Hider/Seeker (9 page)

He got a call from Angela Linehan the next morning while rushing out of King's Cross station with the early morning commuters. Her voice was soft but business-like. He pressed the mobile harder to his ear while crossing the station's busy square. She told him she had the money to complete their financial arrangement, but there'd been a slight hitch in her plans. Harry halted in his tracks. Her husband had changed the dates of his trip abroad, which meant she wouldn't be free to pick up Peter from his boarding school. That complicated everything. Could she pay him to collect her son from Dorset? She would work out all the arrangements and let him know.

The sun was high above the buildings, causing him to squint as he thought over the proposal. All around him people were moving in every direction. She was waiting for his answer, calling out his name to check that he was still there. He told her to hold as he had an incoming call from a solicitor's office where he'd done some recent work and had to deal with it. They had another job for him, could he come in next week? Harry started to look for excuses to duck out of it. If he didn't do it, the work would go to a rival, something he didn't want. Harry clicked the phone to check Angela Linehan was still there; she was. He clicked back to the office, and told them to put his name down.

He got straight back to her once more. She asked again whether he could pick up Peter? His mind was still on the prospect of taking on more monotonous inheritance work from a firm of solicitors on the other side of town. Not giving much further thought to her request, he told her he would do it. Before ringing off, he asked her how she was feeling. Nervous, she replied. But that was not what he'd meant. He cleared up the ambiguity of his question by asking more precisely whether she felt up to travelling, following her procedure? She was fine, she said, adding that there was nothing to worry about.

Three days later Harry received another call from her, confirming that she and her son would be leaving England for good on the fifteenth of January as planned. He was to pick up Peter on Friday from his school in Sherborne in Dorset. She told him to arrive there around eleven in the morning, and to wait in the visitors' car park. Peter would be looking out for him. He was then to take Peter to a cottage in Wiltshire, which belonged to an old friend, where they were to wait for her. She would bring his money then.

It sounded straightforward. A three-hour drive to Dorset would be a break from the Big Smoke. The job was almost over and he began thinking about disappearing too, possibly to Goa where he could stay with his good friend Dilip, who owned a spectacular Dutch colonial house overlooking the sea. Ten hours of guaranteed sunshine in mid-January, couldn't sound more tempting.

When Friday came he drove off with Peter's new passport tucked safely inside his pocket. He headed west in his Volvo as the sun was rising, crossing the Hammersmith flyover, then along the M4, passing Heathrow before hitting the M3 via the M25.

An hour later he'd broken free of London's gravitation, and was driving in the frozen countryside under a clear blue sky. Harry hardly paid any attention to the patchwork fields or the grassy meadows with flocks of sheep and cows. Everything had become one big blur on the outside lane of the A303.

As the miles passed, he kept going over any possible loose ends he may have left. Anything that might just give Angela Linehan's husband a lead on where she and her son were heading. But none came to mind.

Raleigh House School for Boys was set back from the main road in six acres of landscaped grounds, close to Sherborne Old Castle. As he drove up to the school along the tarmac road, he saw in the distance, rugby posts, cricket nets and tennis courts. The green lawns in front of the former seventeenth century manor looked immaculate like a billiard table. Ivy grew up the front of the two storey building with large lattice windows. Neat pubescent boys in blue and maroon striped blazers went about their way in the gravel courtyard, balancing bundles of books.

‘It's Hogwarts,' he mumbled, while pulling up in the visitor's car park. He switched off the engine and waited for Peter as instructed. Five minutes passed and there was no sign of him. Harry was about to light up in the car, but then had second thoughts as it wouldn't be a good example to the boy.

He got out of the car to stretch his legs and watched the cawing gulls circling over the castle ruins on the opposite hill. He cupped his hands and blew into them to warm his fingers. Valuable time was passing, and his patience was wearing thin. Why hadn't the boy turned up by now?

Harry decided to phone Angela Linehan, but her phone was switched off. He slapped the car roof with the palm of his hand. It would soon be lunchtime, and there would be kids everywhere. He decided to wander into the school to see if Peter was waiting in reception.

The wooden panelled entrance hall was quiet as classes were going on. Staring down at him from one of the walls was a full-length oil painting of Sir Walter Raleigh in full Elizabethan splendour holding a white clay pipe.

Harry made for the nearby office, drumming his knuckles across the open door as he entered. A thin grey haired woman in a lemon cardigan sheepishly looked up from behind her PC, a smile in the formation.

She stopped typing. ‘May I help you?' she asked in a soft voice.

‘I've come to pick up Peter Linehan.'

‘Peter?'

Her furrowed forehead caused a twinge in the pit of Harry's stomach. ‘His mother sent me,' he added for clarification.

‘I've not been informed,' she said, and began to check her computer to see if any child was due out. ‘No, there's nothing about it. Are you sure you've got the right date?'

‘Maybe Mrs Linehan spoke to someone else who forgot to put it down on the computer or something.'

‘No that couldn't possibly happen at Raleigh House, we have strict procedures.'

‘Her son needs to be urgently in London.'

She picked up the phone, and spoke to a Mrs Manning about Peter. A brief exchange followed and she placed the phone down again. ‘I'm sorry but we can't just let Peter go off with a complete stranger. If Mrs Linehan were to call, perhaps the head could give permission.'

‘Mrs Linehan is not available right now, and I've come a long way for the boy.'

Harry realised his mistake immediately. He should have said Peter instead of boy as it made him sound like a bounty hunter in a cowboy film. The woman's eyes became nervous, and he knew he was going to have trouble.

‘Where is Peter right now?' he asked.

‘Taking Latin in Mr Frizell's class.'

‘Where's that?' His voice sounded too eager.

She looked frightened, and didn't want to say.

How did it get to this point? Harry tried to calm her by telling her there was no need to be alarmed. But that only made her more jittery. She put her hand on the phone, and he had a split second to make a serious decision, the wrong one as it turned out. Angela Linehan had a one-way ticket with her son for the next day to somewhere in Central America, and both of them had to be on that plane at whatever cost. If the boy didn't leave the school that instant, Angela Linehan would have to answer to her husband's fists again or something worse this time around.

Harry placed his hand on the lady's to stop her picking up the phone. ‘Show me where Peter is,' he barked.

‘Please, I beg you, don't do this. He's only a child.'

‘I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to,' he said in a calmer voice. ‘What's your name?'

‘Miss Wells.'

‘Take me to him, Miss Wells, and don't do anything silly.'

He followed her out of the office and along the corridor. Her frail body rocked slightly as she walked ahead of him, her steps short and her shoulders hunched. Miss Wells stopped outside a classroom door with frosty glass.

‘Now I want you to tell the teacher that Peter is wanted by the head immediately. You say one thing more than that, I'll hurt you and the teacher. Get it?'

She did precisely what she was told as he waited outside in the corridor. Peter emerged from the classroom, and stared at Harry. He was a slightly tubby child with a dark shock of hair and had large freckles across his face. His blazer looked a size too small for him. Miss Wells left the door open as she joined Peter in the corridor, putting her arm around his shoulder.

She bent down to the boy and said, ‘Do you know this man?'

The boy shook his head.

‘Your mummy has sent him to take you to her,' continued Miss Wells. ‘Do you know anything about this?'

‘No,' came the boy's reply.

Harry was at a loss. He'd been certain the boy would confirm the whole arrangement.

The next minute Harry was gripping the arm of the eleven-year-old and marching away from Miss Wells.

Her high-pitched scream echoed along the stone corridor and Harry began to run, dragging the boy with him. Two male teachers rushed out of their classrooms in hot pursuit.

Peter dug his heels into the courtyard's gravel, but Harry dragged him along like a waterskier. The boy was difficult to handle, and for a split second wriggled free in the car park, before Harry's outstretched leg tripped him up, sending the kid flying. Harry scooped him up with one arm, and dumped him into the passenger seat. For a few seconds the boy sat stunned, long enough for Harry to jump into the car and shut the doors with a flick of the central lock. He switched on the engine, but it wouldn't start. Harry tried again but nothing.

The posse of teachers chasing Harry had grown to four, headed by a woman in tweeds with thick calves. She was shouting at him to stop as she scuttled across the car park, waving her arms. Harry tried one more time to turn over the engine.

But it was Peter who sprang back into life on spotting his teacher. ‘Mrs Grinstead…Mrs Grinstead,' he screamed from inside the car, slamming the window with his fists.

‘Shut up,' said Harry. ‘I'm doing this for your own good.'

Mrs Grinstead was hammering at the rear of the Volvo with both hands, and moments later, was joined by three male teachers.

The engine fired.

‘Mrs Grinstead, help me. Mrs Grinstead –'

Peter turned on Harry to claw the side of his face, but was elbowed back into his seat. The boy grabbed the handle of the door, but it was locked. ‘Mrs Grinstead don't let him take me – Mrs Grinstead,' he shouted as the car was accelerating away.

Harry kept one hand on the steering wheel while leaning across to grab the back of the boy's trousers to prevent him from opening the window. The tarmac was just a blur as it rushed before his eyes. He pulled the boy back into his seat, only for him to renew his attack, wrapping his hands over Harry's eyes, causing the car to swerve onto the grass verge.

‘Get your hands off me,' shouted Harry, pushing the boy hard into the footwell where he became wedged, unable to move, with both feet stuck up either side of his head.

‘Peter, listen to me. Do as you are told or –'

‘I don't take orders from you. You're not my father; you're not.'

‘Nothing is going to happen to you. You'll see your mother very soon.'

Harry hit the brakes at the bottom of the school's drive, screeching across the lanes of the main road, missing an oncoming car by inches. Balls of black smoke were followed by a sickly smell of burning rubber.

‘They're probably calling the cops right now, and giving a full description of your ugly mug and your stinking car,' shouted the boy.

‘I don't want to disappoint you son, but the police down here will put the kettle on first before looking for you.'

‘Why are you kidnapping me?'

‘I'm not. I'm taking you somewhere safe for your mother to pick you up.'

‘I don't want to be with her.'

That was not the response Harry had expected. ‘Why not?'

‘She's flaming crazy, that's why.'

‘Well she's taking you on a surprise holiday.'

‘I'm not going. I want to stay here with my friends at school.'

‘She's been planning the trip for ages. Don't you like surprises?'

The boy thought it over. ‘Where's she taking me?'

‘I can't tell you that or it would spoil it all, wouldn't it?'

‘And my dad knows?'

‘Sure he does. Look son, there's been an almighty cock-up between the school and your mother. I'm paid to take you to this place in Wiltshire.' He was about to name the village when the boy did it for him.

‘The cottage in Farley?'

‘I'm to stay with you there until your mum comes later.'

‘I thought Aunt Jean was away.'

‘We'll be alone until your mum shows up.'

‘Great,' said the boy with enthusiasm. ‘A fifty-inch flat screen to watch whatever I want.'

‘There we go, something for you to do the whole afternoon. Are we okay now?'

‘I guess so, but she could have told me. It's sooo typical of her.'

‘I won't argue with that.'

The stone cottage was quite remote, a few miles outside Farley with no neighbours. Harry pulled into its drive and got out of the car with the boy. He found the key under a stone slab in the front garden where he'd been told it would be and they went straight into the house. Peter made a dash to the living room to switch on the TV while Harry looked around the cottage, carefully ducking the low beams.

Harry checked upstairs that they were alone. He found three empty bedrooms and a bathroom, smelling of soap bars, lots of them. Satisfied that they had the cottage to themselves, he nosed around for clues about the owner of the house. The wardrobe in the main bedroom confirmed that Aunt Jean liked clothes, plenty of them, and shoes too, particularly ones with very high heels. She also liked expensive perfume judging by the scent on her clothes in the wardrobe. He was no follower of fashion, but he judged they belonged to a woman in her early thirties. At the end of the rack, he noticed two bright red jackets and skirts. Why would a woman have two the same? He pulled out one of the jackets. Pinned on the breast pocket was a silver badge with a spread wing and a Virgin Atlantic logo. Aunt Jean was a stewardess. He placed back the jacket, and shut the doors of the wardrobe.