Authors: Max China
A full ten seconds passed; he made out the sound of the caller inhaling deeply.
Whoever this is . . . is smoking a cigarette. He's actually enjoying this.
"Well, are you going to answer me or not? How did you get my private number?"
The caller exhaled evenly, blowing smoke into the receiver. "Don't worry, John. It's not
you,
I want. It's your son,
Jack.
"
The phone clicked down.
"Who was that, John?" Rose's voice startled him; he was relieved she hadn't been awake at the beginning of the call. If she had been, she'd have listened in; then there would be a lot of explaining to do.
"Just a wrong number, don't worry. I put him right."
When she fell asleep again, he quietly returned to the hall.
He dialled the number slowly, to keep the noise down. The dial whirred softly each time he released it. It wasn't really an old black Bakelite phone; it was a modern reproduction, a present from Johnny to replace the old one, whose innards were so badly worn it just kept misdialling.
The purr-purr of the dial tone was so loud in the earpiece; he was sure it would wake her at any moment. He tried to muffle the sound by cupping his hand round, holding it tight against his ear.
Come on, Johnny. Pick up the phone!
Finally, he answered.
"Hello, Johnny, is that you?" he half whispered.
"Hi, Dad," he chuckled, "You dialled my number, who else is it going to be?" He looked at his watch, 10:30pm. It was late for him to be calling. "What's up . . . is everything okay?"
"Yes son, everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure
you
were okay."
"Why do you sound like that, Dad, what's going on?"
"I just had a call from someone pretending to be Lee Oswald, son. Lee
Harvey
Oswald."
Fear fluttered up from the depths of his stomach, catching in his throat, he fumbled over his words. "It's all right . . . I'm okay. It's probably just someone playing silly buggers."
"But he said he
knew
you."
"Dad, it's just a nutcase, go to bed now, or you'll start worrying, Mum."
"He said your full name. He said he always called you…
Jack.
"
The assumed wrong number
. . .
Jack
. . .
the assassination headline
. . .
the pretending to be Lee Harvey Oswald . . .
his heart sank, but he played it down, "Look, I think it's just a prank caller. We'll keep an eye on it, okay?"
"Do you really think so? I might be getting old and stupid, but it didn't sound that way to me . . . Anyway, you're a big boy now, if you say it
's okay, then it's okay."
"Yes, really, it's fine. Tell mum, I'll be over tomorrow . . . Oh, look at the time! I have to be up in a few hours."
His father chuckled softly down the phone. "Well
I
haven't!"
"Goodnight, Dad," he said.
It was past eleven o'clock when Kennedy put the phone down. He walked down the hall turning off the lights, starting with the kitchen as he always did; a routine he carried out automatically, without thinking. He started thinking about how no one else had his mobile number apart from Marilyn. He considered calling her to ask if she'd given his number out.
She's far too discreet to do that.
Then he remembered giving the number as an emergency contact the last time he was with his mum at the hospital.
I'm not often home; I'm a detective.
He'd said it apologetically, as if it explained everything…Y
ou can always reach me on this number.
He'd given his name. Was it possible someone with a grudge happened to be within earshot when he did that? He had one foot on the bottom step on his way upstairs. The phone rang and startled him. It reminded him of his old school bell.
No matter how ready you were for it, when it rang; you still jumped.
Lifting the receiver, he said, "Okay, Dad, what did you forget to tell me?"
"Is that
you
JFK?"
Apprehension twisted his stomach into a knot that tightened all the way up into his chest. Kennedy struggled to breathe normally.
"What is it you want?"
"What do I
want
? I want a favour, Jack, I'll be in touch."
For a moment, he stood still listening to the handset, as if he were unsure the caller really had gone. He dialled 1471. A disembodied voice recording played down the line.
You were called today, at 11:05 p.m. The caller withheld their number.
Chapter 83
Sunday Evening March 18
th
The caller's tone was insidious and persuasive. "Trie, there's something else you need to do, to prove your love for your daughter…"
Her natural instinct was to ask who the hell he thought he was, to ask her to prove her love for anybody, but she stayed calm.
"What's that?"
"You're going to meet me for sex."
"That's preposterous, you're sick . . ."
"Here is my number . . . write it down." She did as he asked, and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Just the number, no name, and then hid it in the index box. She put it under T. Her thinking was that Terri wouldn't have to look up her number in the index and with no other name under T that Terri would ever need to call, it seemed as good as place as any.
"You have until tomorrow to decide. Think of it as insurance for your daughter's future. You
are
concerned for her future aren't you? Oh, and Trie, don't do anything silly, will you?" It wasn't a question. It was an instruction.
If she reported him now, everything would come out, the information she'd planted and the secrets she'd passed. Theresa slumped by the phone considering her options; he had her completely snared. When the police found out, she would go to prison. When that happened, when little Terri found out, she ran the risk of losing her. She made her decision.
Opening the index, she retrieved the scrap of paper with the number on it, hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled.
Chapter 84
John Tanner was divorced. He always thought it would be selfish to bring a child into the world and not be there for it. When it became clear to his wife, Maggie, that he wouldn’t relent, she left him, apparently returning to
Scotland to be closer to her family. It soon emerged that she’d started an affair with one of his colleagues. There were some ugly scenes, culminating in a fight, in the station car park.
Originally tipped to take over from Kennedy, his rival's position became untenable, and he managed to pull some strings to get a transfer to headquarters in
West Lothian. Once there, it wasn't long before he moved in with Maggie.
At first, Tanner had assumed that the chief had helped smooth the transition for him, and he resented him for it. He had the feeling that the situation, though not of his making, had harmed his prospects.
They had a son who was now two years old. He wondered what
their
son would have been like, if they'd had one . . . If only he'd realised, Maggie had felt so strongly . . . Sometimes he questioned his motives, was it really that he thought it would be selfish to have a child in this job, or was it that he couldn't stand the thought of sharing her attentions with someone else, even a child. Either way he'd lost. Better to have loved and lost.
Not like Kennedy, married to the job.
He shaved for the first time in the evening since he'd been with Maggie, pulling his mouth from the left to right; pursing his lips in the strip lights glare, to be sure he hadn't missed any stubble. Then rinsing and drying his face, he applied some aftershave.
What are you doing Tanner?
He hoped he wasn't setting himself up for a fall.
Chapter 85
Theresa left her house full of trepidation, yet strangely excited at what was about to unfold for her this evening. Getting into her car, she checked her face, started the engine and turning off at the end of her road, she thought about how she'd handle things. She supposed the bright light was what made her look; she saw it coming in her rear view mirror from quite a way back, growing steadily larger and brighter as it came. It hovered bigger and brighter than a full moon, just outside the rear windscreen, close to the boot lid. It filled up her car with light. The roar of the motorcycles powerful engine caught her in the chest and throat, cancelling all other sound from her ears.
She squinted as she tilted the rear view mirror.
Theresa had arranged for Terri to stay with friends for the night, there was no way she'd have left her on her own. The constant pressure that Theresa found herself under had worn her down. Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea of uncharted territory, to survive, she had to make a choice. She chewed on her bottom lip. She worried about what the night would bring.
The oncoming traffic flowed incessantly; the constant stream of lights of varying intensities - bright, brighter, dull, full beam - began to hurt her eyes. The deep drone of the motorcycle, with its big, full moon headlight continued to invade her thoughts, distracting her.
Why do these people always get so close?
She knew if she braked suddenly; he'd have no chance if stopping . . . She exhaled slowly, trying to keep calm. A long break in the line of traffic ahead meant he would overtake her in a few seconds. She let another deep breath go. The last car in the line of traffic had passed; she relaxed her foot on the accelerator. The motorcyclist had plenty of time to overtake, but it was something her instructor had drummed into her, when she first learned to drive.
If someone wants to overtake you, let 'em. Easing off the gas as they do it helps
.
The roar of the motorcycle engine overtaking never came. The steady drone and the constant floodlighting of the inside of her car continued. She began to feel a little uncomfortable. He was more than likely going to turn off to her left in a minute. There was a turning coming up in the distance.
Probably didn't think it was worthwhile overtaking.
The gap in the traffic had passed and the cars in the opposite lane were more strung out, less frequent. The left hand turn was approaching; she expected to see a big yellow indicator light come on, then he would trail off behind her, and veer round the corner. Gone. Her headache was rumbling with the rhythm of the low growl of the engine behind her. He did not turn off.
The fear that he was following her, caught up as insistent as the unwavering headlight beam shining into her car; Theresa felt stripped bare under its light and vulnerable. A roundabout was approaching; she entered it, indicating a right turn. The motorcycle's yellow flasher came on; her hands took on a ghastly hue at the wheel, as she drove all the way round past her turning, past her original entry point. The motorcycle did the same. He
was
following her. She forgot about her original destination, part of that journey involved a section of unlit roads. Turning onto a dual carriageway, she frantically thinking of where the nearest police station was. The motorcycle stayed tucked in behind her.
It was him. She knew it was him. He was escorting her in such a way . . . he knew she'd be scared witless, willing to do anything. She almost pulled over.
Get it over with, here and now, out there in the cold streets.
It was more fitting to do that, than to do it in a warm, comfortable bed with someone who could . . . She shuddered. She knew he was dangerous, or she wouldn't have done the things she had so far, she began to indicate to pull in at the next lay by. In the distance, she saw blue flashing lights. She cut the indicator and gunned her engine to catch them up, then realised they weren't actually moving.
She pulled in behind the police car; the officers had two youths out of a black BMW. They looked at her inquisitively as she drew near. The bike slowed. The rider was a big man wearing a full face helmet and glanced in her direction as he roared on past, accelerating so quickly that the officers and both youths turned their heads to watch it go. She jotted the registration number down.
One of the officers approached. "Are you all right, miss?"
She knew it was
him.
He'd just been letting her know . . ."Yes officer, I'm fine, although I do have a headache. When I saw all your lights flashing, I thought it seemed like a safe place to stop and grab an aspirin from my bag."
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at her destination. Her evasion tactics had made her ten minutes late.
Tanner ordered her a drink. She downed it. "Are you driving?" he said.
"Not if I'm coming back to your place," she said with a mischievous smile.
"Same again?"