The Ice House (13 page)

22

The hut really was a hut – a one-room log cabin buried in the woods about one hundred metres from the road. But the door had a lock, and Molina had a key for it. Inside there were bunk beds for four, a table, two chairs and a corner with a sink and a cooker that ran on a gas bottle. Above the sink there were shelves with pans and cups and plates. There was a single drawer beneath the sink. There was no electricity, so holding a torch in one hand he had to fiddle around for a few minutes with an oil lamp, striking matches to light it before placing it on the table. ‘This place is hardly ever used these days,’ he said. ‘But you won’t be here long.’

‘You’re going to leave me in here?’

‘Only while I meet him. Twenty minutes most.’

‘You won’t lock me in?’ She smiled at him as she said it, like she was making a joke. He frowned back, like he hadn’t understood the joke.

‘When will you meet him?’ she asked.

‘I have to ring him. I’ll step outside now and ring him. There’s no signal in here. I have to walk back towards the road a little. Sit down. Relax.’

She sat down on the edge of one of the lower bunk beds. There were mattresses, smelling of dust, but no blankets she could see, no pillows. ‘I might sleep,’ she said.

‘That would be good, if you could manage it.’

‘I might not be able to stay awake …’ She lay carefully on the mattress, closed her eyes.

‘Can I make this call?’ he asked. ‘You OK?’

She waved a hand at him, like she was already almost asleep. His voice had a different tone, she thought.

She heard him open the door, step out, close it, heard his footsteps on the pine needles. He hadn’t locked the door. She sat up. There were two windows in the hut but both were shuttered fast. She stood, walked to the door and listened, with her ear to the hinges. After a few moments she could hear him talking, but it was indistinct. She placed her hand on the door handle, eased it down, pulled the door open a fraction and put her ear in the crack. Now she could hear him. He could only be about ten metres away. There was a danger he would see the light from the oil lamp but she couldn’t control that and she had to know what he was up to. He was talking quickly, saying something about speed. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she heard, in Spanish. ‘She’s here, exactly as I said. But you have to be quick.’ A silence. She could hear her heart speeding up. She held her breath. ‘No, I will not leave her. I will keep her here. I will wait.’ He had said that in English.

She closed the door quickly, looked desperately around the hut. He had lied to her. He had brought her here so people could come for her. That was the only way she could interpret it.

She walked quickly to the drawer under the sink, pulled it out and quickly surveyed a collection of rusting knives and forks, spoons and spatulas – she moved her fingers through them, found a bigger blade, for chopping. She took it out. It was a normal carving knife, about thirty centimetres long. She ran her finger over the edge – it was blunt, but pointed. She heard herself struggling to breathe.
Not again
, she thought,
please God, not again.
She shut the drawer and went back to the bed, slid the knife between the mattress and the boards, with the handle facing out, sat on top of it, took long, deep breaths.

The door opened and he stepped in. He looked at her, his face unchanged from when he had walked out. ‘You OK?’ he asked. He could see she wasn’t. She couldn’t control her breathing, couldn’t conceal it.

‘I had a panic attack,’ she said quickly. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘He’s coming. It will be—’

‘Not about that. About Rebecca.’

He shook his head. ‘He will tell me when we meet.’ He pulled the door shut and turned the key from the inside, left the key in the lock.

‘Why did you lock it?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Force of habit.’ But he didn’t unlock it. He walked over to the table and sat down. The oil lamp was flickering, casting unfortunate shadows over his face.

‘You’re not going out to meet him?’ she asked. She was trying very hard to get her breath even.

‘In ten minutes.’ He looked at her, but then looked away again.

‘You’re telling me the truth?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? What do you mean?’

‘There’s no informant, is there?’

His eyes flashed with anger. ‘I wish you would just trust me,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m getting tired of having to …’ He stopped and cursed.

‘Tired of having to lie to me?’

‘Christ above! Don’t be stupid. I’m a police officer. Remember?’

‘I remember. One of your men tried to kill my daughter.’

‘Not that again.’ He ran a hand across his face, looked like he was sick of all this stupidity. ‘You don’t know what she meant,’ he said. ‘We’ve been over it. We don’t know what the dead ­officer was doing, what he was shooting at – but it can’t have been at Rebecca, can it? It must have been at this other guy, the guy who has taken her.’

‘I should have walked away from you when I had the chance. I almost trusted you. I really thought you were trying to find her.’

‘I
am
trying to find her.’

‘Maybe. But not to help her. I know what’s happening here.’ She kept her eyes on him. ‘We both know.’

‘What do you mean?’ He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Is that a question?’

‘A statement. I know. You know. Stop pretending.’

He stood up suddenly and paced back and forth, once, twice, then stood by the door, back to her.

‘Someone tried to kill my family,’ she said. Her voice ­sounded stretched. ‘They tried to kill me and my family. It wasn’t ­burglars, it wasn’t kidnappers, it wasn’t terrorists.’

‘So who does that leave?’ He turned and stepped in front of her, a facetious smile on his lips.

‘Don’t smirk,’ she said. ‘Not when you already know the truth.’

He sighed. ‘You’re very stressed, Señora Martin. I can understand that.’ He took out his mobile, glanced at it. ‘Only five more minutes.’

‘Until what?’ She was sitting on the edge of the bed, rigidly. He was about two metres in front of her. He didn’t think she would do anything, was confident about it. He wasn’t relaxed, far from it, but he wasn’t bothered that she might jump up and go for his throat. He thought he knew her, thought she wasn’t that type. Or if she was, no doubt he thought he could brush her off. She was a woman, and not a particularly big or strong one. He was a fit, well-built male, younger than her.

‘This is about something I’ve done in the past,’ she said. ‘What happened was a “hit” – that’s the English word. A botched hit, because they didn’t get me or Rebecca. But they had police help to do it, and they have police help now to try to get a second chance. You know all this already.’

He changed stance, spreading his legs a little, but was still staring down at her with that frown.

‘“They”?’ he asked. ‘Who are “they”?’

‘You know who.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you if I knew.’

‘Sergei Zaikov. There is a man called Sergei Zaikov …’

‘Zaikov? I’ve never heard of this man. This is the first time you’ve mentioned him. You cannot withhold information that—’

‘He’s Russian. Very wealthy. I understand why he’s doing this, understand the reasons. But that doesn’t make it right – killing a child and her family. That can never be right. You’re a police officer, you must agree with me?’

‘Of course I agree with you. But let’s step back a bit, go over what you just said …’ He checked his mobile again. ‘You say that a man called Sergei Zaikov—’

‘They’re coming here, right? That’s who you’re waiting for.’

He stopped speaking, looked straight at her. Colour flooded into his cheeks.

‘Don’t deny it,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘They’re coming here. Coming for me. That’s what you’ve arranged. I heard you talking on the phone.’

His confidence vanished. His eyes darted around the cabin, looking anywhere but at her. She could see his brain working feverishly, assessing what she might have heard, how much he had given away, what he could do now. He licked his lips, put the phone in the pocket of his jacket, moved his arms to his sides, said nothing.

‘I heard what you said,’ she repeated. ‘I
know
what’s happening. There’s no point in lying now.’

He let out a long breath, ran his hand over his face again, pushed that lovely lock of hair out of the way.

‘You know what they will do to me?’ she asked. She started to cry as she said it.

He shook his head. ‘No one is coming here—’

‘You don’t have to do this, Señor Molina. You have a choice. We all have choices. I chose in the past, and that choice is catching up with me. But you can choose
now
. You know what they will do to me?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘They will kill me.’

He was silent. He started working his jaw muscles.

‘I don’t know what they told you – maybe they told you that they would kill me, or maybe they told you something else, to make it easier – like they would only kidnap me, or something like that, hold me to ransom. But that’s not Zaikov. I know Zaikov and I know why he’s doing this. He will send men here to kill me. Here, in this place. If you let it happen then these are the last few minutes of my life.’

‘You have to be calm, Señora Martin,’ he tried, his voice softening.

‘You don’t want to do this,’ she said, persisting. ‘I can see you don’t want to do it. Have you ever done anything like this before? Arranged for someone to be killed? You don’t seem like an evil man to me. I’ve met evil men, close up. I know what they’re like. You’re not that. You can walk out now, leave the door open, get in your car and go. It’s as simple as that. Leave me. I will look after myself.’

‘I can’t do that.’ He licked his lips again. ‘I can’t do that.’ He couldn’t look at her now.

‘You
have
to do that. It doesn’t matter what happened before,
what you said to them, what you promised. You have to look at me now and decide. Decide whether you will let men come here to kill me, then kill my daughter.’

He was sweating, quite suddenly. His face started to twitch. She watched him in silence, letting him grapple with it, ­hoping he was the person she had judged him to be. Her heart was whacking against her chest, she had to use short sentences, get herself to breathe properly, but she felt a sudden clarity. She knew what was happening, what had been happening all along. Rebecca had been right.

‘I don’t know …’ he said. He was wavering.

‘Help me,’ she said, sobbing a little. ‘Don’t let them kill me. Not for me, but for my daughter. She has done nothing. Please. Help me.’

He gulped at the air. ‘What did
you
do?’ he asked, his voice strangled, harsh. He swallowed hard. ‘What did you do that they have done all this?’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she lied. ‘They thought I did something. That’s all. And Rebecca is only a child. She
cannot
have done anything. She doesn’t deserve any of this.’

He shook his head again. ‘I can’t. It’s gone too far. I’m sorry. It’s not personal. It’s nothing to do with you. I made mistakes and they have me. I can’t walk away. If I walk away they will kill me and my family.’

‘You have a child?’

He shook his head. ‘No, but they will kill my parents, my girlfriend.’

Not the fucking same, she thought. Not the same at all.

‘I have already taken their money,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.’ He put his face in his hands, standing there, like he was going to cry, then shook his head sharply, looked at her. As his hands came down, fists clenched, there was a differ
ent look in his eyes. She thought, what if they weren’t coming, what if
he
was meant to do it?

‘Will you let me go?’ she begged. Her right hand was by her leg, she was touching the knife handle. ‘Will you just let me go?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You stay here. And shut up. Shut up now.’

She was moving immediately. He expected it, expected her to do something. He took a step sideways, towards the door, barring her route, thinking she would make a run for it. But she turned the other way, half in a crouch, hand slipping over the knife handle, pulling it out. She registered a flash of pain from her damaged knee, then felt one of his hands on her back trying to push her down, into the bunk beds. She turned into him, fast, the knife held back, the arm flexed. He shouted something as she spun. She saw him moving to block her, still not realising what she was doing, unaware of the blade. He was leaning forward with his arms outstretched, the jacket open. Probably he thought she was trying to push him out of the way. She could see the pastel blue shirt he was wearing beneath the flapping jacket, see the gap between the lapels, the triangle of flesh at his throat. She snapped the blade up at him with a yell, using all the force she could get into it.

Her fist hit his chest. At that moment she was so close to him that he was only a blur of movement coming towards her. She pulled her arm back at once, stepped sideways two steps, saw with amazement that she still had the knife in her hand. She screamed at him. ‘Let me go! Don’t come near me.’

His face was contorted in a grimace of shock. He stumbled slightly, got both hands onto the frame of the top bunk and stood there, leaning on it, his face turned sideways, looking at her. The blood drained from his features and he muttered something. But still she couldn’t absorb the information. Her hand had hit his chest, she had felt that, but she had felt nothing else, no resistance to the blade. It was like she had struck him with the side of her hand. Had she
only
done that, somehow? Had she botched it and simply punched him clumsily, the knife held sideways? She took another step away from him, frantically thinking about what to do next, then looked down at the knife and saw the blood on it.