Hot Pursuit (13 page)

They had been on the road for less than an hour.

Lesley pulled the wheel brace and the jack out from the boot. ‘What? For a puncture?’ She sounded incredulous, heaving out the spare tyre and dropping it onto the tarmac with a confidence that belied her size. ‘But we can have it fixed by the time they get here; the only problem we might have is with the wheel nuts.’

Robbie glared at her – what was all this ‘we’ stuff?

‘They’ll probably be a bit tight,’ she was saying, ‘if they’ve been put on with one of those pneumatic guns. I might need something to give me a bit of extra leverage.’ As she spoke, Lesley looked around expectantly.

‘Leverage?’ growled Robbie.

Lesley, rolling up her sleeves, nodded. ‘Yes, leverage. “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum strong enough and I will move the world,”’ she said confidently, prising the hub cap off with a screwdriver.

‘Who’s that? Rocky? Popeye? George W. Bush?’

‘No actually, it was a paraphrase of something that Archimedes said. Do you know where the jacking point is on your car?’

Robbie shook his head. What was the bloody woman talking about? Jacking pointschmacking point, Robbie took his car to the garage where some pimply youth drove it away so that whatever they did to it could be done by whoever it was that did it, and then they’d send him the bill. His idea of car maintenance involved signing cheques and putting in the petrol.

On the hard shoulder, Lesley walked round the car, bent almost double so that she could see underneath the sills, past the trims and the go-fast faring, and then she grinned and said, ‘Eureka.’

Robbie groaned. Presumably that was something else said by bloody Archimedes. He buttoned his coat up to the chin and sat down on the grass verge, opened his briefcase and pulled out his notes on Bernie Fielding.

‘We’re not supposed to be in Bristol, are we?’ said Nimrod, watching the signs to the city centre whizz past the hire car. ‘I thought we were supposed to have gone round it?’

Cain nodded. ‘I know, I know – I dunno where I went wrong to be honest. But don’t worry, we’ll turn off up here somewhere.’ He looked across at
Nimrod. ‘You all right?’ he asked casually, tucking in behind a lorry. ‘Not too tense or anything?’

Nimrod shook his head. They were getting closer to the moment, he could feel it in his bones. If Nimrod was honest he’d nearly had enough. The high-octane burn that propelled him through a hit only lasted so long and he could feel himself running low. He wanted the job over now, no more cock ups, no more close shaves or near misses. Of all the things that Nimrod Brewster hated, mess was right up near the top of the list. Not that you would guess from his demeanour. But he wanted the job done and for him and Cain to be back in Marbella, to be out on the terrace tending to his cacti and pruning his bourganvillea.

He popped another Minto into his mouth, jaw snapping shut like a guillotine. ‘Nah, you’re all right – I’m fine – and let’s face it, it’s easy enough done. If I was driving we’d probably be in bleeding Glasgow by now.’ And then he added, ‘Up there,’ waving a hand. ‘You can get off up there on the left.’

‘Right you are,’ said Cain, and he indicated and changed lanes.

Nick took Maggie’s mobile outside, switched it on, and – pulling a piece of paper out of the wallet in his back pocket – tapped Coleman’s phone number in. As he did a little symbol flashed up on the screen; missed call, new voicemail. Nick
made a mental note to tell Maggie when he got back.

While waiting to be connected, Nick stared out into the bright new morning. St Elfreda’s was a good place to be. Mature trees were alive with rooks calling the odds. Someone close by was frying bacon. He could hear a baby crying and children chittering. Across the broad strip of grass that divided Maggie’s hut from the next fenced garden plot, a row of sandals and buckets and spades stood guard outside the back door by the steps. Red sandals, yellow buckets, a bright blue spade. Primary-coloured fun that made his heart ache.

For a moment Nick felt the pain in his chest as he caught a glimpse of normal lives; kids and holidays and sand and other people just doing ordinary things. It seemed a lifetime ago since things had been that simple.

‘Good morning,’ said a polite female voice at the far end of the phone line. At least he wasn’t held in a queue. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Oh hello, I know it’s early but I wondered if Mr Coleman is in yet – or maybe you could get a message to him for me?’

There was a pause and then the woman said, ‘Is that Bernie Fielding?’

Nick reddened furiously as if he had been caught out, and instinctively looked over his shoulder to check who else might be listening in
to their conversation. ‘Yes, it is –’ he said in surprise and then continued in a lower voice, barely more than a whisper, ‘How did you know that it was me?’

‘We’ve been expecting you to ring in. Just stay on the line and I’ll try and connect you. I’m transferring your call through now.’

Finally, thought Nick.

‘Well, hello there stranger,’ Coleman said in a warm, almost chummy tone. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

It wasn’t quite the reception that Nick had expected. ‘I’m sorry –’ he began, even though it wasn’t really true. ‘Maggie thought it would be better if we left West Brayfield straight away. After the TV thing and the trailers – you know.’ What else was there to say? Surely Nick didn’t have to justify running for his life to a man who was supposed to protect it?

‘Umm,’ said Coleman thoughtfully, without committing himself. ‘Maybe she was right. So where are you now?’

Nick hesitated, realising that he was reluctant to tell him. ‘In Somerset,’ he said cagily.

‘Okay – Somerset – nice place. Care to be a little more specific?’

Nick looked back towards the beach hut. What he wanted was to be safe and to begin again more than anything else in the world. Through the open door he could see Maggie in the kitchen, all
wrapped up in a big woolly dressing gown, making them tea and toast. As he watched she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and for an instant he relished the peculiar feeling of tenderness that it gave him inside.

Realistically the ache was not purely for Maggie, although there was no denying that she had whatever it was that attracted him to a woman. More than that, though, her being there, waiting for him to come back, was like a warm echo from another life. For an instant he had a laser sharp-image of another, imaginary Somerset time, when everything was all right, when he and Maggie would have been here with the kids on holiday, where they would all be looking forward to a day out or a day down on the beach. As if Maggie was aware of his thoughts, she looked up at him and smiled. Nick winced; the smile was way too close to the happy families that he was dreaming of to be comfortable.

‘You want the truth, Coleman? To be perfectly honest; I don’t trust you any more. You told me that I’d be safe and I’m not, am I?’ Nick said flatly. ‘One cock-up and my face is all over nationwide TV. I don’t call that safe, do you?’

Coleman sighed but Nick noted that he didn’t argue with him.

‘I can’t say that I blame you, Nick, but what other choice do you have? Seriously? We both know that you can’t keep running forever. You
haven’t got the resources or, come to that, the nature for living outside the law. There is nowhere for you to hide that you can’t be found, at least not unless
we
hide you again. You will be safe –’

‘That’s what you told me last time.’

Maggie – out of earshot – grinned and waved the buttered toast in his direction. The warm expression on her face fed the feelings of loss and longing in Nick’s heart.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Coleman was saying. ‘I need to know where you are, Nick. For God’s sake – I can help you, but only if you let me. We can have a team down there to pick you up in a couple of hours, wherever you are. Do you understand?
Wherever you are
. We are all on the same side –’

Nick sighed and as Maggie walked towards him bearing toast, said, ‘Okay, maybe you’re right but I just want to be free for a little bit longer. I’ll ring you back later today and arrange a pick-up point.’

And before Coleman had time to answer or argue or protest, Nick pressed ‘End call’ and then switched the phone off, every instinct telling him that while it was on, the guys at Stiltskin could probably track him down.

‘Did you get through?’ Maggie said, handing him a mug of tea.

Nick nodded. She smelt good; of sleep and woman and warm buttered toast. This was hardly a good time to think about falling for someone,
but then for an instant he remembered how good it felt to wake up with her in his arms and how very still he had lain for fear of frightening her away.

‘And what did they say?’ she said, taking a big bite out of the toast.

‘That they want to come down to Somerset and rescue me – apparently I’m screwing their success rate up while I’m on the loose.’ Maggie’s expression hardened in reaction to his flippant tone. ‘Keep you hair on,’ he said gently. ‘It’s going to be all right. I told Coleman that I’d ring him back later and that he could come and get me once we had arranged a pick-up point. Meanwhile, how do you fancy a walk on the beach?’

She stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

Nick stared right back and nodded. ‘Never more so.’

Bernie unfolded himself from the lorry cab, dropped down onto the unforgiving tarmac and lifted a hand in salute to the driver. He stretched. It was still misty but with the promise that before too long the sun would burn away the haze to reveal a perfect summer’s day – and it was getting warmer with every passing moment.

‘Cheers, mate.’

The driver nodded. ‘Not a problem. You won’t forget me, will you, you know, about the villa?’

Bernie shook his head. ‘Not a chance,’ he said, and with an open palm tapped the sheet of paper that was folded and tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. The man had given Bernie his name and address, just in case Bernie ever got anything concrete on another time-share property like the totally imaginary one he had pretended to have sold for a song and had just spent three hours or so talking about.

Oh how Bernie missed that beautifully appointed three bedroomed, ground floor apartment that would sleep eight without any difficulty whatsoever. Bernie grinned – and it got better. It looked like things had turned the corner. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. He’d told the driver all about his fictitious friend, presently going through a very nasty and very messy divorce. They had had adjoining villas in an imaginary but very quiet little family-run resort in Tenerife, and had spent the same fortnight there for the last ten years. As Bernie let the lie catch light, the driver had nodded, his eyes bright with avarice as he sniffed the odour of a genuine copper-bottomed bargain. ‘And you reckon he’s up for selling his, too, do you?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bernie, although careful not to sound too eager. It was always best to let the victim do as much of the running as possible. ‘We’ve already said it won’t be the same any more anyway, not without both families being there. The years go by so quick.

‘Now my kids are grown up, me and the missus decided it was time to look around for somewhere a bit more upmarket. You know how it is – this place is great for kids but you get past all that, don’t you, really? These days I see meself more as a cocktail-by-the-pool man rather than a sandcastle and red-pop bloke. Anyway, I’m more or less a hundred per cent certain his place’ll be
coming up within the next couple of months. His wife wants a quick settlement, you know how it is. My mate loves that villa; it’s right next to the pool, lovely views out over the bay, everything. Best spot on the whole development, I’ve always reckoned – and that’s why she wants him to get shot of it – you know what women can be like. Bloody spiteful if the mind takes them.’

The lorry driver nodded ruefully. ‘Yeah. My first missus was like that, but not Cindy – she’s a lot younger than me, nice girl, used to work in the office. Since we’ve had the kiddies it’s calmed her down a lot. We like it down here, don’t get me wrong, but she misses going up West with the girls – and the shopping, you know. She likes her shopping and her holidays does our Cindy – and a place that size would be ideal.’

Bernie nodded. ‘Course it would. Nice shopping centre just down the road, good food, nightlife – and the beauty of having yer own villa is that you can rent it out the rest of the year. You can make your money back in no time at all. We go through a letting agency to handle all the paperwork. The villas are all serviced, you just pay an annual ground rent – it ain’t that much. Me and the missus have done very nicely out of it over the years.’

The driver totted up the maths in his head as Bernie casually plucked a whole string of fictitious numbers out of his head.

‘Sounds like a really good investment on top of everything else. I could take my older lads as well – they live with me first missus, although knowing Cin’ she’d want to take her mum and her sister an’ all. How many bedrooms did you say it’s got?’

‘Three nice-sized doubles and a bed settee in the lounge, but it’s a big lounge –’ Bernie could almost see it in his mind’s eye; French windows opening up onto a marble-paved terrace looking over an azure-blue sea. God he would have bought it himself if he’d had the chance. You wouldn’t feel tucked up or anything. And with this agency that I’m signed up with you have first pick of the dates you want each year.’

The driver had nodded and narrowed his eyes. Bernie could track the man’s mind moving off into the middle distance, working out all the possible permutations of sleeping arrangements. ‘What sort of money do you reckon your mate’s going to want for it?’

Bernie smiled and shrugged, not wanting to appear too eager, not sure of how much he could squeeze from his companion.

It seemed that the journey wasn’t wasted after all. The warm glow of a nice new scam washed over him. ‘Let me ring my mate and then I’ll give you a buzz – sort you out a few photos to show to your Cindy.’

The man grinned. ‘Thanks mate. Good luck,
and I hope they can fix your motor, it’s a bastard when they let you down like that. You reckon that the garage will have come out and picked it up by now, do you?’

‘I hope so. The amount of money they quoted to do it I’d have expected them to fly and pick it up by helicopter.’

The man laughed. ‘Yeah I reckon we’re in the wrong game, don’t you?’

Bernie nodded. He’d had to come up with some sort of explanation why a man of means like himself was hitch-hiking.

The lorry driver gave another wave as he drove off towards Minehead.

Head down, Bernie walked up the hill towards the entrance to St Elfreda’s Bay, grinning. He most definitely hadn’t lost the old magical Bernie Fielding touch, although on a better day he would have had a cheque out of the bloke as well. Selling time-share on the hoof – selling anything – was for Bernie, like a concert pianist doing scales. Maybe this good deed was just what he needed to bring about a little luck, a change of fortune. He could certainly use one; things had been a bit lean of late. But then he’d always had his ups and downs, life was like that. Bernie picked up the pace and started to whistle. He was about due an up.

St Elfreda’s holiday park was a mile or so off the main road, at the bottom of a steep roadway
cut through mature woodland. It had once all been farmland and, realistically, despite tarmac and passing places the road was still more suited to tractors and four-wheel-drives than most family saloons. Even so, it was an idyllic setting for a holiday. Around a sharp right-hand corner at the bottom of the hill lay the caravans, cabins, tents, and old-fashioned beach huts tucked up amongst old trees with proper gardens. There was a shop and stables, and outbuildings that had been converted into a cosy little bar and café. Away to the left down a cobbled track, where once men had brought coal ashore from Wales on a whole string of mules, lay a private cove and a secluded sandy beach. Nearly there, thought Bernie, whistling a medley from
Les Miserables.

At this time of the morning the beach was bright, blustery, and almost deserted. The little sandy cove was one of the main reasons Maggie had always loved holidays at St Elfreda’s. The bay was like a nibbled bite out of the coastline, sheltered on two sides by sweeping cliffs, and was totally private, used only by the people on the campsite and intrepid walkers who ambled up from Watchet or down the coast from Kilve.

It was an astonishing landscape. The cliffs were made up of layered, waved and slanted rock formations, some in varying shades of red, some
cream, some grey and some further round the bay tinged with green, so that it looked as if the cliff face was made of great folds of chocolate-chip ice cream. Across the beach great rills of rock, which had survived time and tide and winter storms, cut through the sand at odd angles like spines, making sheltered spots to sit under or flat surfaces to bask on. On one edge of the cliffs that embraced St Elfreda’s Bay a waterfall tumbled down over the raw edge, fuelled by an upland freshwater stream.

‘It’s a great place to wash the sand off. The boys love it – although it’s always cold,’ Maggie said, nodding towards the column of water, hands stuffed in the pockets of her fleece as she and Nick ambled along, heads tucked down against the breeze. The wind cut the water into a fine mist that clung and hung in the air, sunlight slicing it into rainbows.

Nick – who had taken his shoes off almost as soon as they hit the beach – grinned, paddling bare feet into the fresh water where it cut through the broad delta to the sea.

Maggie laughed. It was the most relaxed she had seen him since they’d met, with his trousers rolled up, shoes in hand, big chunky sweater tied around his broad shoulders. Maggie peeled strands of hair off her face as the wind wrapped it tight over her eyes and mouth, watching Nick as he picked his way gingerly through sun-warmed run-offs.

It felt so easy and so very, very right for him to be there with her.

‘I wish this could go on forever,’ he said, as if reading her mind. Maggie turned away so that he couldn’t see her face, struggling to stop her thoughts from running away to the warm and tender place that they were heading. This wasn’t real, or even possible, it was just a hiatus – a break in real life for her. And for Nick? Well, for Nick it was a moment of relief before the madness began all over again.

He looked across at her as they scrambled over the rocks, jumping down and waiting to help her, the touch of his hand making her shiver. There were just so many things that Maggie wanted to ask him but she had no idea – worse still, not enough courage – to know where or if to start. So they had walked and talked about her and the boys, and the school where she taught. Nick was easy to be with. They talked about how she had been left the beach hut by an elderly family friend and how she had struggled to keep it for years, long before they became trendy.

It was a notch or two up from polite conversation, but not much more, except that all the while Maggie could sense that odd little tingle that only comes when you fancy someone and it is reciprocated, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried and so swung uneasily between the two.

‘So, how about we go back to the caravan?’ Nick said softly as they reached the path. Their eyes met. There was a loaded silence; Maggie felt her colour rising while she waited for his next words. ‘I’ll cook you eggs and bacon,’ Nick said.

Maggie looked across at him, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What?’ He pulled a face. ‘Tomatoes, hot buttered toast? Good coffee –’

‘Coleman.’

He sighed. ‘You know, for just a moment there I genuinely had forgotten all about him.’

‘Sorry.’

Nick waved the comment away. ‘Hardly your fault, is it? I’ll ring him after we’ve had breakfast.’

Maggie laughed. ‘You have got a very peculiar set of priorities.’

Nick mimed an enormous pantomime shrug. ‘What can I say? It’s a gift – besides, I’ve decided I’m going to enjoy this moment while I can. After all, no one knows where we are, so what difference is another hour or two going to make. And it’s ages since I’ve been to the seaside.’

Good luck – wasn’t that what the driver had wished him? Bernie hoped it would hold. Once he got to the bottom of the steep road he stood for a few moments to catch his breath, wondering what he would do if Maggie wasn’t
there after all. Walking down through the trees a peculiar sense of dread began building up in his belly.

Maggie’s beach hut was situated on the oldest part of the site, tucked away between a row of horse chestnuts in a proper little garden, boarded all around with pebbles and driftwood brought home from countless beach walks. Her plot was tucked back off the track that meandered around the site. Maggie loved it because it was so secluded.

Secluded. It crossed Bernie’s mind that the gasmen might already have been there, or worse still were there now. Who would know if she was in danger? Maggie’s plot wasn’t overlooked by anyone.

Everything else forgotten, Bernie picked his way nervously along the track between the huts, part of him terrified of what he might find. Maggie’s car was there, drawn up under the lee of the hedge which was cut through with a great swathe of wild honeysuckle. The curtains in the bedroom were closed.

Bernie climbed the steps and knocked, once, twice and then he waited. Nothing. The knot in his belly tightened. Cupping his hands around his face, Bernie peered inside. There were definite signs of life – a box of teabags and an open milk carton stood on the worktop, bags and boxes on the table. She had most definitely been there. A
jacket was casually slung over a chair. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good sign or a bad one. What if this bloke – the one that they were relocating – was violent, too? After all, there was no telling what sort of a rogue he was. He could easily be a criminal turning his mates in, some sort of supergrass. What if he had forced Maggie to help hide him? What if the danger wasn’t just from the gasmen?

Bernie swallowed hard to try and still the butterflies in his stomach and was just looking around for something to help him pop the lock when he heard a familiar giggle behind him and turned towards the sound.

Maggie and a tall, good-looking man were walking back up along the path from the beach. They were both carrying their shoes, but very artfully so that the hand closest to each other was empty, and they were walking just fractionally too close together for comfort.

Bernie stared. He knew exactly what he was seeing but was still surprised. As he watched, the man’s hand brushed Maggie’s and almost instantly they both stopped dead in their tracks, and then, right in front of his eyes, the man turned to Maggie and very gently tipped her face up towards his and kissed her.

Unable to look away, Bernie felt his jaw drop open. Maggie didn’t move; she didn’t shriek or slap his face or run away. Quite the opposite in
fact, she moved a little closer and kissed him right back.

Bernie groaned. Bloody hell. That was all he needed. Maggie didn’t need rescuing, what she needed was a bucket of cold water and a bloody good talking to. Had she got any idea what she was getting herself into? How long had she known this bloody clown? After all Bernie had gone through to get himself down to Somerset to warm her – to warn them. Bloody women.