The Catch (10 page)

‘Eh? Oh. Yeah, I get you.’

‘In fact,’ said Patricia, ‘I suggest you pay us a visit, as soon as you have everything you can find. And try the house again. If you can get in safely, bring his laptop with you.’

****

After the call, Gordon poured fresh coffee for them both. While reaching for the sugar he caught his reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet and had to pause. Much of the time he fought against his natural vanity, but every so often he didn’t see the harm ...

At fifty-two he was still slim, youthful, a full head of grey hair trimmed every three weeks at a salon in Richmond. He wasn’t tall, about five seven, but he kept a surprisingly muscular physique, thanks to regular gym sessions which had, if anything, grown more addictive in recent years.

And he was good-looking, he felt, albeit in a slightly old-fashioned way. The faithful sergeant to the maverick cop in a 1980s TV show. He had pale green eyes and a sensuous mouth. The lines of age on his forehead had been welcomed: they made him look serious, wise, pragmatic. He was a
man
, not a boy. Whatever the situation, whatever the challenge, he was there to meet it.

With this in mind, he placed the cups on the counter and addressed his wife in his best stern-but-caring voice. ‘No more pacing, darling. Come and sit down.’

Patricia saw that he meant it and did as she was told. She picked up her spoon and absently stirred the coffee, even though it was still swirling from when Gordon had seen to it.

‘So where are we?’

This was her invitation for Gordon to do what he did best: deconstruct a problem, identifying the separate components in a way that enabled Patricia to see the whole picture, analyse it and come up with a solution.

‘O’Brien’s dead. If we take that as our starting point?’

‘I agree. Even Jerry couldn’t have got that much wrong.’

‘So we act on the basis that, barring a miracle, Hank is no more, and the work he was doing may have perished—’

‘No.’ Patricia raised an imperious forefinger. ‘Focus on what happened to Hank.’

‘A hit-and-run accident. Late at night, a lonely country road—’

That finger was up again: a false nail, painted scarlet, shaped like the head of a spear. ‘No, Gordon, no. A hit-and-run doesn’t necessarily equate to an
accident
.’ Seeing him look baffled, she smiled a tiny schoolmarmish smile. ‘Think about it, darling. If you knock somebody down and drive away, isn’t there every chance that you did it on purpose?’

****

Gordon took a sip of his coffee: scalding hot, just as he preferred, but Patricia winced when it made him slurp.

‘You think Hank was murdered?’ he said.

‘We’d be foolish to rule it out.’

‘But why? What motive?’

‘In the best-case scenario, it’s something completely unrelated. Some murky secret we know nothing about.’

‘And the worst case ...?’

‘I hardly need say, do I? Worst case, it’s
us
.’

Gordon had just taken another sip of coffee. Unable to speak for a moment, he raised one eyebrow in a question: his little Roger Moore parlour trick.

‘It’s not entirely logical,’ Patricia added. ‘If I were Templeton, I wouldn’t deal out retribution until I knew if Hank was working alone. And, if not, who were his co-conspirators?’

‘In which case, they’d be kicking down our door ...’ Gordon gave an uneasy glance at the hall.

‘Exactly. On balance, it’s more likely Hank was the author of his own misfortune. Perhaps he sought out a new partner and it backfired. We always considered the possibility of a double-cross. And Jerry’s clearly been asleep at the wheel.’

‘A horribly apposite phrase in the circumstances.’

She shrugged. ‘Did Hank decide his efforts could be better rewarded elsewhere, I wonder? Or did he simply go it alone and try to extract a settlement from Templeton without reference to us?’

Lulled by the solemn tone of her musing, Gordon sighed. ‘I dare say we’ll never know for sure.’

Patricia snapped him out of his trance. ‘Of course we will. It’s imperative that we find out who we’re up against.’

Gordon nodded briskly, as if he’d never held a contrary view. ‘But if the police are at the house, we may already have lost the chance to retrieve—’

‘Hank would have known to hide the important material. And there’s no reason to believe they’ll carry out a forensic examination.’

‘If only we could get to the laptop first.’

‘Well, so far Jerry has been as useful as a chocolate coffee pot, or whatever the saying is. I suspect we need to bring in somebody of a higher calibre. Somebody who won’t blanch at the first sign of difficulty.’

He already knew who his wife was describing. He saw it in her eyes; he could hear the little thrill in her voice that appeared whenever she talked about him. Gordon wouldn’t dare let on, but it was a name that always filled him with dread.

‘Stemper.’

Dan made himself a coffee, then checked that Hayley was back in the showroom before he hurried out to the car park and rang Cate’s mobile.

She answered immediately. ‘Dan, thanks. I’ve been trying to reach my brother, but he won’t pick up.’

‘What’s this about the police?’

‘Hank O’Brien’s dead. Knocked down by a car.’

‘Oh God, that’s terrible.’ Dan hoped he sounded genuinely shocked.

‘The police found my number on his phone. I’ve just had a visit from two detectives from Major Crimes. They’re working with the Road Policing Unit to try and trace the driver.’

‘I see.’ After a respectful pause, Dan said, ‘I take it the police asked about your meeting with Hank?’

‘Yes. I didn’t own up to knowing you two, but I had to mention the rest of it. The fight and everything.’ In a low voice, she added, ‘I’ve got somebody waiting. Can we get together after work?’

‘Okay.’ Dan felt a watery ache in his stomach at the prospect of having to look Cate in the eye and lie to her.

‘I should be free for about six-thirty. How about The William IV?’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ll keep trying Robbie. Can you call him, too?’

‘I’ll do my best, but you know Robbie.’ He tried to chuckle and mangled it badly.

‘Yeah.’ Cate seemed too preoccupied to notice. ‘A walking disaster area, and we pick up the pieces.’

****

Dan put his phone away, wondering if it might be an advantage if Robbie was absent tonight. Maybe he should confide in Cate, tell her everything.

‘What are you doing out here?’

He spun round and found Hayley in the doorway, leaning out as though she’d merely paused in the act of passing by.

‘Getting some air.’

‘I thought I heard you talking.’

‘What? No.’ He blushed, wondering if he should confront her:
How long have you been there?

He settled for shoving his hands in his pockets and striding towards her with a studious
back-to-work
look on his face, but Hayley didn’t budge.

‘You seem really on edge.’

‘Is that why you keep following me?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Every time I look round, you’re homing in on me.’

‘And you practically jump out of your skin when I see you.’ She gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘You haven’t made an offer for a business or something?’

‘No, of course not.’

She thrust out a hand. ‘Let me see your phone.’

‘Jesus, Hayley ...’

‘You were talking to someone. Why are you denying it?’

‘Okay, it was Cate. We bumped into her last night.’

‘You didn’t tell me she was there.’

‘She called me because she’s worried about Robbie. He’s got money trouble.’

‘Self-inflicted, I bet. Like all of Robbie’s problems.’ She gave a disparaging sniff. ‘What I can’t understand is why you stay friends with him.’

‘I don’t want to get into that now ...’

‘No, all right.’ Appearing to be pacified, she turned and headed back into the shop, Dan a pace or two behind. In a light tone, she said, ‘Cate’s divorced, isn’t she, from that Malcolm?’

‘Martin.’ He’d corrected her before realising that it might have been a deliberate error.

‘Whatever.’ She stopped abruptly, reached out and caressed his cheek, as if to signal that he was forgiven. ‘Are we doing lunch at twelve?’

He looked at her, puzzled, then remembered her suggestion of a walk to the Level. He knew he couldn’t cope with a whole hour of cross-examination. ‘Sorry, I’d better not. Got a stack of warranty applications to sort out.’

Hayley saw the lie but didn’t challenge it. Dan felt a pang of self-disgust. He wished he could say something conciliatory, but healing the rift now would only lead to more interrogation.

****

It was another hour before he had a chance to call Robbie. He waited till Hayley had gone to lunch, then retreated to the sales office. He rang from the landline so that Robbie wouldn’t recognise the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Robbie. It’s me.’

‘Oh. Clever.’

‘Have you spoken to your sister yet?’

‘Been too busy.’

Dan sighed. He could hear a lot of background noise: a hubbub of voices, some of them juvenile, and lots of little electrical bleeps and pings.

‘Are you at work?’

‘Course I am. Always working, me.’

‘You know Cate’s heard about the accident?’

‘Yeah. No reason to panic.’

‘The police have been to see her. She wants to meet us tonight. The William IV at half-six. Okay?’

‘I guess I don’t have any choice.’ For once, Robbie sounded appropriately sombre.

‘Too right you don’t—’

‘What I mean is, I can’t risk letting you meet her alone. Not when you’re this flaky.’

Dan had that winded sensation again, the shock of betrayal. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we might have to tell her. It’s not fair to leave her in the dark when she’s already compromised herself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Get there for six and we’ll discuss it before Cate arrives.’

Dan put the phone down on Robbie’s protest, then stared at the desk, glumly convinced that nothing positive would come of the meeting. All that Robbie truly cared about was Robbie. Deep down, he’d always known that, but had chosen to overlook it. Now he was paying the price.

****

‘Silly twat.’

Robbie had instinctively ignored his sister’s attempts to contact him. He couldn’t see why Dan lacked the sense to do the same. Now they would have to meet up and maintain the lie that they’d played no part in Hank O’Brien’s death. And what were the chances of Dan holding it together?

Fucking nil, probably. Still, it was a useful test. If Dan couldn’t keep his mouth shut with Cate, he’d be a goner if the police ever tracked them down.

So what can I do about that ...?

The options were pretty unpalatable. He remembered the moment when it had seemed that O’Brien was still alive and needed finishing off. But it was one thing to snuff out an arrogant bastard like that; another thing entirely to do it to his oldest friend ...

He shook off the thought and admired the gadgetry laid out before him. A lot of it was being pawed by grubby little brats with no intention of purchasing anything. Robbie loved the Apple store, but he’d love it even more if they put bouncers on the door. The place needed an age limit and a strict ‘no timewasters’ policy to keep the chavs out.

Coming here had meant postponing a viewing in Plumpton, which could lose them the business, but Robbie didn’t give a toss. It wasn’t like he was getting any profit-share. Besides, after all the grief last night he had a burning desire to make himself feel better.

Digging a wodge of cash from his pocket, he snared the attention of a tasty sales assistant. The initial eye contact was promising, so he followed up with his full-on, ten-megawatt smile.

‘Hello, darling, I fancy an iPad.’ He took his voice down a notch: ‘What will you do for cash?’

He was sizing up a space marine when the call came in. After three hours of continuous close work, it was a welcome interruption.

Most of that time had been consumed by the finishing stages, using a fine-detail brush to paint a beguiling character called the Changeling: a trickster who devoted himself to sowing confusion and havoc. Stemper approved of that.

The Changeling was a character from a game called
Warhammer 40,000
. Stemper had only the vaguest notion of how the game itself was played, although for the sake of appearances he pretended to be absorbed by Jacob’s lengthy and garbled explanations.

What attracted Stemper was the challenge. He had always been fascinated by tasks that involved extraordinary levels of self-control. The concentration and dexterity required of a model painter were, he thought, comparable to those of a watchmaker, a neurosurgeon, a bomb-disposal expert.

Or, indeed, a bomb-maker.

When the phone buzzed he sat upright in the chair, savouring the burn as the muscles in his back unfurled. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, made a tight fist, flexed them again, and picked up his mobile.

The caller began to introduce herself, but there was no need. ‘Patricia,’ he said. ‘Wonderful to hear from you.’

‘Thank you. I take it you’re free to talk?’

‘Of course. How may I help?’

‘I think we have a problem. Something rather, uh, delicate.’

Stemper smiled. He could do delicate, as the beautifully decorated Changeling would attest. He could also do confusion and havoc.

****

It took her less than two minutes to set out the reason for her call. He regarded brevity as an essentially masculine trait, but Patricia was adept at getting to the crux of the matter. He might have complimented her, but for the fact that he had been placed on speakerphone.