the idea crossed my mind. I’m certain he’ll be incredibly relieved once all of this is sorted out.’

The woman took a breath. ‘Really? Are you saying that Bernie is prepared to talk to us?’

Maggie laughed. ‘Well of course he is, what other option does he have? You know where he is, you know what he’s been up to. Hang on, I’ll just go and fetch him for you –’

‘No, no, there’s no need,’ said the woman quickly. ‘By the way, could I just confirm who I am speaking to?’

‘Maggie,’ said Maggie, ‘Maggie Morgan.’

‘Bernie’s ex-wife?’

‘Well I suppose you could say that,’ said Maggie, laughing nervously. This wasn’t quite how she had expected the conversation to go.

‘Right, well that’s absolutely wonderful,’ said the woman. ‘We’d like to come round and talk to him today if that’s possible.’

‘I’m sure that will be just fine,’ said Maggie. It didn’t sound as if this woman knew what she was doing – no wonder Nick had ended up in such a mess. ‘What time will you be here?’

The woman hesitated and then said, ‘Shall we say after lunch? Around two? Will that be all right?’

‘I’m sure it’ll be perfectly okay – I don’t think he’s got any plans to go anywhere. I’ll let him
know you called.’ Maggie glanced back out into the garden, and as she did so the bedroom clock caught her eye. It was nine. She smiled. Just another five hours and everything would be back to normal.

In the garden Joe had taken a dive – or at least that was what Ben said. Maggie hurried downstairs to tell Nick the news.

Lesley, Robbie Hughes’ personal assistant, dropped the phone back into its cradle and smiled triumphantly. ‘Gotcha,’ she hissed in an undertone and then shook her head with amazement.

It seemed almost ridiculously easy now; it was only her third phone call of the morning. Bernie’s mum had been taken away and put in a home or so the woman who was living in her bungalow reckoned. Although it had occurred to Lesley as she hung up that given Bernie’s track record and the fact that he had to have got it from somewhere the woman could well have been lying.

His first wife had sworn and then hung up after suggesting exactly what Lesley might like to do to Bernie if she ever found him, and then bingo!
Voila
. Third time lucky. Lesley smiled.

It was hard to believe that after all these years Bernie Fielding was finally there, slap bang in their sights. Lesley chewed her lip, her heart fluttering; it almost felt like divine intervention. Surely it was meant to be.

For an instant she caught a glimpse of Robbie’s face in her mind’s eye. She imagined his gratitude, his delight and with it came a fantasy fast-forward of images clamouring for her attention, ending with a registry-office wedding and then a church blessing; with Robbie, resplendent in top hat and tails, making a speech at their reception in a creamy-white marquee pitched on her parents’ lawn.

‘It was when we were first working together at
Gotcha
that I realised that I really couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life without my dearest, darling, precious Lesley-kins,’ said Robbie, holding up a champagne flute in a toast while looking deep into her eyes. ‘I’m such a lucky, lucky man to have found such a perfect woman.’

Lesley sighed.

‘You’re in early this morning, you want something off the trolley, do ya chuck?’ said the tea lady through the open office door. Lesley blushed furiously and hastily tidied her thoughts away in case the other woman could somehow see them.

‘No, no I’m fine,’ she said, ‘but thank you for asking.’

‘I hope you’re on overtime,’ said the woman, straightening her pinny.

Lesley made a noncommittal noise.

‘Or at least getting some of the credit,’ said the woman, settling herself behind the handle of the trolley. ‘The last lassie worked with him was just
the same. In here all hours of the day and night working her fingers to the bone for him, you know.’ She nodded towards the desk in case there was some mistake about who she meant.

Lesley looked up sharply and then chose to let it pass. Unlike the last lassie, whoever the hell that might be,
she
had tracked down Bernie Fielding. And she knew that Robbie would be delighted, although just how delighted remained to be seen.

Lesley stared up at the clock; it wasn’t going to be easy to pull the film crew together by two. Robbie normally didn’t get in till around eleven, sometimes later. She took it as a compliment, as if he trusted her, leaving his baby in safe hands. Not that Lesley ever told anyone that, oh no she was a loyal little bunny and if anyone ever asked she said Robbie had nipped out to get a sandwich or to chase up an important lead. But this morning things were different; they were on the home run. She needed his clout to order up the away team and knew instinctively that now Bernie was in the crosshairs Robbie would want to be at the helm.

Lesley picked up the phone; if they could just get the footage and get it edited, with a bit of luck they could air Bernie Fielding’s interview or, better still, perhaps his confession on this evening’s show. Finally the Bernie Fielding special was in their sights. Lesley considered the options one more time and then broke one of the unwritten rules
of both a good mistress and good PA. She phoned Robbie at home.

In Norfolk, Nick was wandering around Maggie’s back garden, turning over the things he wanted to say to Coleman, not that there were that many of them if you cut out the swearing, the anger and the statements of total disbelief.

Through the windows he could see Maggie washing up and fussing round the boys, busy pretending not to be keeping an eye on him. She was lovely. He stopped and imagined for a few moments what it might be like to have the three of them as a family. His family. He smiled to himself – Maggie Morgan would be a good woman to come home to. She was warm and funny; sexy in an easy unselfconscious way and…Nick stopped himself and sighed before looking down at his watch; it was pointless dreaming. Coleman and his merry men should be there soon, although the minutes seemed to be dragging by like hours.

Nick took another turn around the lawn. The grass desperately needed cutting. Had Maggie not shown up he had planned to mow it over the weekend, and he realised as the thought percolated through his head that he had been looking forward to doing the garden: it felt like a talisman, an offering to the gods of simple domesticity.

He had hoped that somewhere, out on the distant horizon, he might just eventually be safe.
At the cottage over the last few days Nick had briefly caught a fleeting glimpse of how things might be – not immediately, but some time in an uncharted, unspecified future, when life began to unfold simply and without the sense of fear that had followed him around like a dog for the last few months. For a moment Nick had had a feeling that things were going to be all right after all and that he wouldn’t be running forever…and now look at it. Back to square one.

Maybe it still would be all right, maybe this really was just a glitch. Mind wandering, Nick caught his foot in a tussock and barely saved himself from pitching head first into the compost heap. Yeah and maybe pigs would fly.

He caught Maggie looking at him again. She grinned and then looked away. Nick stuffed his hands in his pockets and did another lap. What would become of him now? Where would Coleman and his merry men cart him off to? Who would he be next? The thought made Nick sick to the pit of his stomach. If they couldn’t do this properly what hope was there?

He took another look at his watch and took a deep breath; he was sick of the way his emotions seesawed from high to low and back. Another twenty minutes or so and, assuming Coleman was on time, everything would change all over again, his life no more than the coloured glass beads at the bottom of a kaleidoscope.

Maggie was still looking him through the window and this time Nick smiled back, after all she was the closest thing to family he had got for now.

Robbie Hughes glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror of the outside-broadcast van and made a few last minute adjustments to his appearance. He smoothed his hair and then licked a finger and tidied his eyebrows. He winked at his reflection, practising the warm reassuring twinkle that he was famous for. Robbie felt good, better than good, he felt great.

He was wearing black jeans, boots, and the shirt that Lesley had given him for Christmas, in a heavy jade-green silk. She said it made him look slimmer and slightly dangerous; like an avenging pirate, an image Robbie was only too happy to cultivate. He pulled on his favourite black leather jacket and then posed for a few seconds trying to get some glimpse of what his viewing public would see on screen. Perfect.

Robbie had mentioned to his wife over breakfast that he was thinking of getting his ear pierced
and she had laughed, which wasn’t nice, and then made some sarcastic comment about the onset of the male menopause. He sniffed; just showed what she knew. Robbie was a man in his prime.

The crew had already driven past Bernie Fielding’s cottage several times in the last halfhour; once to get their bearings and then a few slow passes to get some decent long shots of the place, all snuggled up there in amongst hedgerows and roses and old fruit trees. It was a nice setting. It would make a good contrast to the main thrust of the piece; the menace of a viper curled up in a wedding bouquet. Oh yes, Robbie had got it all worked out.

Beside him Lesley looked up and smiled nervously. He had been in two minds whether to bring her along or not, but after all it had been her that had finally tracked Bernie down. It would have been churlish of him not to let her in at the kill.

Robbie checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was almost a quarter to two. Arriving early was a ploy Robbie Hughes was very fond of using and as a tactic it had worked nicely over the years. He liked to catch his victims slightly off-guard, catch them while they were still pulling their pants up, or down, or doing some last minute tidying away of God only knows what. In the past he had caught people burning stuff, burying stuff
and on one memorable occasion climbing off the next-door-neighbour’s wife. Oh yes, early was good. Early and dangerous more or less summed him up; Robbie straightened his shoulders.

‘Are we ready, then?’ The crew looked up at him; it was a feeling he enjoyed. ‘Let’s go then, lads. Time to rock and roll – lock and load,’ Robbie said, signalling a whirling rotor blade with one finger, and with that he opened the side door and dropped down out of the transit van. In his mind’s eye he was storming the beachhead, charging ahead of his troops, leading them on to death or glory. Winston would have been proud of him.

‘Now, you know what I want,’ he called back over his shoulder to his troops as they headed briskly up the front path. ‘Whatever else happens keep that camera rolling, keep it steady, and keep your cool, lads; as long as we’ve got the raw footage in the can we can cut it into shape when we get back to the shop. Capiche?’

The cameraman nodded.

‘And Lesley?’ She looked up at Robbie all dewyeyed adoration and lust. ‘I want you to stay back; if there’s any chance of anyone getting hurt I don’t want it to be you; you understand?’ And then to the rest of the crew, ‘Remember what I said guys, this man has taken years to track down, so we don’t want to blow it now. He is unpredictable. We’ve finally got him cornered – on the one hand
we don’t want to let him go but what we don’t know is why he wants to talk now. He could be ill, mad, suicidal – we’ve no idea – so watch your backs and let’s be careful out there, okay?’

Everyone nodded. Robbie couldn’t think of anything else to say so instead he gave them a double thumbs-up and marched smartly up to the front door, cued in the cameraman and rang the bell. The sound engineer was grinning but Robbie ignored him.

‘Maggie Fielding?’ he said to the attractive dark-haired woman who opened the door to him.

‘Well, not really, not now, no,’ she began, looking slightly bemused, but Robbie was on a roll, part jackhammer, part unctuous, fawning diplomat.

‘So what name are you using now, then?’ he said with affected warmth. It was important not to come across as too hard too early. The worst thing that could happen was that he lost the sympathy of his audience and they sided with the villains. No, it was important to come across as firm but fair, an avenging angel with impeccably good manners. He had been hoping that Bernie’s ex-wife would turn out to be a bottle blonde with a face like a hatchet so he was more than a little disappointed to find out that she looked so respectable.

The woman looked from face to face, and then said. ‘Maggie Morgan, but I’m not
using it
, that
is my name. I’m sorry but I don’t understand what’s going on here,’ she said nervously. ‘What
is
going on?’

‘Is Bernie in?’ Robbie’s smile held fast.

The woman stared past him towards the cameraman and sound crew. ‘Well, yes, he’s out in the garden at the moment, waiting for you, but he wasn’t expecting all this. I thought this operation was meant to be a top secret. Low-profile. Invisible.’

Robbie laughed and then beckoned the camera to follow him. ‘Is that what Bernie told you? Amazing, isn’t it, what he can come up with? Still up to his old tricks, I see, even with his nearest and dearest. He has always had an over-active imagination has our Bernie; tells punters he’s a Gulf-war veteran, a paramedic, anything to convince you he’s on the level. But we both know better than that, don’t we, Maggie?’

The woman’s eyes widened.

‘Oh yes,’ Robbie continued. ‘He likes to keep things under wraps, does our Mr Fielding. He’s out in the garden now, waiting, is he?’ Robbie’s attention had already shifted onto the great anonymous viewing public who would witness this introduction, which, after a judicious bit of editing, would be great television. Investigative journalism at its best.

As they made their way through the cottage Robbie continued his conversation to camera, all
the while composing and imagining the impact of the images in his mind; hardened conman in the great outdoors, playing happy families with his ex-wife.

On the stairs two small boys watched his progress with a combination of suspicion and interest and then, Robbie noted with a sense of delight, recognition. Ex-wife
and
children, things were getting better all the time.

‘Mum,’ said the older of the two trying to grab the woman’s arm, ‘Mum – that’s – that’s –’ He pointed at Robbie but it was too late, he’d missed the boat – they were already through into the sitting room.

Throwing back his shoulders Robbie began another piece to camera. ‘After years of rigorous investigation we have finally managed to track Bernie Fielding to earth. Finally it seems that he wants to come clean and talk to someone about his numerous exploits. That’s right isn’t it, Maggie?’ He smiled wolfishly in her direction. ‘Maggie,’ he tried. ‘Mags?’ The woman didn’t move a muscle. Her colour had changed to a strange angry shade of grey.

‘Bernie Fielding is currently holed up in a tiny cottage deep in the heart of rural East Anglia. West Brayfield is a sleepy hamlet with a viper in its bosom.’

‘What?’ the woman spluttered furiously. ‘What the hell do you mean, “a viper in its bosom”?’ At
which point a tall, good-looking man loped up to the French windows.

‘I heard the bell,’ he said, smiling pleasantly at Maggie, ‘they’re a bit early, aren’t they?’

Robbie smiled with delight. He wasn’t sure who Bernie and his woman had been expecting that afternoon but every instinct told him it sure as hell hadn’t been the guys from
Gotcha
. Then there was a delicious moment when Bernie stepped in through the French windows and everything stopped.

The man looked from face to face, took a breath as if to speak and at that precise moment Robbie stepped forward and smiled. Robbie had to admit that his prey was somewhat better-looking and considerably more composed than he had expected, but then the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

‘Here we at long last,’ Robbie said, with an icy edge to his voice. ‘So, Mr Fielding, where exactly shall we begin?’

The man sighed. ‘To be perfectly honest I’m really worried about all the things that have been going on. It should have been so straightforward. That’s what I was led to believe –’ And then he looked round again, as if he was aware of the cameras for the first time. He stared at the dark-haired woman and then said, ‘What exactly is going on here, Maggie – I wasn’t expecting any of this.’

Before she could answer, Robbie snorted. ‘Oh come on, Bernie, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? There is no point playing Mr Innocent with us. We have all the evidence against you we need. We know what kind of man you are. Are you honestly planning to deny that you’ve tricked hundreds of people out of thousands of pounds? Narrowly missed killing and maiming God knows how many others with your cheap electrical imports and shoddy workmanship? Robbed dozens, if not hundreds, of their entire life savings? This is your day of reckoning, Bernie – the one chance you may have to have your say. Judgement day.’ Robbie knew that it sounded a little melodramatic but it would be great once they’d played around with the close-ups.

The man stared at him in amazement. ‘What? Yes, of course I deny it. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ he blustered, looking from face to face in desperation. ‘Where’s Coleman?’

Robbie, to camera, ranted on, ‘You are a menace, Bernie – a social pariah.’

‘No, I’m not,’ snapped the man.

‘Well, of course we can hardly expect you to say otherwise, can we? In my experience the leopard never changes his spots. What can you say in your defence? That you didn’t know anything about any of it? That you were framed? That it was a middleman – a big boy did it and
ran away?’ Robbie laughed sarcastically, the volume of his voice rising as his tone became increasingly incredulous.

The guy stared at him, mouth open. ‘I have got absolutely no idea what you are talking about,’ he said.

At which point Maggie leapt into action, trying to cover the camera lens with her hand. ‘Look, there has been some sort of mistake. Get out,’ she snapped. ‘Now! You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I don’t know why you’re here – can’t you see that you’ve got the wrong man? I’m calling the police.’

‘Really? Calling the police? That’s rich with your boy Bernie’s history.’

Maggie had picked up the phone and started to dial.

And then Robbie saw some parody of comprehension dawn on the man’s face and he gasped and said, ‘Oh you think that
I’m
Bernie Fielding –’

Robbie snorted; it was a masterly performance. ‘Nice try, Bernie, but you don’t fool me. I’ll warn you now that
Gotcha
will never rest until justice is done. We’re like the Mounties, we always get our man.’

Robbie felt a great wave of triumph, the expression on Bernie Fielding’s face was pure gold. The film crew by some unspoken consensus were already backing slowly out of the cottage but Robbie sensed that it was Bernie who was
on the run. If the crew got arrested so much the better.

The man was ashen. ‘Look, you can’t do this,’ he stammered, hurrying after them. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing – Jesus – look you can’t use that film – stop this now, please,’ he pleaded. ‘There’s been a terrible mistake, I thought you were – you were –’ He stopped as if the words had dammed up in his throat. ‘Somebody else.’

‘That much is obvious, Bernie, but it’s time that you had a little bit of your own medicine. We’re going to get you –’ snapped Robbie, jabbing a finger at his chest. ‘If you won’t talk to us today, well there’s always another day. We’d like to hear your side of the story; you can have a chance to set the record straight.’ Robbie’s tone was heavy with irony – or maybe it was sarcasm? He always got those two muddled up.

The cameraman gave him an okay sign with thumb and forefinger. Robbie grinned and hurried down the path. They’d have the footage ready to broadcast on tonight’s show; Robbie had been collecting evidence and statements on film for years. It was just a matter of cutting it into the segment; maybe it would make a whole show. Finally, the Bernie Fielding special. Robbie grinned. He’d show Madam Upstairs that he could bring home the bacon under pressure.
Passé
my arse.

‘Don’t you see, you’re making a terrible mistake,’ Maggie called after them.

Robbie smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Fielding, I plan to get your Bernie and hang him out to dry.’

‘But you can’t, you don’t understand – they’ll kill me if they find me,’ her companion protested.

‘And so they bloody well should,’ said Robbie, as he and the crew scrambled back into the safety of the van.

‘Where to now?’ asked the driver.

Robbie grinned. ‘Back to the studio, my good man. We’ve got a show to put on.’

Lesley looked up at him with those big liquid eyes of hers, and for a moment Robbie felt like a God.

Nick stood in the sitting room, his mouth open, his eyes glazed over, totally glued to the spot.

Maggie stared at him, realising that some part of her assumed he would know exactly what to do. She was trembling.

‘He was that man off the telly,’ said Ben.

‘Are we going to be on the telly?’ asked Joe brightly.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that Bernie Fielding was a crook?’ Nick snapped.

Maggie watched his expression as he explored her face, trying to weigh her up. She didn’t let her gaze drop; Bernie Fielding was history. ‘Because
it isn’t important, Nick. I was a kid when I met him –’ she began, aware that she sounded defensive. ‘And it was a long time ago –’

‘Not according to them –’ Nick waved towards the door.

‘What Bernie Fielding gets up to is nothing to do with me,’ said Maggie.

Nick still hadn’t moved. ‘It is now,’ he said, and then the ice melted. ‘Do you know what just happened? Those mad bastards filmed me. Here. I was supposed to be
safe
here. They filmed me because they thought I was Bernie Fielding. If those women find me they’ll kill me. Do you understand? They’ll kill me.’