Death Comes First (26 page)

He opened one eye a crack. There was a third person in the room. A tall, striking woman, well dressed, confident. He had been aware of her presence in the ambulance too. Probably some sort of plainclothes police officer. Henry needed to know exactly what sort before he said anything. He needed help. But it had to be specialist help. And he thought this woman might be the person to give him that help. She wasn’t just some local plod, that much he was certain of.

Felicity and Mark were talking non-stop. He wondered if they’d been told that was what they should do to keep him alert.

Felicity was chatting away in a falsely cheerful voice about nothing of consequence. Mark was holding his phone in his hand and had an earpiece in one ear. He was listening to the
News Quiz
and giving his grandfather a running commentary, explaining the questions and repeating the jokes.

Their babbling was getting on his nerves and Henry desperately wanted Felicity and Mark to shut up. In the end he decided that the only way to achieve that would be to respond. So he opened his eyes fully and spoke.

‘It’s all right, I’m all right,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. But I need some peace.’

Felicity reached out to touch his face, her eyes full of joy and hope, in spite of everything.

‘Oh, Henry, you’ve come back to us,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped, pulling away from her touch. ‘But everything hurts. I’m in the most awful pain. Will you please go away and give me some peace.’

Felicity looked offended. Hurt even. Henry was sorry about that, but he didn’t know how else to play this. Mark merely looked puzzled. Until recent events, even before Charlie’s death, Henry had been hoping that his grandson might be the person to eventually take over Tanner-Max, to handle all aspects of the business, including the undisclosed side involving Mr Smith. Henry had been quite sure that Charlie would never be able to do so. Stephen Hardcastle could not even be considered: he wasn’t family. Tanner-Max was a family business, always had been and, Henry still hoped, always would be.

But Mark was young and new to the business. There could be no question of him taking over the reins for several years at least. Right now Mark knew no more than his grandmother about Tanner-Max. Indeed, Henry suspected that Mark knew a great deal less than his grandmother. Like Henry, Felicity was prone to keep her thoughts to herself, but there had been times he could have sworn she knew exactly what was going on in his mind.

Henry reached out with his good arm and took his wife’s hand. He saw her face light up. He knew that she loved him, regardless of the secrets and lack of communication. It warmed him to see her react in that way.

‘Listen, darling, I need a bit of time, that’s all,’ he said, managing a strained smile. ‘Why don’t you and Mark leave me to sleep for a couple of hours. I’ll be stronger then.’

‘But we want to know what happened, Granddad,’ began Mark. ‘I mean, who would want to shoot you? And why? What’s going on, Granddad?’

Henry didn’t look at Mark. He continued to stare at his wife.

Felicity was well aware what was expected of her. She and Henry had been sweethearts since they were teenagers. She knew that her husband required her to do his bidding, as she had done for the last fifty years. In return he’d given her an enviable lifestyle and a wonderful family. True, that family was now a shadow of its former self. Their only son was dead. Their son-in-law was dead. Their grandson was missing. Their daughter was in a state of anguish. And now Henry had been shot.

Nonetheless, Felicity knew what was required of her, and that Henry was confident she would comply with his wishes, as always.

She did, too.

‘C’mon, Mark,’ she instructed. ‘Let’s leave your granddad alone. Let’s do what he wants. We need him well again. All of us.’

Mark began to protest, but Felicity got to her feet and put a hand on her grandson’s shoulder, soothing, quietening.

Henry’s attention had already left his wife and grandson. They had been dealt with. His gaze was fixed on the woman sitting by the door.

DCI Nobby Clarke stood up, stepped forward, and introduced herself.

‘I’m from the National Serious Crime Squad,’ she said.

Henry nodded.

‘I hope you feel well enough to give me a few minutes,’ Clarke continued.

‘If granddad isn’t well enough to talk to his family then he isn’t well enough to talk to the police,’ Mark protested.

Henry raised one hand, effectively silencing him.

‘It’s all right, Mark,’ he said. ‘I can do a few minutes. Fred is still missing. I must help if I can.’

Mark looked ready to protest further, but his grandmother ushered him out of the room.

‘We’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she said.

Henry waited until she and Mark had closed the door behind them.

‘Tell me who’s sent you,’ Henry commanded.

‘Um, uh, Mr Smith,’ Nobby replied, her voice little more than a murmur.

She looked and sounded somewhat self-conscious. But her answer was the one Henry had hoped for.

‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I need your help, DCI Clarke. It’s possible that Mr Smith will be able to ascertain why this has happened to my family, and who is responsible. Then again, it may not be possible, because these events may be unconnected to my work for Mr Smith.’

‘That sounds like a riddle,’ responded Nobby Clarke. ‘And I can’t help unless you are honest with me, Mr Tanner. I reckon I only know half the story.’

Henry nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I will tell you everything. Everything I know, anyway. I don’t have any alternative.’

Clarke moved closer to the bed.

With some difficulty because of the pain he was in, Henry hoisted himself up into a sitting position. He had no intention of embarking on any sort of serious conversation whilst lying flat on his back.

But the movement dislodged a splinter of shattered bone in his injured shoulder. He was later to be told that this did no serious damage. However, the excruciating agony which seemed to be attacking his every nerve end was such that
Henry fell back on to his pillow with a blood-curdling scream.

A nurse arrived in the room at once. The Brunel wing at Southmead was that sort of medical establishment. Or, at least, it was in May 2014, with as yet only 150 patients installed, way below its projected capacity of 800.

Henry was gasping for breath. He seemed incapable of further speech. In any case Nobby Clarke was asked to leave the room at once.

Cursing under her breath, she did as she was told.

Seventeen

Joyce and Molly were a mile from Southmead when Molly’s phone bleeped to signal an incoming text message.

She opened the message, gasped, then emitted a little cry, which caused Joyce to take her eyes from the road and glance anxiously at her daughter.

Molly was staring at her phone, in shock.

‘What is it?’ asked Joyce.

‘It-it’s Fred,’ stumbled Molly. ‘I have a message from Fred.’

‘What?’

Her mother almost forgot to steer and the car lurched across the road. Joyce recovered just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle.

Molly was so preoccupied by the message on her phone that she seemed not even to notice.

Spotting a lay-by ahead, Joyce pulled over. When she turned to her daughter, Molly was still staring at the screen of her smart phone, frozen in a kind of limbo of disbelief.

‘What?’ Joyce enquired again, hardly believing her ears.

‘It’s Fred, it has to be Fred,’ Molly repeated. ‘This message can only be from Fred.’

Joyce immediately snatched the phone from her daughter and looked at the screen, her heart racing.

The message was brief and to the point.

‘Do you recognize the number?’ Joyce asked, studying the screen carefully.

‘No, no, I don’t,’ replied Molly. ‘It’s not Fred’s number. But we know that. It couldn’t be, could it? Fred left his phone behind.’

‘If it is Fred, then he must be using somebody else’s phone,’ said Joyce.

‘Or he could have got hold of a pay-as-you-go,’ Molly suggested.

‘But he didn’t have enough money with him,’ said Joyce. ‘And he couldn’t be doing this on his own. He’s only eleven.’

Joyce gulped as she thought about the vulnerability of her young son.

‘What makes you so sure the text is from Fred? It could be a hoax. A cruel one, I know, but I’ve heard that this sort of thing does happen when somebody disapp—’

‘It’s him, I know it is,’ Molly interrupted.

‘How?’

‘He wants to meet us where we saw the big buck. Only Fred would know to say that. Remember when you and Gran went shopping in London, and Dad took us to Exmoor, where Granny and Gramps Mildmay used to take him when he was a boy? We saw this huge stag at this place we’d walked to from the car park by Landacre Bridge. Dad made a big thing about it and said we must protect it by not ever telling
anyone about it. Fred loved the idea that it would be our secret for ever. It was he who called it the big buck.’

‘And you can remember the place?’

‘Oh yes, I’ll never forget it.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Fred said not to tell you until we were on our way,’ she said. ‘But I already have.’

‘And we’re already on our way. More or less. In any case he just didn’t want anyone else to know where we were going. Not that I could imagine anyone would be able to find where you saw the big buck without your help.’

Molly smiled wanly.

‘Look, before we do anything or go anywhere, let’s call that number, see if we can speak to Fred. You do it, Molly. It’s you he’s tried to contact.’

Molly did so. The phone rang for a minute and then cut out. No reply, and no message service.

‘Try again,’ urged Joyce.

Molly did so, with the same result.

‘All right, text him,’ instructed her mother. ‘Tell him you understand the message. Ask him when he wants to meet.’

Molly began tapping her phone. Joyce leaned across the car, watching her daughter’s screen as she composed her text:

The reply came straight away.

Molly looked at her mother. Joyce thought for a second.

‘It’ll take us the best part of two and a half hours from here,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Tell him we’ll be there between two and two thirty.’

Molly did so. Again the reply came straight away.

Molly looked at her mother, aghast. ‘What does he mean by that?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Joyce. ‘But tell me something, do these messages sound like your brother to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Molly said hesitantly. ‘It’s kind of like Fred. But it’s a bit grown-up, isn’t it? Like someone’s telling him what to say.’

‘That’s what I think too,’ replied Joyce, her voice shaking. At last she had been given hope that Fred was safe and well, yet she was full of fear. ‘The language doesn’t sound right to me. God, bloody texts – we’ve no way of telling whether it’s genuine or not.’

‘Only Fred would know about the big buck,’ repeated Molly.

‘Maybe.’ Joyce wasn’t convinced. ‘How about you text him a question, something else only he would know about. C’mon, Molly, you’re good at this sort of thing. What can we ask?’

Molly thought for a moment, then began tapping out a new message. Joyce continued to read over her daughter’s shoulder.

The reply came quick as a flash.

Despite the strain she was under, Joyce couldn’t help her initial response.

‘Oh, you haven’t, Molly? Where?’

‘On my left shoulder. Why do you think I’ve been keeping myself covered up in front of you?’ She looked back at the screen, grinning triumphantly. ‘That’s it, Mum. It’s Fred. It has to be!’

Joyce found herself smiling too. Molly was right: it had to be Fred. She remained anxious and fearful, but at least he was alive.

‘Tell him we’re on our way,’ she instructed her daughter, at the same time restarting the Range Rover and swinging it around in a reckless pavement-mounting U-turn. Then she turned back on to the main drag, heading towards the M5 west and a hidden glen in the Exmoor Hills where, and she could still hardly dare to believe it, her younger son would hopefully be waiting for her and his big sister.

Still smiling, Joyce glanced sideways at her daughter.

‘We’ll discuss that tattoo later,’ she said.

Molly didn’t look like she gave a damn. And neither, in fact, did Joyce.

They stopped for petrol before turning off the M5 at the Tiverton junction to join the A38 heading for North Devon
and Exmoor. Joyce didn’t want to. She was fired up with impatience. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to reach their destination in the heart of the moors.

Both her and Molly’s phones had been ringing repeatedly. Felicity was the persistent caller. Mother and daughter both ignored the calls. They agreed that they would continue to abide by Fred’s wishes. What choice did they have? In any case what could they say to Felicity?

The sky was ominously grey as they began to climb to the higher altitudes of moorland, but no rain fell. Not at first. It was two thirty by the time they arrived at Landacre, where a medieval bridge spans the River Barle. Joyce parked the Range Rover and locked it.

It was cold and the air felt damp, but to Joyce’s surprise the rain held off. A strong easterly wind was beginning to blow, though.

Molly led the way along a series of paths, some little more than sheep tracks, which ran through thick undergrowth. Joyce was wearing unsuitably light leather-soled shoes. At least Molly was wearing trainers. After twenty minutes they came to a clearing where the river formed a deep and still pond.