Hot Pursuit (10 page)

And that stupid bloke from Norfolk had made a complete and utter fool of him, although in his mind Robbie was rapidly transferring the blame squarely onto Bernie Fielding’s shoulders. Bernie-fucking-Fielding’s prints were all over this one; Robbie could almost hear the smug bastard laughing at him. Well, he’d be laughing on the other side of his face when Robbie Hughes caught up with him. Oh yes he would.

Robbie slapped his hand down hard on the car horn to frighten a woman in a blue Renault out of the middle lane. ‘Move out of the way you gormless bitch,’ he shouted, powering up behind her and roaring past as she squeaked into the slow lane.

‘I thought you said we were going to the Lamb tonight,’ said Lesley, in a nervous undertone. She looked a little pale. Robbie put his foot down hard and stormed past the Renault and a dozen others. It felt good. That’s what he needed, a bit of speed, a renewed sense of his own power,
his own dominance. He was alpha male on a mission.

‘What I want to know is why didn’t that stupid bugger tell us that he wasn’t Bernie Fielding?’ Robbie growled.

‘I think he tried to,’ said Lesley, voice tight. ‘Aren’t we a bit close to that van?’

‘He didn’t try very bloody hard, did he?’ Robbie snapped back, braking furiously within six feet of the van in front. White vans were all the bloody same; all driven by brainless morons. ‘He should have told us – he
could
have told us. Besides, you told me that when you rang the cottage his ex-wife said that Bernie was there.’

‘Well, yes, she did,’ Lesley protested. ‘She said that she could hardly throw him out on the street even though the thought had crossed her mind.’

Robbie, eyes bright, said, ‘Exactly. And when we got there she didn’t deny he was there, did she? Oh no. She just said that Bernie was out in the garden.
Out in the garden
, that’s what she said. We’ve got it on the bloody videotape.’

Lesley nodded, her expression suggesting that she hadn’t got a clue what Robbie was going on about. He sighed in exasperation. Bright girl like Lesley and she just couldn’t read the signs when they were there, all laid out in front of her like cue cards.

Robbie had been mulling the conversation he had had with Maggie Morgan over and over in
his mind since Madam Upstairs had called him into her office and announced she was pulling the plug on the Bernie Fielding special. Madam had gone on to give him a long expletive-ridden lecture on the importance of a chain of command and how his actions had been a waste of the station’s precious resources not to mention the risk of denting their media credibility.

But now that Robbie had had the chance to think, he had been kicking himself for what he was convinced he had missed while they were in West Brayfield. How could he have been so stupid as to have overlooked what was now so glaringly bloody obvious? Bernie Fielding had been there at the cottage all the time and let some other poor sucker take the fall for him.

‘
So
,’ Robbie said slowly so that Lesley could keep up with him. ‘What if Bernie
was
there all along and we missed him? What if he really
was
in the garden but we didn’t see him?’ Robbie looked at his assistant triumphantly. ‘That’s what she said, didn’t she? “Bernie is in the garden.” Surely to God she must know her own husband.’

Lesley’s eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned. ‘Oh yes, I see what you’re saying now – I suppose that it’s a possibility.’

‘It’s more than a possibility, it’s bloody obvious. Bernie most probably spotted the cameras and the outside broadcast van and hid in the shed, or went next door. He could have done anything, but she
did say he was there. In which case it makes sense to start looking for our Mr Fielding back at the cottage, back where we left off,’ Robbie said. ‘Now just get the map out and see which junction we have to come off at, will you?’

Lesley pulled the road map out of the glove compartment. ‘Robbie, I’m not very good at this sort of thing,’ she said nervously. ‘Not with maps and stuff. I get into a flap with directions. Under pressure I tend to forget which is right and which is left.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ snapped Robbie, ‘it’s very simple. Just look at the big map on the back of the book and find the page we’re on – a child could do it. Just look for Cambridge.’ He waved a hand towards the road atlas.

‘Yes, Robbie,’ Lesley said miserably, turning the pages frantically. ‘Cambridge you said?’

Robbie sighed. ‘Yes, Cambridge.’ God save him from women. His wife, the Bitch Upstairs, that stupid woman who was married to Bernie Fielding, and now Lesley. Lesley of all people.

He had been thinking that if it looked as if they were going to be late back they would book into a hotel, but now he wasn’t so sure. He could feel his blood pressure rising. Wouldn’t do to have a heart attack while on the job, would it? What would it look like in the press? Brush with death for TV anchorman in secret love tryst. Robbie cringed; he could almost see the headlines now,
there was bound to be some terrible play on words involving
Gotcha
.

There might be no such thing as bad publicity but Madam Upstairs would go ballistic about what it would do to their serious journalistic credibility. And shagging your PA was so passé, he thought, mimicking his bitch of a boss. And with all the stress Robbie was under it was possible – more than possible – probable – that he’d have a heart attack or worse. And besides, Lesley was beginning to get on his nerves.

‘Well, where are we then, woman?’ he snapped.

Lesley had turned the atlas upside down and was busy running her finger along what looked suspiciously like the road to Grimsby.

‘I told you to look for Cambridge,’ he growled.

‘I am,’ she whimpered miserably.

‘It’s in East Anglia.’

‘I thought Grimsby was in East Anglia,’ she said, pushing her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose.

Robbie groaned. Bloody women.

In West Brayfield, Mrs Eliot, Maggie’s next door neighbour was enjoying the last of the evening sunlight. She had been busy outside on the terrace watering the hanging baskets while it was cooler but still light. It had been a really nice day so far. Mrs Eliot stretched, pressing her hands into the aching hollow of her back and then walked into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle.

Puffing a little from her exertions the old lady washed her hands. The kettle clicked off the boil and, glancing up at the kitchen clock, Mrs Eliot thought what a shame it was that Maggie wasn’t home. They often got together in the evening to talk about the day and the kids over a mug of tea and a slice of cake.

It was a pity Maggie had had to go back to the beach hut. It always sounded like such a long drive. She hoped it wasn’t anything too drastic, things always seemed so pricey these days.

As she made the tea, Mrs Eliot glanced at the postcard the boys had sent her. It looked like a lovely place, though. At least this time Maggie had gone with that nice new young man of hers, Mrs Eliot smiled, and not before time either. He looked familiar, she was sure she had seen him around somewhere but couldn’t quite place the face. That girl spent far too long on her own with just the boys for company. It would do her good to have a decent man in her life again. Life could be so lonely all on your own.

She pulled out a tray from behind the bread bin. There was just enough time to make a cup of tea and a ham sandwich before
Holby City
started. She enjoyed having Maggie and the kids living next door, not like the rest of the old farts who lived in the Row; they didn’t know what living was, most of them. Nothing ever happened down this end of the village and she barely saw
another living soul when Maggie wasn’t at home. Life hadn’t been the same since her Albert passed on, God rest his soul. Mrs Eliot took the tray and settled down in the big armchair by the hearth. It had been Albert’s chair when he was alive. She had started sitting in it because she couldn’t bear to look at it empty and somehow it had made her feel closer to him; not to mention that she’d discovered it was a lot comfier than hers.

Mrs Eliot settled back and eased off her slippers, slipped her teeth out, put them on the mantelpiece in her hankie and then picked up the remote control. The television screen flickered into life just as the opening credits started to roll; perfect timing. She’d just settle down in the chair and close her eyes for a few minutes, just until the story started.

When Mrs Eliot opened her eyes again it was almost dark in the sitting room. She must have fallen asleep because something had most definitely woken her up. From outside came the sound of voices and tyres on gravel. Surely Maggie couldn’t be back already and it was too close to be Mrs Green and that snooty daughter of hers at number twenty-eight. A moment or two later there was a loud rapping at the door. Mrs Eliot slipped in her teeth, fixed the chain on the front door and turned on the outside light before she called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘Gas,’ said a man’s voice firmly.

‘Oh, right you are,’ she said, a little surprised. ‘You’re out late tonight, is there some sort of problem? I thought you’d finished with the boiler the other day?’

‘Emergency call-out,’ said the man briskly. ‘Someone has reported a suspected leak. Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am.’

Mrs Eliot opened the door up just a fraction and peered out into the gathering gloom.

‘Do you want to look at my gas stove? I only had it serviced about three months ago, that and the fire in the sitting room. I’ve got the receipt somewhere,’ she began.

‘No you’re all right. Actually we’re looking for the lady who lives next door,’ said the taller of the two men.

Mrs Eliot looked him up and down. They were very well dressed for tradesmen. ‘Oh right,’ she said. ‘Was there some sort of problem with her boiler?’

The man shook his head. ‘I’ve got no idea, Ma’am.’

Probably a different branch, Mrs Eliot thought. Same old story right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. ‘Well, I’m terribly sorry but Maggie – Mrs Morgan – isn’t there at the moment, she’s gone to down to Somerset to sort out something with her beach hut.’

‘Her beach hut? All right for some, eh?’ The man nodded and then continued casually, ‘Right
you are, then. Long way to drive. On her own, was she?’ As he spoke he appeared to be looking at a sheet of paper as if it had instructions or something written on it.

‘No, she took the boys and she’s got a really nice young man with her. Tall, good-looking – I wouldn’t have minded going to Somerset with him myself,’ said Mrs Eliot flirtatiously.

The man laughed but still didn’t look up from the sheet of paper.

‘Her husband, is it?’ he said, apparently just making conversation as he ticked things off on his sheet.

‘Goodness me, no,’ said Mrs Eliot. ‘No, he’s some new chap, I don’t know where she met him but he looks very nice, though. Clean. Nice eyes –’

‘Right you are – so do you know where we can contact her? I wouldn’t press the matter only we really need to know where she is. It’s an emergency.’

‘A gas emergency,’ said the thicker set man who was standing behind the taller one. He didn’t seem quite as clever as the one with the sheet of paper but then anyone who wore sunglasses after dark wasn’t the brightest bulb in the marquee.

‘I’m not all together sure,’ said Mrs Eliot, considering. ‘You’d better come in for a minute and I’ll have a little look. I think I’ve got her mobile-phone number somewhere. Would that
do? Oh hang on – have you got any identification?’

The man smiled and took a card out of his top pocket. Mrs Eliot peered at it. It was hard to make out in the gloom without her glasses, but the photo looked like him.

‘You can’t be too careful these days,’ she said, slipping the chain off the latch, ‘You see such terrible things on the telly.’

‘Indeed you do.’ The man with the sheet of paper smiled and stepped into the hallway. He was smiling; and as he passed, Mrs Eliot thought what lovely sharp white teeth he had.

‘Where the fuck are we, woman?’ roared Robbie, snatching the map from Lesley’s trembling hands. ‘This is completely ridiculous. We should have been in West Brayfield bloody hours ago.’ He didn’t add, you stupid, stupid woman, but they both knew that that was what he was thinking.

Outside the night was velvety black. There were no streetlights, no road signs and the only hint of civilisation was a distant row of yellow lights, like fairy lights on what might or might not have been the horizon.

Lesley sniffed miserably. ‘I’m sorry. I did tell you –’

Sorry didn’t cut it by a long way. Robbie sighed and folded the road atlas back on itself to the page where he hoped – where Lesley had told him – they were.

‘If he’s gone, if we miss him because of this
bloody fiasco –’ Robbie spat. ‘Now let me see, where are we – Cambridge, A10. Hold the damned torch steady, will you?’

Lesley whimpered, the beam trembling across the swirl of roads and rivers and mountains. Mountains? Robbie looked again and felt his blood pressure rising. Mountains in Norfolk? He glared at her and then sighed with frustration. ‘Would you care to point out exactly where you
think
we are?’ he said in a murderous tone.

A great big tear rolled down Lesley’s cheek.

‘And crying won’t help,’ he snapped.

‘Here,’ she said.

‘Snowdonia?’ he asked.

Lesley nodded.

Robbie threw the map into the back of the car.

‘Are we there yet?’ said Nick, yawning and stretching as far as the seat would allow.

‘Oh for God’s sake, you really are a big kid, aren’t you? Enjoy your nap?’

‘I haven’t been asleep,’ said Nick defensively.

‘Oh really? What, is it just habit then, that makes you snore while you’re awake? If it is it’s not attractive. Certainly not sexy.’

Nick straightened his clothes and surreptitiously wiped his face. Maggie suspected it was to get rid of the crusty rivulet of drool on his chin but didn’t say anything.

‘Anyway I wouldn’t dare go to sleep while you
were driving –’ he said, wide awake now and staring fixedly out at the road.

‘Charming. So what were you planning to do, improve my driving by the power of your unconscious mind? If you’re that good, open a can of Coke for me, will you? I’m thirsty.’

Nick rummaged around in the footwell, and then in a bag on the back seat, and then said, ‘I’ve found one, but wouldn’t it be better to stop and stretch our legs, find a pub or something?’

Maggie sighed. ‘Probably, but all I really want to do is get there now – it’s not that far and I’m knackered and stiff, and to be perfectly honest if we stop I might not be able to persuade my body to get back into the car.’

Nick shifted his weight. ‘Okay, but I’ve already told you that I don’t mind doing some of the driving if you want a break.’

Maggie’s expression hardened. ‘Kind of you to offer but you’re not insured.’

Her hands instinctively tightened on the steering wheel. She’d lost one too many cars to her ex-husband. Bernie Fielding was a man who wasn’t adverse to telling her that the family runabout was going off for a service only for her to discover – much later – that he had either sold it or it had been repossessed – and that somewhere between the garage and the trip home it had mysteriously vanished forever.

‘Sorry, but nobody is going to drive my car,
especially not anybody called Bernie Fielding. I wouldn’t let Bernie Fielding drive any of my cars ever again. Every insurance policy I’ve had since I left him has got an anti-Bernie Fielding clause written somewhere into the small print.’

‘But I’m not really Bernie Fielding, you know that –’ Nick protested, popping the lid on the Coke can and handing it to her.

Maggie snatched the drink from his outstretched hand.

‘He really pissed you off, didn’t he?’ said Nick. ‘It’s amazing after all these years you’re still so angry about him. You’re so laid back about everything else. He must have really done the dirty on you to make you this wary.’

Maggie snorted and took a long pull on the can of drink. ‘Nick, let me explain something to you. Bernie does the dirty on everybody he ever meets. I wasn’t singled out for special treatment. He can’t help it, it’s what Bernie does best. That thing today with the film crew? It brought it all back in glorious Technicolor.

‘You have no idea – I used to get little old ladies ringing up all hours of the night and day to remind Bernie about the building work he’d promised to do for them – and they’d paid upfront for, of course. There were deliveries of all sorts of dodgy stuff from China and the Far East. Almost always followed some time later by some guy from the council who would turn up to ban whatever was
in the packing cases from going anywhere, least of all on sale, sometimes with the help of a health inspector or the police, or customs and excise. When I was married to Bernie I met them all. And it wasn’t just the long line of official bodies that I met – oh no, there were the women he was sleeping with dropping by – sometimes with their enraged husbands for company, sometimes with their fathers or their brothers. They were always a little bit surprised to find me there. Then one day it was Bernie’s ex-wife after her maintenance. Oh and then his mother came round one afternoon to pick up the family heirlooms he had promised to have valued by a good friend of his. You’d have thought she would have known better.

And then Bernie would borrow money from all over the place, lots of money, money to finance all sorts of half-baked, crackpot, off-the-bloody-wall ideas. At one point I was on first name terms with the bailiffs.’

Maggie took a deep breath – the first one in a long time and glanced across at the face of her captive audience, he didn’t move a muscle or say a single word, so Maggie continued. ‘My furniture and household effects travelled more than I did. I must be the only woman in history who divorced her husband for the financial security. Oh yes, life with Bernie was a laugh a minute. Living with Bernie Fielding was like having the circus come to town. So, in answer to your question, yes he really
did piss me off, and if I never hear or see him again it will be too soon. Much too soon. Okay? Does that answer your questions?’

‘So, you don’t want me to drive, then?’

‘No, I bloody-well don’t,’ snapped Maggie, and with that she thrust the can back at him.

‘Well, that didn’t go too badly at all, did it?’ said Nimrod, pulling his jacket sleeves down over his gloves and flicking fluff from his lapels. He eased himself carefully back into the passenger seat of the hire car. ‘A job well done.’

Cain grinned. ‘Lovely drop of tea as well. What was that you flashed the old biddy?’

Nimrod pulled a little laminated card out of his top pocket. ‘My health-club membership. I forgot to take to out of my jacket before I left. I was going to destroy it – I mean it’s not what you want to be carrying with you on a job – but then again it just goes to show. Everything in this life happens for a purpose.’

‘Is that Zen as well, then?’ said Cain, turning the key in the ignition.

Nimrod nodded. ‘I should say so,’ and with that he turned on the radio scanner to pick up the police channel. In his hand he had the postcard that Maggie’s boys had sent to Mrs Eliot while they were away on holiday. Not that she knew he’d taken it. He’d slipped it into his pocket while she was out in the kitchen making them
both a nice cup of tea and worrying about not being able to find Maggie’s mobile number.

It was an aerial picture of a sun-drenched and very secluded tree-lined cove. Printed on the back were the words, ‘St Elfreda’s Bay, East Quantoxhead, near Minehead, Somerset,’ and on the front in biro someone had kindly ringed a little wooden cabin and written in a scrawling childish hand: ‘we are here.’

Nimrod grinned and slid it back into his inside pocket. Bingo.

‘So are we going to drive down there tonight?’ asked Cain, pulling out of the driveway of Maggie’s cottage.

Nimrod shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Nah. I reckon the pair of them think that they’re home free. I can’t see any point busting a gut to get down there tonight – what is it, a five or six hour drive? We’d have heard if the feds had already been in and picked Mr Lucas up. Let’s go and get ourselves some kip, there’ll be time enough tomorrow. Besides I fancy a beer and we need to let his nibs know what’s going on. Let him call the shots – we aren’t paid enough to think for ourselves.’

Cain nodded. As they got to the top of the little lane that led down to The Row, a car – its headlights blazing – roared past them into the village.

‘Look at that stupid bastard,’ growled Cain. ‘He could have killed somebody.’

‘Excuse me but I think you’ve just missed the turning back there, Robbie,’ said Lesley nervously, looking over her shoulder up the narrow and very dark country road.

‘What do you mean I’ve missed the turning?’ snapped Robbie. ‘An hour ago you didn’t know which bloody country we were in.’

‘It was back there on the left; I’m sure I saw the street sign.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something?’ One way and another, Robbie had had quite enough.

‘You were going too fast and there was a car pulling out of it.’

‘Oh yes, that’s it, blame me, why don’t you? Whose fault is it that we ended up halfway to Whitby?’

Lesley reddened furiously as Robbie did a squealing U-turn in a pub car park. ‘We’ve wasted bloody hours because of you.’

Lesley mumbled something.

‘What did you say?’ he snapped.

‘I said I’ve never seen you like this. Why are you so angry with me?’ she whined. ‘I did tell you that I wasn’t very good with maps. I’m tired and I’ve had enough and there’s no need to speak to me like that. I’ve done my best, I want to go home now.’

Robbie snorted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘What, when we’re almost there? Don’t be so ridiculous, and where the hell would you go
anyway? What do you want me to do, Lesley, eh? Drop you off at the nearest tube station?’ They both looked up and down the narrow, unlit country road.

‘I just wanted you to know,’ she said miserably, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her cardigan.

‘Well thank you for sharing that with me,’ said Robbie, swinging the car into the top end of The Row. ‘Now if we can just get back to the job in hand.’

The pretty rose-trimmed cottage that they had visited earlier in the day was now in total darkness; although oddly enough Robbie was almost certain that he spotted a figure scurrying away from the car lights as he pulled up in Maggie Morgan’s driveway.

‘Right – now no nonsense, let me do the talking and keep your eyes peeled. Do you understand?’ said Robbie.

Lesley nodded.

‘Good.’ Robbie took one final look in the rear-view mirror to check his hair and then headed off up the path. The security light flashed on before they were halfway with a beam so bright it felt like being centre stage at the London Palladium. Robbie straightened his tie. ‘Do you want to just nip back to the car and get the video camera?’ he said, without turning.

Lesley did as she was told.

Robbie must have rung the doorbell for the best
part of ten minutes before finally conceding that there might not be anybody at home. There were lights on in the adjoining house, though, and so he headed round to the next cottage, eyes bright with frustration, and knocked smartly on the door. A moment or two later the door opened just a crack.

‘Hello,’ said Robbie jovially. ‘And what’s your name?’

‘It’s nearly ten o’clock,’ said the reedy voice from inside. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you so late but this is very important. I need to know if you have seen your neighbours at all recently? Maybe you recognise me – I’m on the television?’ said Robbie warmly, laying on an over-abundance of bonhomie to the old lady at number thirty-two, who peered suspiciously at him through the narrow gap between the doorframe and the door, held at bay by six inches of stout chain.

The old woman looked him up and down. ‘It’s funny you should ask that; she seems to be very popular at the moment. What’s going on?’

Robbie stiffened. The old girl sounded as sharp as a tack. ‘Sorry?’

The woman screwed up her eyes and looked at him all the harder, and then after a few moments thought, she said, ‘Oh, I know who you are – I’ve seen you on the telly –’

Robbie preened a little. ‘Well yes, thank you –
I hoped that you might recognise me. Some people say I’ve got a very memorable face. Distinguished –’ he began, throwing his shoulders back.

The old lady sniffed. ‘You’re that bloke off the advert for cat food, aren’t you? The one that wears the mouse suit. My cat won’t touch the stuff – all lungs and lites by the smell of it.’

Behind him Robbie heard Lesley snigger, but decided to ignore her. ‘About your neighbour,’ he continued, pulling the conversation back on track.

‘Well it’s odd that you want to talk to her, too – you do know she hasn’t got a cat, don’t you?’

Wearily, Robbie nodded.

‘First of all it was them two men from the gas board and then that ex-husband of hers turned up, bold as brass, nice as you like, and wanted to know where she’d gone. Funny, if you ask me, she never said anything about people coming round.’

Robbie’s ears pricked up. ‘When you say her ex-husband, do you mean Bernie Fielding?’

The woman nodded. ‘Yes I do – I’ve known him years. He lived in the village.’

‘Really,’ said Robbie. ‘And how long ago was he here?’

But the old lady was already way ahead of him. ‘He was no good at all that bloke. Always was a little shite – I told him that Maggie didn’t want him running after her. Not now. It’s too
little too late, I said; she’s got herself a nice new fella now.’

Robbie leant forward so that as much of him as possible was squeezed in the space between the door and the frame. ‘We are talking about Bernie Fielding, aren’t we?’ He spoke slowly and very clearly in case the old woman was deafer or dafter than she appeared. And when she didn’t answer, he asked again. ‘You
are
talking about Bernie Fielding, aren’t you?’

The old woman glared at him. ‘Well of course I am, I’m not stupid – the slimy little bugger, he told me that she was in trouble, big trouble, and that he had come to warn her about it. Not that I’d believe a word Bernie told me; he’d sell his own granny, he would.’ And then she paused and added. ‘Actually you’ve only just missed him.’