Dark Winter (39 page)

I carried on along Warwick. Bluewater was no more than three or four Ks away, across the fields. There was a possible in front of me, down in the turning circle. Mick Davies and Son Conservatories had a Ford Transit flatbed parked outside, and there was a well-worn path across the grass that disappeared down a narrow alleyway between the house and its neighbour.

There was no car in the drive so I parked up and walked round to the back, homing in on a radio knocking out a boy-band tune. The one I guessed was Mick was at the top of a ladder, screwing fixings into the dark-wood frame of a conservatory, and the son was at the bottom, holding it steady. The back garden looked small for the size of the house, and a line of newly planted trees just inside the fenceline wasn’t doing a particularly good job yet of blocking out the mall in the distance. The rest of the garden was in shit state: next to a pile of sand there was a concrete mixer with a hosepipe thrown into it leading from a tap on the wall. Water overflowed from the bucket.

Dad upstairs was getting busy with his mastic gun in the gap between the wood frame and the brickwork, so I nodded at the son. I had to speak up over the boy band. ‘I live just down the road here – thought I’d come and have a look. I’m thinking about having one myself. Is she in?’ I pointed to the house. ‘You know, the blonde girl? Short hair?’

I had a peep through the left-hand window, into the dining room. A dark brown table and chairs were stuck in the middle of the room. There was an arch through to the living room.

‘Nah, I think she’s got brown hair, mate.’ He let go of the ladder with his right arm and traced a line just above his shoulders. ‘About there.’

‘You’re right, I’m thinking about next door. It’s Suzy who lives here, isn’t it?’

To the right of the dining-room window there was a half-glazed door and to the right of that the kitchen, with brown wall units and a chrome mixer tap sticking up above the window-sill.

‘Think so.’

‘But she’s not in?’

‘Nah.’

‘Do you know when she’s back?’

The conservatory footings and six courses of brickwork were already in place, encompassing the back door and kitchen. The frame was nearly up.

He shrugged.

‘What about her husband, is he about?’

‘Never see anyone, mate.’

‘OK, cheers.’

I checked traser as I walked along the narrow gap between the two houses. It was five eighteen, time those boys were packing up. I’d keep on looking for other possibles, but I had a feeling I’d already scored.

As I drove out of the estate my eyes were stinging big-time with tiredness, and my vision was getting blurred. But, fuck it, I could sleep next week. One thing puzzled me: the house had looked too big for just one person, but everything she’d ever said, and done, indicated she lived on her own. There was no one she’d wanted to phone, and she hadn’t been worried about anyone or anything. Maybe she’d bought this place as an investment.

But what if she hadn’t? What if the reason she had a big house was because she had a husband and kids? With a house full of people, how was I going to stop her if she chose to do a runner to the Yes Man? Fuck it, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

I started to check out other possibles. I’d come back here at dark o’clock.

51

Warwick Drive turned out to be my only hope; I couldn’t find any other possibles. I went back to the car park at Bluewater and wound the seat back, but couldn’t sleep. I just nodded off for the odd five minutes, waking up to every shout, every moving vehicle, every banging tailgate.

When I finally opened my eyes, they were as blurred and watery as ever. My mouth tasted like a dustbin, and the cheese and pickle sandwich had made my teeth feel like they had little fur coats on. At least it was now dark. I checked traser. Shit, I was nearly late.

I went back into the mall and shoved a couple of pound coins into a wall phone. I got a very bright, upbeat ‘Hello!’ from Josh at the other end.

‘It’s me.’

The tone soon changed. ‘Oh, hi, we’re just on our way.’

‘Listen, don’t bother – change of plan. She’s not coming back just yet.’

‘You’re kidding? I spoke to her only last night and everything was cool. What’s wrong? She OK?’

‘Course.’ I tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘She’s just going to be here a little longer. I think it’ll be better for her.’

Bible college clearly hadn’t worked its magic. ‘What are you saying? You’ve changed your mind, or she’s changed hers? She’s already told me she wants to come back and sort herself out.’

‘I know, I know, but she’s not going to come back just yet. I’ll give you a call later. I’ve got to go, mate – work, you know what it’s like. I just wanted to catch you before you left for the airport.’

‘What’s going on here, man? You worried about her flying with the alert on? Come on, man, look, the chances are—’

‘Sorry, mate, gotta go, gotta go.’ I put the phone down and walked away.

I felt such an arsehole. I wanted to tell him to stay at home with the kids, I wanted to tell him he needed to get a truckload of antibiotics, but I couldn’t – I couldn’t risk a leak. The best chance Josh and the kids had of keeping safe was for me to keep quiet and give George the best possible chance of lifting the ASU. Whoever was out there working for him, they’d better be fucking good.

Back at the car, I got the seat back into its driving position and rolled out of the mall, the only vehicle without shopping bags piled on the back seat.

There was a small parade of shops on the edge of the estate: an off-licence, a Spar 24/7 and a dry cleaner’s. I parked and went into the 24/7. An old couple were sitting behind the counter, the woman chewing a KitKat. They both watched me intently while I picked up a pie and a couple of cans of Red Bull.

I left the car where it was and walked the rest of the way, filling my face with cold steak and kidney, or so it said on the packaging, and caffeine, trying to wake up and get myself in gear.

A few people were out walking their dogs, but most were probably bathing their kids: the place had that end-of-weekend feel about it. The street lighting was enough to see by, but not as bright as on the main drag. The developers had probably installed the minimum requirement, which worked in my favour.

The TVs glowed in the the front rooms of row upon row of new brick detacheds and semis. I turned into Warwick Drive. I could see lights on in what I hoped was Suzy’s place, up at the top of the turning circle. There was a vehicle shape in the driveway.

I left my second empty Red Bull can on the front wall of one of the mock-Tudors and checked that my cell was off, then ran through the options as I approached the house. What if she had a husband and he was at home? What if she had kids? What if she was alone but her husband came back while I was there? What would I do if she said she was going to tell the Yes Man?

As I got nearer I could see light through the crack in the front-room curtains, to the right of the front door, and from the upstairs landing.

The vehicle turned out to be a muddy Honda 4x4. I headed down the alleyway to the rear of the house, stopping at the brickworks corner to scan the garden. The landing light was strong enough to help me dodge the cement mixer, and the piles of sand and wood that lay beside it. Coldplay were going for it big-time in one of the upstairs rooms next door; Kelly would have approved.

I followed the fence to the new trees at the rear of the garden, keeping low enough to stay in its shadow. I could see Bluewater in the middle distance across the fields, so brightly lit the car parks looked like a UFO landing site. I had a complete view of the rear of the house from there. The curtains were drawn in the living room, but the oak-fitted kitchen was on full display. Between them was the back door, surrounded by a two-foot-high brick wall that formed the base of the conservatory.

I glanced over the fence to make sure the Coldplay fan wasn’t hanging out of the window having a sneaky smoke, then set off towards the dining-room window, keeping my distance from the wooden frames and piles of other building shit. I didn’t want to leave sign in the sand.

Movement to my right, inside the kitchen; no time to check, just to drop, and crawl into the shadow of the brickwork. Fuck leaving sign now. Face full of grit, I crawled to the corner to see what was moving.

Suzy was filling the kettle. She was wearing a white towelling dressing gown and her hair was slicked back. Her lips weren’t moving, and she was giving her full attention to the tap. I would probably have heard if somebody else had been anywhere near. Moments later, she disappeared in the direction of the hallway.

I crawled backwards, keeping on my stomach, then turned and got back on my original course. My bumbag was dragging along the ground, so I stopped to adjust it. Once below the window I sat up, my back against the wall. I shook the sand out of my sweatshirt and tried to ignore the damp and cold that was working its way through the back of my jeans.

I waited for her to return to the kitchen to finish making what I hoped was just the one brew. Coldplay weren’t helping much, but I was pretty sure there was no sound from inside her house, no TV, no talk, no music.

A shadow fell across the garden the other side of the back door. I swivelled on to my knees and lifted my head far enough to see through the corner of the window. The dining room was dark, and I could see just a sliver of light falling from the living-room doorway across the hall carpet.

Suzy appeared, mug in hand, then vanished from my field of view. I got down on my hands and knees, crawled to the other side of the window, then bobbed up again. She was lying on the settee, reading a magazine. The mug was next to her on a small coffee-table and a few more magazines were scattered about on the carpet. She was surrounded by smart-looking shopping bags, and a selection of new clothes was draped over an armchair, their tags still dangling.

I stayed in position and checked traser as she turned the pages. It was just after eleven. She must have been as knackered as I was. Why wasn’t she going to sleep? Was she waiting for her boyfriend or husband to come home, after all?

I kept watching her, making sure my mouth was far enough away from the glass not to leave any condensation.

Keeping on my hands and knees, I worked my way round the conservatory to the kitchen window. The sink was empty, and there weren’t any pictures on the fridge, or happy snaps on the yellow flowery walls.

Some letters were piled further along the worktop. I tilted my head to try to read the writing. I couldn’t make out the name, just that it wasn’t Mr and Mrs.

I slid back down below the window and rested against the wall. I tucked my legs in, wrapped my arms round them, and lowered my chin on to my knees, checking traser once more as my arse got resoaked. It wasn’t even midnight.

The flight was at seven-whatever, so I’d have to be at the airport a couple of hours before. That meant I had to leave here at about three or, even better, half two-ish to build in flat-tyre time. I had just under three hours to grip Suzy and get her to back me – or put her into the boot of my car – before I got myself cleaned up for the flight.

I sat in the wet grass, feeling the sand I hadn’t managed to remove from under my sweatshirt scrape against my back, and thought about Kelly. Maybe she was sitting in a corner of a filthy room, with nothing but her Old Navy on, cold, wet and frightened. Was she hungry? Did she have anything to drink? Had she been hurt? Would she know what was happening? There were other questions rushing around in my head too, questions I didn’t want to ask.

I felt completely fucking useless. I wanted to get moving, take action, do something positive. I gave myself a good mental slapping. This was the best way to get her back. I needed Suzy to help, and that was why I was here. That was positive action. That was the only action.

I held my breath to see if it would stop the pain in my chest, but it didn’t. I filled my lungs instead to calm myself down, but that didn’t work either. Why did I always fuck things up?

Time to get on with it. I stood up slowly, making sure I was still in shadow.

Keeping clear of the windows, I went back to the front of the house and suddenly realized she was probably as lonely as I was.

The curtains were still drawn.

As soon as I stepped under the porch the overhead security light flicked on. The door was solid dark wood. I pressed the buzzer, and eventually saw some movement in the hall.

‘Who is it?’ The voice wasn’t scared, just curious.

‘It’s me – it’s Nick.’

‘What?’

‘Nick. I need . . . I need some help. Open up.’

She turned the locks but left on the security chain and her face appeared in the gap. It was only a few inches wide, but that was enough for me to tell that she wasn’t remotely impressed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just let me in. It’s important. Please?’

The door closed, and the chain rattled before it was opened again. I wiped my sandy boots on the welcome mat and stepped inside. The hallway was light blue and I could immediately smell new paint and carpets. Flowery wallpaper ran the length of the corridor, above a dado rail, punctuated by prints of trees, sky, things like that. It felt like a B&Q show-house.