See How They Run (23 page)

M
ichael dutifully complied
with his mother’s instructions. He drove towards the village and left the Range Rover in a cul-de-sac, about a ten-minute stroll from the house.

Walking back, he called Robyn to apologise. Somehow she had dropped Betty at her drama class, rushed Chloe to football, then made it back in time to see Betty take part in a display of modern dance.

‘And Junior was all right with that?’

‘Oh yes, he adores our little car journeys, although there is something funny. A couple of his outfits are missing. You know those purple dungarees my sister bought him?’

Michael grunted, not interested. ‘I’d better get back to Mum. I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

A soft laugh. ‘Oh, no hurry, darling. Your mother comes first.’

He analysed her tone for traces of sarcasm and found none. Then Junior squealed in the background and Robyn said she had to rush, blew him a kiss to pass to Nanny Nerys and rang off.

‘Nanny Nerys’ was grimly excited when he reached the house. She’d managed to get hold of Mark Vickery.

‘I said I’d heard he’s looking for Renshaw, and that I might know where he is. Vickery played it cool but I could tell he’s interested.
Very
interested.’

‘Did you talk terms?’ It worried Michael that his mother had chosen to make the call in his absence. He wondered if she still had reservations about confiding in him – and that was the real reason he’d been sent to move the car.

‘Not yet. But Vickery will know I’ll be expecting a reward of some kind.’

‘So now what?’

‘Sort out your hiding place,’ Nerys said, with a grin so wicked that it made her look ten years younger. ‘And then wait for them to come back.’

He studied her for a moment: those big eyes glowing with vitality. ‘You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know about that. I’d be a lot happier if Renshaw had never got in touch, but since he has …’ She shrugged. ‘A change is as good as a rest, isn’t that what they say?’

T
hey didn’t have
to wait long. Nerys was upstairs, tidying the nursery, when she shouted down to him: ‘Edward’s on his way across the field.’

In the kitchen, Michael was idly flicking through the
Mail.
He threw it aside when she called out again: ‘Alice isn’t with him.’

He raced upstairs, joined Nerys in the guest bedroom and watched Renshaw marching along the path. Was it his imagination, or did Renshaw look slightly less rotund?

‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘What’s he done with her?’

Nerys grasped his arm and spoke in a soothing voice. ‘And the baby, remember? He can’t have harmed them.’

‘But what if he’s let them go?’ Michael knew he sounded hopelessly bereft, a boy whose most treasured toy has just been snatched by the school bully.

Tutting, Nerys eased him away from the window. ‘We’ll have to see what he says, won’t we?’

Initially she’d been reluctant for him to do anything other than wait in an adjoining room, but Michael had insisted on staying close to the action. Having decided that her country kitchen was the least intimidating place to speak to Renshaw, they’d cleared space for him to hide in the old-fashioned pantry. It meant he had to crouch below a shelf of tins and dried pasta, hemmed in tight by the side walls. The door was held shut by a roller catch, but the slightest pressure would open it. The air reeked of stale onions. Within seconds Michael had a dusting of flour on his face and had to pinch his nostrils together to suppress a sneeze.

A minute or two passed before he heard them come in, his mother referring to Alice when she said: ‘… could have gone upstairs, if you’d wanted to talk in private. It’s a big house!’

‘No. It is better if she and the infant are well away from here, until this is agreed.’

‘I see,’ Nerys said. ‘And what’s to agree?’

A chair creaked: Renshaw sitting down. Michael heard a cupboard open, mugs being placed on the worktop.

‘Several things. I cannot believe you have failed to spot the potential here. Their value.’ He paused. ‘Your son has gone now, yes?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I … I do not think it wise to involve him. This should be between us. Only us.’

The rush of water into a kettle obscured Renshaw’s next comment, but Michael heard his mother grumbling: ‘My conscience is clear. I gave those girls the best possible care.’

‘And yet, you have told your son nothing.’

‘Because it’s ancient history. Now, why don’t you get to the point?’

A soft, menacing chuckle from Renshaw. ‘The point, Nerys, is that this is not ancient history at all. The threat from Laird is real. I had hoped for sanctuary here, but I fear it would not be safe to stay.’

‘Nonsense. And I’m offended, frankly, that you could say so.’

M
ichael smiled
. His mother sounded so indignant that he felt a momentary pang of sympathy for her position – as if she wasn’t intending to betray Renshaw for the right price.

Renshaw went on, unrepentant: ‘It is better that I leave. But I will need money.’

‘You’ve got money, haven’t you?’

‘It is not sufficient. Clearly you have done very well here. This peaceful life in the countryside, it must be worth a lot to keep it this way?’

‘What are you saying, Edward?’

‘To keep silent about your present location, I must have some help towards my own retirement.’

Over the fizz of a boiling kettle, Nerys gave a spluttering laugh. ‘And if I don’t pay up?’

‘Please. Such things are ugly to discuss. Let us agree quickly on a deal, so that we remain friends. You also keep the, ah, “merchandise”, do not forget.’

Nerys said nothing. Michael could hear her making the tea. Finally she spoke, in a calm, reasonable tone.

‘How much do you need?’

‘As much as you can spare. Two, three hundred thousand …’

‘Are you serious?’ Nerys laughed again. ‘D’you think I have that sort of cash lying around?’

‘Entirely possible. Your late husband’s business was, what, antique importing?’

‘More or less. And Michael’s added a retail arm – a dozen shops now. But cash flow is really tight. The recession’s been hell for—’

‘Nonsense. This is a high-end market, and as we both know, the rich are richer than ever. I would be amazed if you or your son did not have a rainy day fund, hidden away from the taxman.’

Silence. Michael struggled to picture his mother, speechless with shock.

‘Also, I require a better car. Your son’s Range Rover would be ideal for my purposes.’

‘Edward …’ Nerys exhaled impatiently. ‘You can’t just roll up here and make all these demands.’

‘No? Then you would prefer it if Nathan Laird “rolls up here”, following a tip-off that you helped me escape?’

S
o there it was
. No doubting where they stood now, Michael thought. His mother’s warnings had been entirely vindicated.

Almost through gritted teeth, by the sound of it, she said, ‘This is bloody unfair, Edward. You haven’t even told me why you’re in so much trouble.’

‘You know what you need to know.’

‘Bullshit. I’m not giving you a penny till you tell me why Laird’s so desperate to find you.’

Renshaw huffed and puffed a bit, but it couldn’t have escaped his attention that she’d as good as capitulated.

‘There was one particular transaction.’ He said it carefully, as if to avoid incriminating himself. ‘It was not my intention to do so, but I learned the identity of the customer.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who it is?’ Nerys asked.

He must have shaken his head. ‘He wanted not just one, but two, three … a regular conveyor belt, to be used for—’

‘I get it,’ said Nerys quickly. She sounded cross, Michael thought, and it struck him that the interruption was to prevent him from overhearing the full details from his position in the pantry. ‘I assume you’ve got proof, otherwise it’s just the kind of rubbish that goes flying round the internet every day.’

‘I have proof. Hidden well, in case you were wondering.’ He sniffed. ‘You will have searched my room, no doubt?’

Nerys made regretful noises. ‘I appreciate why you’ve had to be so suspicious, but to act this way with
me
, after all the years we’ve known each other …’

There were kitchen drawers opening and closing as she spoke, and she sounded upset but also slightly distracted – occupied with her domestic tasks – to an extent that probably invited Renshaw to pay scant attention to her complaint.

‘I am no fool, Nerys,’ he growled. ‘It is clear your life here is worth everything to you. I am being generous giving you the girl. Now you either take the deal, or answer to Laird.’

From Nerys, a long troubled sigh. Then she said, ‘Well, you certainly strike a hard bargain, Edward.’

What?
Michael couldn’t understand why she wasn’t arguing her case more forcefully, but then came a strange scuffling noise, the harsh scrape of a chair, and Renshaw let out a cry. It was cut short by a hard, heavy clonk that was unmistakably an act of violence: the sound of a solid object striking something hard, but also something wet and yielding.

A
fter kicking
the pantry door open, there was a second when Michael couldn’t move. He had to force himself to relax, folding his arms in tight before he could pitch forward, but he forgot to duck his head and caught the sharp edge of the shelf as he tried to stand up too soon.

Dizzy and reeling from the pain, he took in the nightmarish scene before him. Nerys was behind Renshaw’s chair, a rolling pin in her hand: the cartoon battle-axe’s weapon of choice. She’d swung at Renshaw’s head but he must have ducked away; his right cheek and eye socket had been smashed and there was blood streaming down his face.

Nevertheless he was still in one piece, still conscious; able and willing to fight back. With an agonised roar he lurched out of his chair and made to grab the rolling pin, but there was blood on the weapon and his hand slipped, giving Nerys time to lift it out of his reach. She smacked it down on his head, a direct strike this time. The noise made Michael think of a pumpkin being hollowed out for Halloween.

Renshaw pitched forward, off the chair, and landed on his knees. His one good eye swivelled and rolled and came to focus on Michael. His mouth opened, perhaps to appeal for mercy, but all that emerged was another thick gout of blood.

‘Mum—’ Michael began, but she didn’t hear him. She swung again. Blood and hair and what might have been skull fragments flew across the room. Spots of blood landed on Michael’s face and he whipped his head away in disgust, spitting and brushing at his cheeks. He heard a thud: Renshaw flopping on to his belly. But he wasn’t lying still. He rolled from side to side, clawing at the kitchen tiles with blood-streaked fingers, his feet making a frantic cycling action as if trying to get away.

Renshaw let out a long, eerie moan, like a wild animal caught in a snare, and somehow managed to get on to his elbows and knees, bumping against Nerys as she rose to land another blow. Her feet slipped in his blood and made her stumble; she grabbed the table for support but dropped the rolling pin. It landed with a noise like a bomb going off, and Michael shouted something but he had no idea what, because it was too much to take in – this was his mother, for Christ’s sake, beating someone to death in front of his eyes – and still Renshaw wouldn’t give up: he went on screeching, trying to lift his ruined head and stay alive another second.

‘Finish it!’ Nerys shrieked. ‘Michael, finish it!’

At first he didn’t have a clue what she meant. Then he understood.

She was asking
him
to do it.

Stricken, he shook his head.

I can’t.

Her expression, for only a split-second, was one of the purest contempt. With a weary sigh, she bent over to retrieve the rolling pin, then planted a foot on Renshaw’s spine and forced him to lie flat. She pulled a chair alongside him and sat down, taking the weight off her feet while she leaned forward and clubbed him half a dozen times, her fatigue, by the end, making her look almost bored. Michael turned away, gagging at the sudden dreadful smell in the room.

‘He’s soiled himself,’ Nerys muttered. ‘Often happens, at the point of death.’

Michael hurried to the sink and spat, then ran the tap and splashed his face, wiping and wiping until he felt sure he must be clean.

‘He’s dead,’ he murmured in disbelief. ‘He’s really dead?’

He hadn’t intended to phrase it as a question, but there was a short, sarcastic laugh from Nerys.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ She wiped her own mouth with a long, slow drag of her sleeve, like a workman at the end of a hard day. ‘Look at him. He’s basically lasagne from the neck up.’

H
arry checked the time
. Soon, he had to decide whether he was going to meet up with Ruth. But the conversation with Keri had left him more confused than ever.

‘Why do you think they’re chasing Renshaw?’

‘He was a prickly man, had quite an ego. I can easily imagine him feeling he was worth more than they paid him, so maybe he had his hand in the till.’

‘Any idea where he’d have gone?’

‘Sorry, no. It’s ages since he left – well over a year. Vickery’s sister, Sian, took over his role, even though she had no qualifications whatsoever.’ She gave him a cryptic glance. ‘Another good reason for me to get out.’

H
arry decided
he had nothing to lose in being blunt. He leant forward, placed his hands on his knees and said, ‘I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘There’s probably a lot,’ she shot back. Then her tone changed, became reflective. ‘You know, I do this because it can be fun, it really can. Being independent means I can pick and choose, and seeing two or three guys a week gives me the income to fund my master’s degree without incurring any debts. Okay?’

Harry nodded. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’

‘There are some lovely men out there, but also a lot of evil-minded bastards. Hence the precautions today.’ A long pause. ‘Occasionally, when I worked for Laird, there’d be gossip about girls who’d suddenly disappeared. We’d hear that they had gone back home, or run off with a rich client. In some cases it may have been true – or it was a cover story because they’d got pregnant. Some even came back after a while. But other times … it sounded like bullshit.’

‘Didn’t it worry you, what the real reason might be?’

Keri dipped her head, then pushed her hair back, scraping it away from her face. For a moment she looked like she could sleep for a year and it wouldn’t be enough to revive her.

‘Yes and no,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, because here I am, working solo and taking a hell of a lot of care with my personal security. No, because in this game you can’t give in to nerves, rumours, irrational fears.’

‘And is there anyone else – former colleagues of yours – who could say whether there’s any truth to those rumours?’

‘I doubt it. Otherwise Greg would have found out, and acted on it. Instead he ended up dead.’

Harry considered that, and then said, ‘Unless he’s dead because he
did
find out?’

Keri seemed to pale at the suggestion. ‘I don’t think so. I—’ she began, and thought better of it. ‘No.’

‘Keri, please. There’s something else. I know there is. What is it?’

S
he deliberated for a moment
, then rose and left the room. She returned with a local newspaper, dated the previous day, folded it to an inside page and thrust it into his hand.

The main headline was:
BODY PARTS FOUND ON SUFFOLK BEACH
. It described the discovery of a dismembered corpse on a beach near Lowestoft. Subsequent investigations had identified the remains as Hasan Mansur, aged 28, of no fixed address, a low-level criminal with a string of convictions for theft, drug-dealing and assault.

‘He worked for them,’ Keri said. ‘It’s Hasan I thought of when you mentioned Renshaw.’

‘You think there’s a connection?’ Harry inhaled sharply. This was even worse than what Ruth had told him.

‘I hope not. I don’t want to think Laird did that to one of his own people.’ She gulped a mouthful of water and nearly choked. ‘Four or five years ago there was some kind of dispute, with a rival gang. Hasan was brought to Vickery’s one night with a gunshot wound. At death’s door is how I heard it. Renshaw, who’d only trained as a GP, ended up performing surgery on him, and managed to save his life.’

Harry squinted at her, disbelieving. ‘On his own?’

‘Pretty much. There was a woman who worked with him at the time.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘Nerys-someone. Nasty old cow.’

‘Either way, this Hasan would have been in debt to Renshaw.’ Harry found himself reliving the ordeal on Thursday morning, and the threat to cut his daughter’s throat. The idea that the same men could be responsible for an atrocity like this made him feel sick. ‘If he wasn’t killed by the people who are hunting Renshaw, who else might have done it?’

She gazed at him, bleakly, and finally shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘And if Laird did this,’ Harry went on, ‘then he must have killed Greg as well.’

Another shrug. Maybe she was numb to it, after years of association with these people, or maybe she truly believed she was safe. But to Harry, these revelations were a terrifying confirmation of the danger that Alice and Evie were in.

He checked his watch again. ‘I need to go.’

‘You’re meeting Ruth?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. He was unsure whether to mention that Ruth had said she was no longer interested in Keri, and settled for promising not to reveal Keri’s address. ‘After what you’ve told me, I’m kidding myself to think she’s serious about helping me. But it’s not as though I have any other options.’

‘Well, it’s your decision. Either way, I’m sorry about your family,’ Keri said. ‘I hope you find them soon.’

He stood up, stretched, realising how tired he felt. Keri followed him out to the hall, where he stopped abruptly.

‘Ruth gave me the impression that she doesn’t know anything about Renshaw. Would you have mentioned him to Greg?’

‘I think so. It wasn’t a secret that they had a doctor on the payroll.’

Troubling over this, he moved back to let her past him. The door to her apartment boasted a spyhole, a security chain and two hefty bolts.

Keri spoke again, quietly: ‘Please remember what I said about Ruth. All she cares about is herself.’

‘Seems to me that all she cares about is getting even with Laird. If only I knew
why
…’

Keri hesitated before speaking, then said, ‘This is just my own gut feeling, okay, but sometimes I wondered if it stemmed from an old relationship.’

Confused, Harry said: ‘Between … ?’

‘Ruth and Laird.’

‘Ruth and
Laird
? No, that can’t be …’

‘Like I say, I have nothing to substantiate it. Just … well, that needle of jealousy you’ll often see in a guy when he’s talking about a rival. I got that from Greg, a little.’

Harry was lost for words. As he stepped over the threshold, Keri placed her hand on his arm.

‘Be careful, Harry. Don’t get caught in the crossfire.’ And she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

H
e took
the stairs to the lobby, Keri’s warning ringing in his ears. But he was hardly worried for himself: nothing mattered now except locating his family before the gang caught up with them. He was tormented by the thought of being too late, of finding nothing but dismembered bodies.

King Street lay in the centre of town, which meant busier streets. This time it wasn’t the fear of recognition that haunted him so much as the sight of carefree families out enjoying their weekend. Ruth had played him for a fool, and it would have been all too easy to give in to resentment and rage. But for the sake of his wife and daughter he was determined to stay in control.

He checked the time: eleven forty-five. Staring at the phone, he experienced a sudden impulse to call the number he had for Alice. No doubt it was still switched off, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

His heart lurched when he heard a ringing tone. Then it stopped. Half a second before he realised the line hadn’t gone dead; then an uncertain voice said, ‘Hello?’

Harry nearly dropped the phone.