The Catch (48 page)

Plenty of money by most people’s standards. At times this past week, Gordon had wondered why they didn’t just turn away, forget the African dream and make do with what they had.

But then he thought of his restless mid-life craving for a yacht, and the tumbling value of some of their key investments, and the idea of spending maybe twenty or thirty years in retirement with an inexorably falling income. Bye-bye villa, bye-bye exotic holidays and sumptuous meals and earth-shattering sex with his pneumatic playmates in Kingston-upon-Thames ...

Patricia was right. There was too much to lose. And if they had to gamble everything now on a last desperate throw of the dice, then so be it.

****

Stemper slept for nearly six hours. He bathed, dressed and slipped out while Quills was holding forth in the dining room. Perhaps one of the tourists had caught his eye.

He found a restaurant near the Theatre Royal that was still open to new customers at eleven p.m. He fuelled up, allowed himself a couple of glasses of wine, and was back at the guest house at just before one.

The building was quiet, save for a faint peal of laughter from a bedroom on the second floor. The door to the private apartment had been left unlocked, as per Stemper’s instructions.

Quills was still awake, eyes bright, face flushed. Heavily inebriated, by the look of him. Excellent.

‘Are you sleepy?’ Stemper crouched by the bed. ‘It works better if you’re sleepy.’

‘Too excited to sleep.’

‘I take it you made some new friends tonight. Were you drinking with them?’

‘One or two.’ Quills giggled. ‘I wish you’d been there.’ Beneath the old-fashioned eiderdown his body was gently writhing, his arm stretched across his belly, lying there, awaiting the signal to move.

‘Do it,’ Stemper said. ‘It’ll help you relax.’

‘I am relaxed.’ The movement began, rhythmic, fast.

‘Slow down.’

‘It feels wonderful. But I wish you’d—’

‘Not tonight. Tonight you have to do as I say. Close your eyes. Remember how it was last time. How you listened to my voice and felt yourself sinking. A gloriously heavy weight, Bernard, sinking into the dark. And as you go, I want you to picture the treat I’ll give you on my last night here.’

‘When ...?’ Quills’s voice was thick, drowsy.

‘Soon. Tomorrow, or Tuesday. We’ll have a drink together. What is it you like best? What’s your tipple?’

‘Cham ... champagne.’

‘Champagne it is. In fact, you choose the bottle. Have it ready on ice, and think about what you’re going to do that night, the pleasure you’ll feel as you lie back and sink into the warmth, the heavy warmth and the peace, the stillness. The pleasure. Think about it all, think about me, and then I want you to sleep deeply.’

A long, soft groan accompanied a series of spasms beneath the covers, and then Quills lay still, wearing a dreamy smile. For several minutes nothing was said; neither man moved at all.

One of Stemper’s knees popped as he straightened up, but the proprietor did not stir. It had not escaped Stemper’s notice that he could so easily have picked up a pillow and pressed it down on the poor man’s face.

But where was the challenge in that?

Dan had found the perfect business. It was an almost exact replica of the cafe in Saltdean, but located on a hillside in the Cuckmere valley, with fine views of Friston Forest and even a glimpse of sparkling blue sea. Dan was racing to get it ready for opening time, but no one else had turned up to help.

And Cate was outside, on the terrace. Dan kept beckoning to her but she ignored his pleas, staring at him with a sad regretful smile, and somehow he understood that she dare not come in because she was afraid of breaking his heart.

He woke with a desperate sense of longing, and a realisation that his subconscious was a good deal more perceptive than his conscious mind.

****

For once Robbie was all set to go at six in the morning – and a
Monday
morning at that. He’d got his head down early and slept like a baby. He showered, dressed in tatty clothes, then trotted into the kitchen and found Jed already at the table, drinking a concoction so dark and thick that it might have been tar.

‘Did you go to bed?’ Robbie asked.

‘Not exactly. We having brekkie here or stopping by Maccy D’s on the way?’

‘Maccy D’s sounds good to me.’

****

Dan lay and drifted until his alarm went off, by which time the effect of the dream had begun to fade. Another half an hour and he’d restored enough hope to send Cate a text, suggesting they meet for dinner one night this week.

It had been the same yesterday, his emotions on a see-saw after he’d left Robbie’s flat and walked home across the city. He had said nothing to his aunt about splitting up with Hayley – that news could wait until he’d come to terms with it himself. But Joan had asked what he was planning to do about his car, and he’d told her it was in hand.

‘A friend of Robbie’s came and got it last night. He’s taking a look at it for me.’

‘Let’s hope it’s nothing serious,’ Joan said. ‘But either way I’ll pick up the bill.’

Dan had begun to argue, then remembered that it was never actually going to happen.

Louis hadn’t come home until eight, by which time Dan’s anger had cooled. In any case, this wasn’t the right moment to discuss Robbie or the drugs. Sunday nights were traditionally about family time: the three of them together in the living room, Joan busy with a sudoku and sipping a glass of sherry, Dan watching TV, Louis glancing at the screen while messaging his friends on his BlackBerry.

Now, as he walked to work, Dan reflected on a tumultuous weekend. He’d lost his car, his fiancée and his best friend, and although it might be the case that he had gained a new lover, deep down he couldn’t bring himself to believe there was any prospect of a lasting relationship with Cate.

He checked his phone yet again, but she still hadn’t replied. Perhaps, having thought it over, she had decided to go to the police. Dan waited for the idea to provoke a stab of panic, but nothing came. He truly felt that he didn’t care what happened to him now.

****

The text from Dan made Cate’s heart sink. She wouldn’t answer it until she had given some thought to a tactful response. Despite Dan’s role in Hank O’Brien’s death and the subsequent cover-up, Cate was still disposed to let him down gently.

In the light of a new day, she’d concluded that going to bed with him hadn’t been a mistake, exactly, but neither had it represented the beginning of something. She was in two minds as to whether she should meet Dan to warn him about DC Avery. Or would it be safer if she and Robbie stayed well away from Dan for the time being?

She was thinking about reporting Avery’s behaviour to DS Thomsett when her phone rang. It was her mother, sounding uncharacteristically solemn.

‘Darling, are you still at home?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I wish I could be there, but I’m in East Grinstead and I’ve only just seen the paper. It’s Martin ...’

Cate released the breath she’d been holding. ‘I know. DS Thomsett came to—’ She faltered:
Mum doesn’t know about Thomsett, or Hank O’Brien
.

‘DS who?’

‘He’s one of the detectives on the case.’

‘Oh.’ A sniff. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I’ve ... I was in shock, I suppose.’

‘You realise it happened in Kensington Gardens? It must have been that disturbance we saw. What was it, a fight with someone?’

‘They don’t seem to know at this stage. Look, Mum, I’m late for work. If you’re in the office at lunchtime I’ll pop round and we can discuss it then.’

A little put out, her mother agreed, then clicked her tongue. ‘Martin was a bit of a pillock, but still. What a dreadful thing to happen.’

‘It’s terrible,’ Cate agreed, and managed not to hurl the phone across the room.

She was surprised her mother hadn’t raised the thorny issue of coincidence. Then again, Mum had twice bumped into friends in Churchill Square. Half the city went out shopping on a Saturday afternoon, so maybe Martin hadn’t been following her at all ...

An encouraging thought, until she remembered his final words in the ambulance:
Tell Cate
.

And now she had gone and mentioned DS Thomsett, which would stir up many more questions. Cate would have to come clean about Martin’s visit on Friday night, and Janine’s tirade, and God knew what else. As Dan had proved, it was incredibly hard to maintain a deception for any length of time.

It’s spiralling out of control, she thought. And sooner or later there’ll be a reckoning.

****

It was a weight off Robbie’s mind to see the burned-out Fiesta carted away, and while other niggling worries remained, they were as nothing compared with the optimism that coursed through his veins.

The only bugbear was that Jed’s buddy turned up late. It meant waiting around for nearly an hour, trying to make conversation with a man he didn’t understand, didn’t much like, and wanted out of his life as soon as possible. But Jed seemed sublimely unaware of Robbie’s irritation. He was far more talkative than Robbie had ever known him, his comments and questions always gently probing, overlaid with an amusement that suggested he knew all of Robbie’s secrets.

And that, when Robbie stopped to consider it, was no small matter. He realised that this shabby, chaotic waster could, from what he’d seen and heard over the past few days, assemble enough information to make a real nuisance of himself.

At last a recovery truck rumbled in through the gates. Robbie directed it across the lawn to the barn, wincing at the furrows it was carving in the grass. He’d have to devise an explanation for Hank’s sister.

After reversing partway into the barn, the driver used a winch to drag the wreck up on to the flatbed. Another ten minutes and it was covered with a tarpaulin and strapped up tight.

Robbie produced the rest of the payment but Jed took it from him and retreated to the far side of the truck, conferring quietly with the driver.
Bastard’s taking a cut for himself
, Robbie thought. If not for the small fortune resting in his safe – and the much larger one promised by Hank’s stash of paperwork – he might have made a fuss about it.

Instead he was glad just to have this over with. They saw the truck off the premises, then returned to Robbie’s BMW. Jed took one last admiring glance at the farmhouse.

‘Hell of a place, this. Could take to living here myself.’

‘In your dreams,’ Robbie muttered.

‘Why’s that?’ Jed asked, as if genuinely surprised. ‘’S not as though the owner’s got any use for it.’

Robbie gave him a sharp look. He hadn’t breathed a word about Hank O’Brien’s fate.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, you said this is one of your rental places. Nobody living here, by the look of it.’ A chuckle. ‘Why, what did you think I meant?’

Robbie scowled. ‘Nothing.’

****

Cate checked the street from her bedroom window before leaving the house. A furtive, guilty action, but she wanted to make sure DC Avery wasn’t lying in wait.

There was no sign of him, thank God. She hurried downstairs, set the burglar alarm and stepped outside. It was a fresh morning, a warmish breeze coursing uphill from the sea. No pedestrians in sight, no passing cars; just a delivery truck double parked at the top of the road and a car with its engine running in the side street almost adjacent to her home.

She set off down the hill, towards the magnificent red-brick church of St Mary Magdalen; beyond it, the whitecaps scudding over a greeny-blue sea. She loved the changing colours, the moods of the sea; a different landscape every day—

‘Miss Scott?’

She hadn’t heard footsteps, but when she turned there was a man only yards away. In his fifties, medium height, slim, wearing a suit and a raincoat. Grey-brown hair in a side parting, silver-framed glasses, a nondescript face.

At that moment, only one thing explained who he was and what he was doing here: Avery had made good on his threat. This must be DS Thomsett’s boss.

‘Caitlin Scott?’ he said again. He had a smooth monotone voice; no discernible accent.

‘Yes. Do I know you?’

Ignoring the question, he grasped her arm firmly at a point just above the elbow and steered her towards the side street, Victoria Place. ‘Come with me, please.’

‘What? Let me go. Who are you?’

He moved with the agility of a much younger man, urging her forward while positioning himself slightly behind her. Cate was so startled that her body obeyed, her mind whirring uselessly like a slipped gear.

His destination was the car with its engine running, a silver Ford Focus. Would a detective inspector or higher drive a Focus ...?

You silly cow, she thought. He hasn’t arrested you, hasn’t cautioned you.

He’s not a cop
.

The panic spiked through her like a bolt of lightning, but he anticipated the impulse to break away, tightening his grip on her arm. At the same time something dug into her side. She looked down, saw the muzzle of a gun. Her legs almost gave way.

‘You’re not going to be hurt, but I need you to cooperate. Can you do that?’ His tone was friendly, relaxed, and it induced a strong desire to believe him.

There were duelling voices in her head: one trying to maintain order, anxious not to make a scene; the other furious and afraid, berating her for being so meek.

Tell Cate ...

Too late, it came to her:
A grey middle-aged man
, the witnesses had told the police.

Martin had been trying to warn her.

It was a paralysing thought. And now they were at the car. One of the rear doors had been left ajar – easy for her captor to flick it open without relinquishing hold of her arm or the gun.