Relentless (10 page)

before, and as I lay on that bed I wondered how on earth they'd
got there. I also wondered whether I really knew Kathy. I'd
always thought so, but now, after the events of this afternoon, I
was feeling a lot less sure. Maybe she had some sort of secret
life. Maybe Vanessa had actually converted her to lesbianism,
and the two of them had been having a relationship. Kathy
certainly worked long hours and was away from the house
almost as much as I was, so there would have been an opportunity.
But once again, that didn't explain what a man in a
balaclava had been doing waiting for me at the library, and it
didn't throw any light on why Jack had called me for the first
time in years, and why somebody had murdered him as we
spoke.
When I thought of it like that, it all seemed so bizarre as to be
almost laughable, but the throbbing of the cuts to my face and
arm brought back to me the seriousness of what was happening.
A man had tried to kill me today. On top of this, two people I
knew had died violent deaths in separate incidents, and it looked
like me, Kathy, or both of us were being set up for at least one of
them.
I realized that up until now I'd never really appreciated life
because it had always been nicely set out for me. I had two
beautiful, healthy children, a pretty, good-hearted wife, a nice
house and a well-paid job that wasn't exactly back-breaking. Yet
I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up in the morning
and thought of myself as truly happy. Life could always be better
- that had been my underlying feeling. I could earn more money;
I could have more free time; I could be thinner, better looking,
more desirable to women. Never once had it crossed my mind
that, as well as being better, life could also be a lot worse. And
now, lying here with my wife missing, my house burgled and a

murder charge for a crime I didn't commit hanging over my
head, I'd learned to appreciate it all only after it was too late.
The key turned in the lock and I sat up on the bed in a sudden
movement that made my vision turn fuzzy. It cleared as the door
opened and Douglas McFee came into the room, battered briefcase
in hand, a big smile on his round face.
'I've good news, Tom,' he announced chirpily, the word 'news'
seeming to last for ever.
'You've located Kathy?' I'd asked McFee to try her mobile for
me again and, although reluctant, he'd promised to do so.
The smile disappeared as he approached the bed, stopping a
few feet away. 'I'm afraid not. But it's something you'll be
pleased with anyway. The police have decided to see sense and
release you on bail. They may want to question you again so
have asked you to remain at your current address for the time
being. And you're to tell them if your wife makes contact. I
know that sounds hard, but it'll be for the best. If she is innocent
of any crime - and, of course, I'm sure she is - then it's best that
she comes forward to clear her name.'
'What's the time?' I asked him, not bothering to reiterate
Kathy's innocence. I could tell he hadn't bothered to phone her
either, the cheap bastard.
He looked at his watch. 'Five to eight.'
So, where did I go now? Kathy was nowhere to be found, my
children were with my mother-in-law, and my house felt pretty
much out of bounds. It didn't leave a lot of places. I felt like I
needed a drink. Maybe a couple. There are few things that beat
the consumption of alcohol in a crisis.
I got to my feet and followed McFee out of the cell and
through the corridors into the station's main reception area. It
was a small, drab space dotted with posters warning potential

criminals of the supposedly dire consequences of their wrongdoing.
Along the length of one wall were bulletproof Perspex
screens behind which the police dealt with their customers. The
latest, two rat-faced teenagers in the delinquent's uniform of big
trainers, baggy jeans and hoodies, were being booked in by the
same custody sergeant who'd dealt with me nearly three hours
earlier. Their expressions were boredly defiant. Unlike me when
I'd been brought in, there was no fear on their faces either.
A younger copper appeared on the other side of the screen
and took me to one of the other windows, where I was booked
out. In the background, the phone was ringing. No-one made
any move to answer it.
'Thanks for your co-operation, sir,' said the young copper as
he got me to sign for the bag containing my possessions. He
sounded so chirpy I thought he was going to add a 'Don't go
being a stranger now', but somehow he managed to resist it.
I grunted something in reply, and asked if there was any
chance of a lift over to the university to pick up my car.
'I'm afraid we're rather short-staffed tonight, sir. We can call
you a taxi if you like.'
The old saying that there was never a copper around when
you needed one rang truer than ever. 'Forget it,' I said. 'I could
probably do with the walk.'
I gathered my stuff together, turned on my mobile and walked
out of the double doors with Douglas McFee in tow. When we
were on the steps, he handed me one of his business cards and
told me to call him if the police needed to question me again.
'I'd offer you a lift, but...' he added.
'But what?'
'Unfortunately, I'm expected home. Graham's cooked a
special meal. Sea bream baked in rock salt, which won't keep,

and the university's in the wrong direction. Take care, Mr
Meron.' With that, he gave me a comradely pat on the arm and
hurried off down the steps, making me feel more like a leper
than ever.
I followed him down, and walked through the car park to the
gate, imagining him and Graham munching away on a huge wet
fish in their cosy parlour. For some reason I couldn't quite
fathom, I pictured McFee wearing a pair of clogs and a well
worn smoking jacket.
I was also thinking that as well as a drink I was going to buy a
pack of cigarettes and have my first smoke in almost ten years.
My mood was beginning to change from terrified and confused
to why-the-hell-not mode. But as I reached the gate, I heard
someone shouting my name. I turned round and saw McFee
standing by his car with his keys in his hand, waving over in my
direction. It was him doing the shouting. Then I saw why. He
wanted me to stop. Not, I suspect, because he'd had a change of
heart and wanted to give me a lift, or offer me a fish supper. More likely it was because two uniformed officers were hurrying down the steps in my direction, looking very much like they wanted to speak to me.
My first thought was that they'd finally located Kathy, and I
was already preparing to walk back to them, when a second
thought crossed my mind. What if whoever was trying to set me,
or her, up had planted further evidence, giving them a fresh opportunity to do what they'd wanted to do these last three
hours, and charge me with a killing I'd had nothing to do with?

I had twenty yards on them, and I made a snap decision.
Run.
I turned and charged through the open gates and out onto
the»high street, where evening revellers were just beginning to

gather. Dusk was turning to darkness, and I welcomed it. I didn't
look round, but I knew they were coming after me. One group of
blokes in their twenties clustered outside a pub gave a cheer as I
came hurtling past, and people stepped out of my path. Without
warning, I did a jackknife turn and sprinted across the road,
causing at least one car to brake suddenly. This time it didn't hit
me, thank God, and I kept going, darting up a side street, then
up another, now finding myself in a plush-looking residential
area of whitewashed Georgian townhouses. My lungs hurt; my
cuts hurt; pretty much every part of me hurt. This really was
turning into a bad day.
I must have run two or three hundred yards when finally I
slowed, and looked back. The street behind me was empty.
Panting with exhaustion, I stopped and leaned against a low
garden wall. Inside the house beyond I could see two middle
aged couples in the front room eating dinner. One of the men
was filling glasses with a bottle of red wine. He was laughing at
something, and I saw that the others were laughing too. Without
a care in the world. I was only five yards from them yet they
didn't even look my way.
And because I was taking the time to feel sorry for myself, I
only vaguely heard the car as it came down the street and pulled
up beside me. I thought about taking off again, but knew that
there was no way I was going to outrun them, even if I had any
strength left. I'd done too much running for one day, and it was
clear that they were suddenly very keen to re-interview me.
So I turned round, ready to tell them that I wasn't going to say
a word until they provided a better lawyer than Douglas McFee.
But, of course, I never got the chance. A blurred figure in a cap
was coming straight at me, taking up my whole field of vision, and
before I could react or even get a glimpse of his face, he punched

me once, very hard, in the stomach. As I doubled over, he
grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me onto the back seat
of a car, squeezing in behind and slamming the door shut behind
him. There was a second man in the driver's seat. He was also
wearing a cap, and without a word he pulled away from the kerb.
I tried to look at the man next to me, but now I could see that
he had a black pistol with a short barrel in one gloved hand. He
pushed it against my temple, forcing my head against the window,
and for an awful, bowel-loosening second I thought he was
going to pull the trigger. Then he spoke.
'When I pull the gun away, you're going to lean over and put
your head between your legs and keep it there,' he said evenly.
'If you try to look at either me or my colleague, then before the
end of the night you're going to die. Do you understand?'
I told him I did.
'Good.' He removed the gun and I did exactly as I was told,
instinctively closing my eyes. A second later, I felt a blanket being flung over my head and upper body. 'As long as you tell us
everything we want to hear, you'll be free in a couple of hours.'
His words were meant to be encouraging, but since I still
didn't have a clue what it was they wanted, they weren't.

14

Bolt cursed when he heard they'd released Meron. 'I thought he
waS being held on a murder charge.'

Mo shrugged. 'They said there wasn't enough evidence to hold
him.'

'How long ago did they let him go? Do you know?'

Mo asked the question into the phone. 'Literally just now,' he
told Bolt. 'A couple of minutes, that's all.'

'Tell them to see if they can see him anywhere. And if they can,
get them to arrest him again. It's essential we talk to this guy.'

Calmly, Mo relayed the information into the phone, and waited
while the officer he was speaking to reacted to it. A few seconds
passed, then it was Mo's turn to curse. 'Are you sure? In that case,
can you get some people out there looking for him? Sure, I know
you've got resource problems. We've all got them.' He pulled a
face at Bolt and made the universal hand gesture to illustrate his
opinion of the person at the other end of the line. 'Well, if you
can do something ... Sure, sure ... Thanks.' He flicked the end
call button on the phone and put it back in his jeans pocket.

'He's gone?'

Mo sighed. 'Yeah, he's gone. They went out after him but he
ran, and now they're saying they haven't got enough people on
duty to try to locate him.'

They were still standing on the Merons' driveway with PCs
Coombs and Leverett, and Bolt turned to them now. 'If Mr
Meron turns up here, can you call us on this number?' He
handed out business cards with his mobile number on them to
the two officers. 'Have you got a photo of him anywhere?'

'The people over the road have,' said PC Leverett.

'Well, maybe they can let us have one.'

The people over the road were a vaguely harassed couple
called the Hendersons whose two young boys were charging
about like wild animals, refusing to go to bed. Both Martin and
Suzette Henderson described the Merons as a perfectly
ordinary, friendly couple who they couldn't imagine getting
involved in crime of any sort. Martin managed to find them a
photo of the two of them taken at a barbecue the previous
summer held in honour of their youngest son's birthday.
The photo seemed to reflect the Hendersons' description. The
Merons were indeed an ordinary-looking, if quite photogenic,
pair in their mid-thirties, both smiling at the camera in front of a
bright yellow and orange bouncy castle. He had his arm round
her, and was holding a can of Fosters in his spare hand, while
she had hold of a glass of red wine. They didn't look like the sort
of people who got mixed up with murder, but that didn't mean
that they hadn't. As a young PC, Bolt remembered arresting
a sweet-looking white-haired old lady of seventy-two who
attended church every Sunday without fail, and was known as
Nan by the neighbourhood children, to whom she would often
distribute sweets. She'd even offered him a cup of tea after he
and his colleagues had turned up to take her away for burying a
meat cleaver in the back of her husband's head, almost killing
him. It turned out that she had an unusually high sex drive, and
the husband had been refusing to service her needs. Things had
got out of hand, and she'd lost her rag, something which under
questioning she'd put down to a build-up of nervous tension
caused by a lack of orgasms. It takes all sorts, Bolt reflected.
As the two NCS men were leaving, Martin Henderson came
out after them.
'I don't want to make a big islue of this,' he said quietly, as
they stopped to hear what he had to say, 'because it may not
mean anything, and I don't want to get anyone in trouble.'
'Go on,' said Bolt.
Henderson sighed. 'It's just that things have been a bit strange
witlk Tom and Kathy lately. I've seen him driving out late at

night, then coming back in the early hours, and she's been around
a lot less than usual.' He paused. 'There's also been fights. Big
screaming matches, and they've never had them before. One
time, Tom was even walking round with a black eye.'
'How long's this been going on?'
'A while. A few months now.' Henderson was about to
say something else, but then he heard his wife, who'd finally
managed to round up the kids, coming down the stairs. 'Like I
say, I don't want to get anyone into trouble, but. ..' He let the
sentence trail off, said his goodbyes and went back inside.
As they reached the car, Bolt looked at his watch. Twenty past
eight. A thick bank of black clouds was now forming to the west,
and from somewhere in the far distance there came a faint
rumble of thunder.