Authors: Catherine Hunt
Ben Morgan didn’t want to fight. It was bad for him, brought him down to a bad place, he knew that. The conversation had not gone as he expected. It had gone all wrong. Harry had got so angry. He hadn’t expected that but he realized he should have done. Of course, Harry was angry. Wasn’t he angry himself? Angry beyond belief.
He had woken up full of energy and confidence, pumped up – today was the day he would see Harry and explain that he could sort out his problems. No-one was going to stop him this time. He would talk to the police guard, persuade them to let him through, no trouble at all. When he discovered that the police were gone, he had taken it as a sure sign he was destined to succeed.
It should have been easy but it was falling apart. He was handling the whole thing badly. He hadn’t thought it through properly. Not properly at all. He needed to run.
Harry Pelham was shouting at him again, demanding information. He had to get away. Harry leaned across and shoved his hand in a pocket of Morgan’s scruffy jacket. He pulled out a town centre map, a biro, and a Brighton and Hove bus saver ticket. Disgusted, he threw them on the bed, reached for the other pocket. But Ben Morgan had had enough. He jumped up from his chair out of Harry’s grasp, leapt across the bed and ran, almost colliding with the nurse on her way to see what all the fuss was about.
The speed of his flight took Harry by surprise. Too late, he tried to grab hold of the man’s legs. But he was gone, taking his secrets with him, leaving Harry Pelham cursing himself for letting him get away.
As soon as she was a safe distance away, Laura sat down to rest. She looked at the pictures she’d taken but they were blurry and dark and the wires couldn’t be seen. She thought about waiting around for a while and then going back but she was nervous of running into the landowner again, and in any case, the light was almost gone.
She must find a witness, someone who would come back with her and verify the wire on the trees. She headed for the stables where her car was parked. She tried to run but the pain of breathing made her give it up.
It was obvious, she thought, that the landowner knew nothing about the wire or who had put it there. By the look on his face it had been as big a surprise to him as it had been to her. Someone then, someone unknown to both of them, had deliberately placed it there, on the route she always took. Three days ago, the car chase, now this. Her suspicions grew large. Someone out there wanted to hurt her; didn’t mind if they killed her. Someone out there had been watching her, maybe was still watching her. She looked around nervously in the cold, dark afternoon.
Michael Donoghue was waiting for her when she reached the stables. He was in a very bad mood and he read her the Riot Act. There was no excuse for trespassing, he told her, and causing trouble for him with a difficult neighbour. He’d only just sorted out a boundary dispute with the man. She was a lawyer, weren’t they supposed to stick to the rules? He didn’t wait for an answer but simply told her that she could no longer use the stables. She was barred.
Donoghue was an easy-going Irishman and although she knew he had every reason to ban her, she still felt as if he’d slapped her in the face. Her shoulders slumped in the torn riding jacket.
‘Hey,’ he said, softening and putting his arm around her. ‘You know I have to do that, for now anyway. Come back when it’s all blown over.’
‘Thanks.’ Laura attempted a grin.
‘I’m sorry about the horse. I heard you’re trying to save him but with those kind of injuries … ’ he shrugged, ‘what I mean is you shouldn’t feel guilty.’
It was exactly what the vet had said; a gentle way of telling her she should put Valentine out of his misery.
‘I just want to give it a try, you know, in case … ’ her voice wavered.
‘It’s going to cost you. The insurance won’t pay out, not when they find out you were trespassing.’
Laura nodded. She gave up the idea of asking Michael to come with her to see the wires; it was plain he wouldn’t want to get involved, and limped away towards her car. He watched as she manoeuvred herself painfully into the driving seat of the Audi. Some people, he thought, had a lot more money than sense.
It was shortly after five when she arrived at the police station in John Street in central Brighton. She walked through the reception area, feeling a bit light-headed, towards a row of bulletproof screens behind which the police dealt with the public. At one of them stood three sullen looking teenagers dressed in hoodies, baggy jeans, and trainers. A young policeman was booking them in and they looked bored by the whole exercise. They stared at Laura with interest.
Her mobile rang. It was Joe, at last, and just the sound of his voice brought such a rush of relief that her legs went weak. She veered across to a bench by the wall and dropped down on it. The teenagers waved, calling to her across the room.
He’d rung as soon as he’d got her messages, he said. How badly hurt was she? Had she been to the hospital? Where was she now? He was so sorry he’d been out of contact. He had gone out and left his mobile behind, the way you do sometimes when you’re in a rush. He was on his way to her right now.
She told him she was at the police station and she told him why she was there and he sounded shocked. He also sounded incredulous. How could she be sure it was deliberate? It was pretty unlikely wasn’t it? Maybe when she’d had time to calm down, things would look different. Through her relief, she felt a spark of annoyance. She had been keeping her voice low, trying to avoid the teenage audience, but now it rose higher as she emphasized her worries. The boys laughed, started to repeat bits of her conversation.
Another policeman, a sergeant, appeared behind the screens. He told the boys to shut it, glanced at her impatiently as she talked on the phone. As quietly as possible she assured Joe she was fine and he needn’t come and get her. After talking to the police she’d drive straight home and then it would be great if he would take her to hospital.
‘Tell your old man not to bother because I’d love to take you,’ called one of the boys. They all sniggered.
She stood up, went to the screen farthest away from them and waited as the sergeant rather slowly headed in her direction. He was in his fifties, balding with his remaining grey hair cut very short and he looked like he had seen it all. There was a sceptical, slightly amused expression on his face as he listened to what she said. She could tell what he was thinking, that she was hysterical and imagining things, and she told her tale with increasing frustration.
It was always going to be difficult to convince him. She had known that. But there were ways of presenting things, persuasive ways which she knew all about, which she used regularly at work, with success, but was failing to use here. She was handling it badly. To her own ears the story sounded weak and she sounded neurotic.
‘I think someone may be trying to kill me, certainly to injure me.’
She said this early on and knew at once it was a mistake. It sounded like the start of a bad black and white movie and his lips set in disbelief. Dutifully he wrote down the details she gave him. She wondered if he had entitled them ‘drama queen’.
She told him about the car chase; pointed out that it had been serious enough for her to report it to the police, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. Certainly it did not wipe the doubting look from his face.
He scratched the sparse bristles on the top of his head and said: ‘Just to be clear, you say you left the usual riders’ route and crossed onto private land. Let’s put aside for now the fact that you were riding where you shouldn’t have been, and just explain to me how anyone else could have known you’d be there?’
‘Because I ride there every Saturday. At about the same time, on the same route.’
‘So every Saturday you trespass on someone else’s property. Do they know you do that?’
‘It’s not for long, just a shortcut to the top of the Downs,’ she said defensively.
‘Maybe the landowner takes a different view. Maybe he put this wire up to teach you a lesson.’
‘This has got nothing to do with the landowner,’ she said, exasperated, ‘I told you he knew nothing about it.’
‘I’m probably being a bit thick, Mrs Greene, but how do you know that?’
‘It was obvious. From his reaction when he saw the wire.’
‘So who do you think is responsible for this deliberate attack upon your person?’ he asked with heavy sarcasm.
Laura hesitated, uncertain whether to mention Harry Pelham. She thought it could be him but she had no evidence. It was something she would rather raise first with the detective Barnes.
‘I’m not sure. But whoever it is knows my habits. They must have been following me and … ’
She stopped again, aware that it sounded melodramatic. He was making another note on his pad. She didn’t think it was a good note.
He studied her. She was a nice-looking woman if a bit dishevelled. She’d had a traumatic day that had been too much for her. It was a shame. Still, he wasn’t a nurse or a psychiatrist. He was expecting another hectic Saturday night full of drunks and punch-ups and he didn’t want any more of his precious down-time disturbed by her nonsense.
‘All right’ he said looking down at his notes, ‘I’ve got all the details. Someone will be in touch.’
‘No,’ she said hotly, ‘that’s not good enough. ‘Will you send someone to look at that wire?’ She was almost shouting at him. She glanced towards the boys to see if they’d heard, then was angry with herself for caring. They had lost interest anyway. The young officer had finished with them and they were shuffling off towards the exit.
The sceptical look on the sergeant’s face was replaced by annoyance.
Know your enemy, she thought, that was the first rule in court, and she had broken it. She had behaved in exactly the wrong way. She was being aggressive and strident. He was not the kind of man to like that, she thought, he would make a point of not being pushed. Nor, she guessed, was it likely that he would be swayed by tears.
‘We’re very stretched at the minute,’ he told her in a wooden tone of voice. It implied that if they had nothing at all to do they’d still be too busy to attend to this.
Laura could see that he was practised in the art of getting rid of nuisance members of the public and he had put her firmly in that category. She’d blown it and she wouldn’t get any further with him. It had been an exercise in how not to get your point across.
‘Look,’ he said, in a trying to be helpful tone, ‘you’ve told me you were riding on private land when the accident happened. That means it’s a civil matter and really has nothing to do with us unless there’s some hard evidence of criminal intent. I would advise you to see a solicitor. We have a duty one here you can speak to if you don’t have one of your own.’
She wanted to shout in his disbelieving face, to tell him that since she was a solicitor she may as well go and talk to herself as that would be more productive than talking to him. Instead she smiled and told him what her job was.
He had the grace to laugh and she wished she had tried humour on him from the start.
She asked if he’d mind checking for her if Detective Inspector David Barnes was working that weekend and available to talk to her.
‘He’ll know me as Laura Maxwell, my work name, from Morrison Kemp solicitors.’
She wondered if the name would ring a bell with him, wondered if he was the same sergeant she’d spoken to when she was tracking down the officer in charge of Harry Pelham’s case.
If she’d hoped to make him take her more seriously, she was disappointed. He couldn’t give details of officers’ whereabouts, he told her, but if she left a phone number he’d make sure the detective knew she wanted to speak to him. He’d also make sure, she thought, that Barnes was fully aware of his opinion of her.
She wrote down a number for him and said goodbye. He watched her leave with the same cynical expression he’d had all along.
All of a sudden, she felt very sore indeed. Now there was no urgent action driving her on, her brain was registering the pain. Her back and hip had stiffened up, every move and every breath hurt.
She pushed open the glass doors of the police station and walked out into a clear night. It was very cold but the earlier wind had dropped and a brilliant full moon hung over the sea. She’d had to park a few streets away, down near the front, and she shivered, hugging the tattered riding jacket to her.
The town was getting busy now, evening revellers gathering in force, milling about noisily with a hint of lunar madness under the huge moon. Later they would head for West Street and the heart of clubland. On a typical Saturday night there would be three and a half thousand of them out for fun. Laura felt a flicker of sympathy for the sergeant.
She was threading her way through the crowd, trying to shield her body and walking with her head down to make it easier to breathe, when two young guys barged into her. There was a stab of excruciating pain from her ribs and she looked up, annoyed. They were laughing, enjoying themselves, and with a shout of apology they moved on. She was so preoccupied with the pain that at first she didn’t register the face of the other man not far behind them who was staring at her. She walked on and then it hit her and she stopped in her tracks. She turned around and caught sight of him disappearing fast up the street.
It was years since she had seen that face but she remembered at once who he was. Ben Morgan. She had acted for his wife in their divorce. She shivered again and this time it was not with the cold. He suffered from bipolar disorder, supposedly only in a mild way, but it turned out to be severe. He had been violent, unpredictable, out of control, and his wife had been terrified of him. He hadn’t been able to deal with the court process and his manner in court had bounced from suicidal gloom to adrenaline- charged exuberance. Towards the end of it, convinced he was about to lose all contact rights to his young daughter, he picked her up from school, took her to the flat he was renting, barricaded the door, and threatened to kill her and himself if anyone tried to take her away.