‘You’ve been a good friend, Tom.’
‘No,’ he stated with unexpected vehemence. ‘No – I’ve been a crap friend.’
Without feeling the need to explain this, he picked up the mugs and, cigarette jammed in his mouth, led the way into the front room. Jabbing at the fire with a makeshift poker, he threw another piece of wood onto the flames. ‘Come on then,’ he demanded fiercely. ‘This car – who’d wanna follow you? Who’d wanna know where you are?’
‘Haven’t a clue. I thought it might be the police. But that’s crazy. Why would they want to follow me?’
‘How many in the car?’
‘Just one.’
Tom shook his head authoritatively. ‘The cops always hunt in pairs.’
‘Do they? Yes, I suppose they do. Then I thought it might be the press. But that doesn’t make any sense either. If they wanted to talk to me they’d come and ring on the doorbell. Or phone.’
‘But why’d they wanna hassle you, for God’s sake? No reason.’
‘Oh, they’ll have heard it’s arson by now. They’ll probably come sniffing around.’
Tom stalled with his tea mug halfway to his mouth and stared at Hugh in a strange way. ‘Arson?’
‘The police took their time, but finally they’ve accepted it’s arson, yes.’
Tom’s mouth jerked, as if in spasm.
‘Oh, I always knew,’ Hugh said, as if to soften the news. ‘Right from the beginning. Never had any doubt.’
‘For Christ’s sake . . . But
who
?
Why?
’
‘To silence Lizzie. That’s what we think anyway.’
‘Silence her for
what
?’
‘She knew about this witness. It’s all rather complicated . . . But we think they were after the name of the witness. And . . . to stop her telling anyone.’
Tom’s face contorted. ‘They set the fire knowing she was upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ . . .
Christ
. . .’ Jamming his tea mug down on the hearth, Tom rocked forward in his chair, clamped his hands over his face and gave a howl of fury and pain.
For Hugh there was something disturbing in witnessing such emotion on his behalf. He wished Tom would stop. He found himself staring at the cigarette in Tom’s fingers as it burnt perilously close to his hair.
‘
Christ
. . .’ Tom raged into his hands.
‘Don’t . . .’
Eventually Tom lowered his hands a little and fixed Hugh with blazing eyes. ‘What kind of
animal
?’ he hissed emotionally. ‘What kind of
vermin
?’
‘Hopefully the police are going to find out.’
‘
Scum!
’ Tom clenched his fists. ‘
Scum!
’
Hugh put his tea down.
‘If it was me I’d put the bastard up against a wall’ – Tom mimed grabbing someone and thrusting a pistol against his head – ‘and
phut
!’ He bared his teeth as he pulled the imaginary trigger. ‘Except shooting’s too bloody good for them.’
Hugh looked at his watch. ‘Listen, Tom, I really have to—’ ‘But the cops – they’re gonna get these bastards?’ he went on furiously. ‘They’re gonna nail ’em?’
‘They’ve got a full team on it.’
‘Forensics? DNA?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what ideas they got?’
‘Well, it’s early days.’
‘They must have some ideas, for Christ’s sake!’
Hugh stood up abruptly. ‘Look, Tom, I’ve got to get going. Sorry, but I’ve got a helluva lot to do.’
Tom froze slightly, before getting slowly to his feet. ‘Yeah, sure . . .’
Hugh gestured towards his untouched tea. ‘Sorry, it was a bit hot . . .’
Tom said, ‘You need to talk this through.’
‘Thanks. But we’re fine.’
‘I could come over tonight. I’ve got nothing on till the boys come for the weekend. I could come over and we could—’
‘No.’ Hugh interrupted more bluntly than he’d intended to. ‘No . . . I’m having supper with my daughter, you see. It’s all arranged.’
Tom’s gaze dropped, his mouth made a fierce line, and he gave a quick nod before chucking his cigarette into the grate and going to open the door. They went out into a twilight that was clear and still, the air already sharp with frost.
‘That guy following you – watch your back, eh?’ Tom grunted as Hugh prepared to drive off.
‘Sure.’
Tom levelled a finger at him, as if sighting along the barrel of a gun. ‘Remember – he’s after something.’
Even as Hugh began to shrug, a realisation came to him. It was so shocking and so horribly obvious that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. He was overcome by a sense of danger so acute that when Tom asked what the matter was his throat seized, he couldn’t speak, and he drove away without answering.
He slowed as he approached Oakhill and turned in through the gate at a trickle, making almost no sound. He was tensed for battle, his heart pressing against his ribcage, his pulse beating high in his head, but there were no strange cars, no signs of
anything out of the ordinary. He drifted to a halt and cut the engine and listened hard. Getting out, he listened again before unloading the shopping. Approaching the front door he had the key ready in his hand, only to jam it into the lock upside down. As he fumbled to get it the right way up, the latch sounded and Lou swung the door open.
‘You’re all right?’ he asked, in a flood of relief.
‘I’m
fine
. But what’s all this about, Dad? You scared me half to death on the phone.’
Dumping the shopping on the floor, Hugh closed the door behind him and flicked the deadlock. ‘No one’s come to the door?’
‘No.’
‘You drew all the curtains?’
‘
Dad!
Will you
please
explain?’ She was angry because she was frightened, and he couldn’t blame her.
‘Well, there’s some evidence here in the house, you see. And they know it. I thought . . . Well, I’m not sure what I thought. But as long as you’re all right, that’s all that matters.’ He tried to put an arm round her but she pulled away.
‘You’re not making any sense, Dad.’
He tried to slow down. ‘It’s Mum’s computer,’ he said, ‘there’s something on it they want. I’ve got to get it out of here.’
‘But who wants it? The police?’
‘Not the police, no.’
‘Dad.’ She made a gesture of exasperation.
He had hoped to avoid telling her, but she deserved to know. ‘The witness Mum found in the Jason Jackson murder? Well, he’s been abducted. Maybe even killed. Which means the only evidence left is sitting in Mum’s computer. And I think they know that, Lou. I think they’re going to come and get it.’
‘But who’s “they”?’
‘I don’t know. Jason’s murderers . . . their friends . . . All I know is I’ve got to get the computer out of here.’
Lou was looking at him in a different way, with concern. ‘Okay . . .’ she said carefully, as if treading on eggshells. ‘If it’ll make you feel safer, Dad.’
‘And I want you to go and stay with friends.’
‘
What?
’
‘You could go to the Koenigs. They’ll understand.’
‘I’m not going to stay with the Koenigs!’
‘Sorry, but I want you out of the house, Lou.’
‘Dad, this is
crazy
. You’re completely overreacting!’
‘Maybe. But do it for me anyway. Please, Lou.’
‘Why can’t we just call the police?’
‘I will. But they may not come. Not in time anyway.’
Holding back tears, Lou bit hard on her lip and shook her head sadly. ‘Dad . . . Dad . . .’
‘Do it for me, Lou. So I know you’re safe.’
A tear squeezed from her eye and she brushed it impatiently away.
‘I’m sorry you had to know about all this.’
‘It’s not that. It’s—’ But she gave up further explanation with a hopeless gesture. ‘Okay . . . there’s a bunch of friends going to a film tonight. I’ll go with them. But I’m absolutely
not
going to stay somewhere. I’m coming back here.’
He would have argued but he could see that her mind was made up. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But phone me before you start back. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Hugh picked up a holdall from his bedroom and took it into Charlie’s room. Faced by the assortment of laptops, printers and hard drives, not knowing where Lizzie’s data was stored, he disconnected the cables and loaded everything but the printers into the holdall. Jamming the pile of printouts into a side pocket, he took the holdall down to the dining room and left it behind the door. It looked so obvious there that he thought better of the idea and took it out to his car and put it in the boot. Then, in another change of plan, he removed the printouts from the side pocket and, wedging them under his
arm, prepared to take them back into the house. The faint murmur of traffic from the main road only served to emphasise the silence of the garden and the crunch of his footsteps as he walked back towards the house. Pausing on the threshold to listen again, he wondered if Lou wasn’t right after all and he was overreacting.
You react in any way you like
, Lizzie whispered to him.
You’re accountable to no one but yourself.
And to you, Lizzie.
Fine: to me as well. And I give you permission to see as many conspiracies as you choose. Dozens, hundreds. So long as you get there in the end. So long as you see my story through.
Trouble is, Lizzie, I’m not sure I trust my judgement any more.
Of course you do. Didn’t we always say that gut instinct was the most reliable guide of all? That however much you rationalise and chop and change your ideas later, you nearly always come back to your first reaction?
It’s so hard not being able to talk things through with you, Lizzie.
You’re not listening to what I’m saying. Go with your instincts. Stick to your guns.
Lou was in the hall putting on her coat.
‘It’s going to be icy tonight,’ he said. ‘You’ll drive carefully, won’t you?’
She nodded mutely and indicated a list by the phone. ‘Thousands of people have called. I’ve told them the funeral’s likely to be on Wednesday. Pat Edgecomb wanted to come round but I told her it wasn’t convenient at the moment.’
She seemed worn down by it all, and he said with a surge of remorse, ‘Sorry you’ve had to bear the brunt.’
With a small shrug she moved towards the door. He opened it for her and walked her to the Golf.
‘What film are you going to see?’
‘The latest Bond,’ she said before pausing to stare at something behind him. ‘What happened to your car, Dad?’
In the porch light the dent looked worse than before.
‘I hit some ice.’
She gave a sigh, as if this was another symptom of his frightening slide into emotional instability. ‘Oh Dad, I think I’d better stay. I really do—’
‘No!
No!
I’m fine!’ He smiled to persuade her it was true.
‘But you’ll be on your own.’
‘Ray’s on his way over.’
‘Promise?’
‘He’ll be here any minute.’
After a last hesitation she got into the car.
As soon as her tail-lights had disappeared, Hugh hurried back into the house and sitting at the dining room table started on his calls. When he tried DI Steadman he was told he was unavailable and was put through to DS Reynolds.
‘Followed?’ Reynolds echoed. ‘You sure about that, Mr Gwynne?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘After I left you this afternoon. I’d gone a mile or two when I realised he was behind me. I took a long detour to try and shake him off, but he stayed with me all the way. There’s no doubt about it.’
‘So he followed you home?’
‘Not actually home, no. I stopped to see someone on the way.’
‘So he followed you till you made this stop, but not after that?’
‘Well, he might have, but it was getting dark, I could well have missed him. Look, I can give you the registration number. You can check it out.’
In the pause that followed, Hugh heard muted voices in the background and wondered how many people were working on Lizzie’s case. ‘Right, Mr Gwynne,’ Reynolds said, ‘fire away.’
Hugh gave him the registration number, using an approximation of the phonetic alphabet, and asked Reynolds to repeat
it back to him to make doubly sure. ‘It was a dark-blue Honda,’ he added.
‘Dark . . . blue . . . Honda,’ Reynolds confirmed at writing speed.
‘Shall I hang on?’
‘Sorry.’
‘While you look it up.’
‘Ah, well, we’ll need to investigate the matter first, Mr Gwynne. We’ll get back to you in due course.’
‘But the owner’s name – that’s simple enough, surely.’
‘Sorry, Mr Gwynne. You have to leave this to us.’
‘And how long will that take?’
‘Can’t say. But we’ll get straight onto it. And if there are any developments you can be sure we’ll let you know.’
‘And what happens if these guys turn up here? What am I meant to do then?’
A slight pause. ‘If anyone should harass you in any way, then you should contact us straight away, Mr Gwynne.’
His pronunciation of harass in the American style, with the emphasis on the second syllable, only served to increase Hugh’s frustration. Ringing off, he took a couple of turns around the room before calling Isabel and asking if she could find the car owner’s details. But quickly; a formal application involving paperwork would take too long. If all else failed she might try the private detective they had used in the Deacon case, the one who’d got all the dirt on Price.
Hugh began to rearrange the papers on the dining-room table, spreading the computer printouts out in front of him, mentally reviewing everything from Lizzie’s desk, deciding what might be worth looking at again. To focus his search he pulled a pad towards him and constructed a timeline, starting with
Wesley tells Lizzie he saw JJ killing
, followed rapidly by
Lizzie discusses witness protection with Montgomery
and
Break-in at Meadowcroft
, then a gap of some weeks before
Fire
, and finally,
Disappearance of Wesley
. What he was missing, he quickly realised, were the dates when Lizzie had told John Emmanuel
and Jacqui Lewis about the existence of a witness. In his mind he replayed the conversation in the vestry, but if there had been any mention of timings he couldn’t remember what was said. Yet, even if the dates coincided, was it likely that John or Jacqui would have let the information slip? Not John, he decided immediately. A man used to bearing secrets bears them easily. But Jacqui was a different matter. In her excitement at the news she might well have told family and friends, and inadvertently set off the rumour mill.
Glancing at the time, he called Ray to ask where he’d got to.
‘Pulling up outside,’ he answered.
Turning an ear towards the window Hugh could hear the car. ‘Well, stay there,’ he ordered. Bundling up the printouts, collecting his keys from the hall table, he hurried outside to find Ray walking towards the door.
‘How’s it going, old friend?’
Hugh went to his car and opened the boot. ‘I need you to keep this in a safe place.’ He stuffed the printouts into a side pocket of the holdall, zipped it up and hauled the bag onto the ground. ‘Take it home with you tonight. Don’t leave it in the car, whatever you do. Then take it to the office and see if they’ve got room for it in the safe.’
Ray looked at the holdall doubtfully. ‘Bit large for the safe.’
‘Your office then, but keep the door locked whenever you’re away from your desk.’
Ray exhaled in an awkward half laugh, his breath briefly fogging the air. ‘But Hugh, you know how it is at the office – no one ever locks their doors.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t want anyone walking off with it, accidentally or otherwise.’
Ray made a show of considering the problem. ‘Well . . . I’m sure we can find some space in a cabinet somewhere.’
‘Even better if it’s got a key.’
‘What’s so precious?’
‘Evidence.’
‘Right.’ Ray nodded rapidly, as if to humour him. ‘About the fire, you mean?’
‘About the person who killed Lizzie.’
‘Christ,’ Ray said in a shocked voice.
Hugh took the holdall to Ray’s car and waited for him to unlock it.
‘You know who it is?’
‘More or less.’
‘Well,
who
, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Long story.’ Hugh jerked at the handles of the holdall to prompt Ray to open the boot.
‘What, a nutter? A madman?’
‘It was to do with her work.’ Hugh swung the holdall into the boot.
‘
Christ
. I always knew she met some fairly rough characters at the Citizens Advice, but I never realised . . .
Jesus.
Are the police on to this guy?’
‘More or less.’
‘But if this is evidence, don’t they need it?’ Ray asked, gazing into the open boot. ‘Shouldn’t they be examining it?’
‘Not at the moment, no.’
Ray stood there uncertainly, his face very white in the thin light. ‘I could take it over in the morning. First thing.’
‘No,’ Hugh said firmly, in no mood for discussion.
‘But Detective Inspector Steadman’s meant to be as sharp as they come, Hugh. I checked up on him. They say he gets results.’
Hugh moved forward and slammed the boot shut. ‘Just keep this stuff safe, okay? Don’t give it to anyone.’
Ray finally gave up with a baffled, compliant shrug. ‘Sure.’ Reverting to a tone of disbelief he murmured, ‘Through her work . . .
God
. . . It’s an obvious place, I suppose. But all the same . . .’ Then, as if voicing a shared relief, he added, ‘At least it’s not . . .’
‘What?’
Ray made a nervous sound, an awkward chuckle that
emerged as a cough. ‘Well, at one stage you were worried about the people Charlie was hanging around with, weren’t you? All those addicts.’
Hugh moved towards the house. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Ray.’
Following him, Ray said in the tone of someone trying to make amends for an inadvertent slight, ‘Charlie’s in recovery, of course. I do realise . . . I didn’t mean to—’
‘Bye, Ray.’
‘You’re all right, old friend?’
‘I’m just fine, thanks.’
‘How about a quick cup of tea?’
‘Too much on.’
‘You sure you’re okay? Why don’t I come in for a while?’
‘I’m all right, for God’s sake!’
Closing the door on him, Hugh felt a brief remorse. He could hardly blame Ray for sharing what until recently had been such a burning suspicion in his own mind about Charlie’s friends. But that didn’t stop him resenting Ray for voicing it. He considered going out and catching him before he left, but he had no time for explanations, let alone apologies. Pausing only to make a hasty sandwich and unplug the house phone which was ringing again, he went back to the dining room and ate while he studied the timeline and added events from his own memory, including his sighting of Montgomery at Steadman’s headquarters and his meeting with Montgomery in the hotel. His mobile rang but seeing it was Tom he didn’t answer. When it rang again a minute later, he left it for a while, thinking it would be the voicemail, only to see Isabel’s name and snatch it up.