Hot Pursuit (8 page)

Maggie caught hold of Nick’s arm; he was almost hysterical. ‘Stop it; they won’t. It’ll be all right. I’ll go and ring the TV station. I’ll explain to them.’

‘Explain what? If that film goes out I’m already as good as dead,’ said Nick again.

Maggie looked at the boys anxiously, wishing that he would shut up in front of them. ‘Why don’t you go and ring the people who brought you here?’

‘Fat lot of good that will do,’ Nick hissed, and, stuffing his hands into his pockets, headed back out into the garden.

Maggie shook her head; she had to find some way to show Nick that salvation was possible. Directory enquiries had the number of the
Gotcha
studios, and she was connected on the second ring.

‘Good afternoon,
Gotcha
Productions, how may I help you?’ said a sing-song female voice.

Maggie took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a problem and I’m not exactly sure who I need to talk to.’

‘Okay, well if you would like to tell me a little bit about the nature of your problem I can maybe redirect you to the right place,’ said the girl helpfully. ‘If you prefer to remain anonymous –’

‘No, no, it’s not that,’ said Maggie. ‘The thing is –’

A few minutes later Maggie hung up and almost at once Nick reappeared in the doorway. Maggie looked up at him, wondering where to begin. It felt hard to breathe, as if someone had made the air in her lungs thick and hot and heavy.

‘Well?’ he said, his expression tight as a drum skin.

‘They said that under normal circumstances they need a court injunction to stop a film or any other material from being broadcast.’ Maggie spoke slowly, frustration making her enunciate every word. ‘To get them to stop the show we would need a judge. You have to talk to Coleman, Nick. Now.’

Nick shook his head. ‘I would if I thought it would do any good. Why hasn’t he contacted me, that’s what I want to know. I feel like they’ve cut me adrift. Did you tell the TV company that it
was a case of mistaken identity, that I’m not really Bernie Fielding?’

‘Of course I bloody well did,’ Maggie growled. ‘They just said it wasn’t the first time they’d heard that line. I even tried telling them about the witness relocation thing and the guy I talked to said that they’d heard that one before, too.’ She looked up at him. ‘What the hell are we going to do now?’

It was odd how it felt so very natural to say ‘we’ as if some part of her knew that her fate was already irrevocably tangled with Nick Lucas’s.

Nick shook his head. ‘If they find me, Maggie, they’ll kill me.’ He paused as if waiting until he had her full attention and then added in a low voice, ‘And if they think you’re involved they’ll kill you, too.’

Cain and Nimrod sat in their hotel room near Heathrow, sipping Harvey Wallbangers and waiting for the phone to ring. Cain flicked through the TV channels, while Nimrod, sucking on the long candy-striped straw, trawled idly through a copy of
Homes & Gardens
.

‘So what do you fancy, then?’ said Cain.

‘Anything as long as it hasn’t got any bleeding fish in it.’

‘How about this?’ said Cain, settling himself down as the titles rolled.

‘What is it?’

‘
Gotcha
. I always watch it on Sky when I’m at home to see if I can spot any of the lads or pick up any good tips. You know you’ve gotta keep your finger on what’s going down, where the pulse is. Oh bugger, it’s only a trailer – damn.’

Nimrod sighed and then did a double-take, as a familiar face popped up on the screen.

‘Wait, wait,’ he snapped at Cain who was about to flick onto another channel. ‘Hang on. Whoa. Look, does that remind you of anybody we know?’

‘Tonight at half past seven on
Gotcha
we’ll be talking face to face with Bernie Fielding, con man, thief and liar,’ said the announcer.

Nimrod grinned and pulled the envelope of pictures out of his briefcase. It seemed that the gods had smiled on them after all. There on the screen was a close-up of their quarry; Mr Nick Lucas.

‘Gotcha,’ purred Nimrod. ‘Well, well, well, so he’s calling himself Bernie Fielding, is he.’

‘So do you want to watch it later, then?’ said Cain, sounding surprised and taking a long pull on his drink.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nimrod. ‘I most certainly do.’

Cain turned towards him, his heavy eyebrows knitted together in a puzzled expression as if he couldn’t quite place the face. ‘Do we
know him
?’ he asked quizzically, nodding towards the TV screen.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nimrod, picking up the phone with glee. ‘We most certainly do,’ and then into the handset, ‘Operator, can I have an outside line, please?’

‘What do you mean?’ growled Coleman. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, we most certainly
did not
send a TV crew round to the safe house to film you. For fuck’s sake, what do you take us for – some sort of circus act? It kind of defeats the whole complete anonymity thing, wouldn’t you say?’ He sounded annoyed, as if he thought Nick was totally crazy or possibly lying.

Standing in Maggie’s kitchen, Nick was way out beyond annoyed in a cold numb place that made breathing hard and thinking almost unbearable. He felt as if he was on borrowed time. ‘They said that they’d come looking for the real Bernie Fielding.’

Coleman snorted, his tone almost derisive. ‘What do you mean the
real
Bernie Fielding? That’s impossible; I’ve told you before there is no
real
Bernie Fielding. That’s the whole point of the Stiltskin programme. We feed in your age and a
few other non-negotiable details like race and height and it comes up with a whole new persona. Shazam, just like that. Trust me, this is just some weird glitch – a coincidence;
there is no real Bernie Fielding
.’

Maggie, who had been listening in on the extension, snapped angrily, ‘Oh for God’s sake, how much more proof do you need, Coleman? Who are you trying to kid? Do you seriously expect us to believe any of this stuff?’

‘Who the hell is this?’ snapped Coleman.

‘The former Mrs Bernie Fielding,’ Maggie snapped right back. ‘Nick said I could listen and trust me, whatever you say about Bernie he really does exist.’

It had taken Nick most of what had remained of the afternoon to track Coleman down. Now that he was on the line they wanted answers. Lots and lots of answers.

‘Look, the main thing,’ said Coleman hastily, ‘is not to panic. I want you to keep your head down. I’ve already pulled a crash team in to come and pick you up and my assistant is looking into what is going on here even as we speak.’ Coleman sounded as if he was regaining his composure. ‘Just hang tight in there; as I said it’s only a glitch.’

‘
Only a glitch
?’ repeated Nick incredulously. ‘What do you mean, only a glitch? Who’s going to turn up next? The
This is Your Life
film crew?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Calm down, you’re over
reacting,’ Coleman said in a low earnest voice, at which point Maggie’s eldest son Ben came hurtling into the kitchen waving his arms about. He grabbed her hand, trying to pull her through into the sitting room.

‘Mum, mum,’ Ben said excitedly, ‘come with me; we’re on the telly, come and look. Come and look! We’re on the TV –’

‘What? What do you mean we’re on the TV?’ Maggie swung round and snatched up the remote for the little TV set that stood on the kitchen dresser, flicking furiously through the channels, and sure enough there they all were in glorious Technicolor. Her jaw dropped open.

‘Oh my God. I don’t believe it. There’s a trailer for
Gotcha
on ITV,’ she hissed in disbelief, turning to stare at Nick; her expression mirrored by her image on the TV. A line of text rolled along the bottom of the screen like ticker tape. ‘They’re doing a Bernie Fielding special,’ Maggie whispered.

‘Did you hear that?’ roared Nick. ‘There’s your little glitch, Coleman. ITV, seven-thirty tonight –’

All Coleman could manage was a choked expletive before Nick continued, ‘We’re on TV for Christ’s sake. You’ve got to get on to the television company now. I’m starring in tonight’s show by the look of it. Maggie’s already rung them but the production company won’t listen to us. This is totally crazy; you and your department might
as well have taken out a full page in the tabloids with my bloody address on it.’

Right on cue Maggie hit the audio button in time to hear Robbie Hughes saying, ‘…currently holed up in a tiny cottage in the heart of East Anglia, West Brayfield is a sleepy hamlet with a viper in its bosom.’ His voice-over was accompanied by film footage of her cottage – first a tracking shot down the lane and then a close-up of her front door, over which was superimposed a picture of Nick looking angry and waving the camera away. ‘Tonight we explore the dark world of Bernie Fielding and those involved and entrapped by his cunning web of lies, trickery and deceit –’

Maggie felt her stomach contract sharply. ‘For God’s sake, Nick, he’s telling people where I live. We have got to do something
now
. We can’t wait for Coleman to ride in like the bloody cavalry and sort it all out. How many people do you think there are out there watching this?’

‘I heard that. You stay exactly where you are,’ growled Coleman furiously. ‘We’re sending a team in to pick you up; they’re already on their way. Don’t do anything silly, Nick, and I promise you’ll be just fine.’ If his tone was meant to be reassuring it failed miserably.

‘Fine? You seriously expect us to believe any of that? You must think we’re both totally and utterly stupid,’ shouted Maggie and with that she hung up.

Nick gasped and then looked at her in amazement. ‘What in God’s name did you do that for?’ he said, staring down at the dead phone in his hands. ‘It took me bloody ages to get through to him. Now what are we going to do?’

Maggie sighed. ‘Don’t worry he was just telling you what he’s been trained to say, Nick. He’s doing it by the book – by numbers. How long is it going to take them to get someone down here? An hour? Two hours? And how many times do you think that ad’s been on the TV already? I really, truly believe that we have to get out of here now, not when Coleman and his merry men show up, but
now
.’

She turned to Ben and Joe who were still standing staring at the TV. ‘Go upstairs and get some toys. I’ll be up in a minute.’ She caught hold of Nick’s arm and felt a tiny unexpected tingle of pleasure. Damn, now wasn’t the moment. ‘Go and get your things, too,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘We have to get going.’

Nick looked down at her. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I really thought I was going to be safe.’

Maggie looked up at him and smiled. ‘Come on. Stop fretting. It’ll be all right, trust me,’ she said. Poor sod, Maggie thought, wishing that there was some way she could reassure him. After all, she didn’t know what they were dealing with, maybe she should be more nervous than she was.

He moved a fraction closer and for a split second Maggie thought he was going to kiss her. She froze, wondering if she had got it wrong. Nick was gorgeous and dangerous and so close that Maggie could feel his breath on her cheek. She looked up and for an instant their eyes met and she felt her pulse quicken. Damn, damn, damn.

And then Nick reddened as if he wasn’t quite sure and the moment passed.

‘Go,’ she said, waving him away, struggling to regain her composure. ‘We need to be gone.’

Half way up the stairs Nick turned back to look at her ‘Maggie, I’m sorry –’ he began. ‘I had no idea.’

She grinned. ‘It’s a bit late for that now, don’t forget to pack your teddy and your tooth brush. I’ll sort the boys out.’

In the offices on Colmore Road, Coleman slapped two files onto the desk alongside Ms Crow, who had been listening on the speaker phone.

‘Okay. Nick Lucas, Bernard Fielding and James Cook. Discuss,’ he said between tightly gritted teeth. ‘I really need some help to get to the bottom of this one, Dorothy. As far as I can see it’s turned into a complete and utter bloody disaster. I’ve already pulled in a crash team to get Nick Lucas out of the safe house – that’s if he doesn’t do a runner in the meantime.’ Coleman blew out his lips thoughtfully. It had been a long day. ‘What
the fuck is going on here? This TV thing is the last straw –’

Ms Crow, her face an impassive mask, looked up at him. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine, Danny, just leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out.’ As she spoke, Ms Crow dropped a cool slim hand onto his in a gesture of almost maternal reassurance, although she was no more than a year or two older than Danny, if that. Dorothy Crow always sounded calm, competent and convincing, her voice and unflappable manner two of the main reasons why Coleman had taken her on in the first place. That and her impeccable service record and security clearance which were on a par with his own. Coleman smiled; she was the only person besides his family who ever called him by his first name.

‘I thought he was down to be James Cook?’ she said casually, opening up the file.

Coleman shook his head and sighed. ‘I don’t know any more. That’s what the data trail says but it seems as if somewhere along the line Stiltskin threw a shoe and coughed up two names. And looking at all this stuff I can’t for the life of me work out whether it’s a software error or an operator error, or deliberate sabotage. What makes it all the more peculiar is that this Bernie Fielding appears to have been a real person. How in God’s name did that happen?’

Dorothy’s expression didn’t change. He knew from experience that she was unlikely to venture
an opinion until she had read the files and tracked down the necessary information to weigh up any argument. Coleman continued, ‘I’ve just spoken to this Fielding guy’s ex-wife who – quite understandably – is a bit pissed off at having a strange man show up on her doorstep with her ex-husband’s name, and even more pissed off to have some film crew showing up and broadcasting her details to the nation.’

‘Does the woman know who Nick is?’

Coleman shook his head, ‘I don’t know – probably. I can’t see under those circumstances how his cover could have held up. He’s not exactly James Bond although God alone knows what he’s told her.’

‘The truth?’

Coleman sighed. ‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth – I don’t know. What would you do?’

Ms Crow declined to answer and then pursed her lips. ‘The other thing is,’ she said slowly, as if her brain was attempting to order facts into neat rows. ‘If Nick Lucas has – at the moment – assumed Bernie Fielding’s identity, that irons one wrinkle out, but if that
is
the case who is it who is currently pretending to be James Cook?’

‘Sorry? I’m not with you,’ said Coleman in surprise. ‘What do you mean,
who is currently pretending to be James Cook?
No one, as far as I know.’

Dorothy Crow’s expression hardened up. ‘Well
that is where you’re wrong, Danny –
someone
has taken on James Cook’s identity, or at least someone is out there drawing money out of his bank account.’ She pulled a sheet of paper out of the in-tray on her immaculately tidy desk and handed it to him. It was a photocopy of a request statement for one James Anthony Cook.

‘Oh, come on, you’re joking?’ Coleman protested, shaking his head. He looked at Ms Crow. Humour was not her natural forte. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Not another glitch in the bloody system – what the hell is going on here? God alone knows who this is. Put a stop on the account and get somebody in there to see what they can turn up. But before you do any of that get me
Gotcha
Television on line one and then get someone to run a full systems check on Stiltskin. Sodding bloody computers.’ He threw the bank statement back onto the desk.

Ms Crow picked up the phone and dialled.

Coleman went back into his office, pulled the shades at the windows to half-mast and, slumping into his seat, pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets, thanking whatever god it was that had sent him Dorothy Crow. The phone on his desk buzzed. He picked it up. ‘
Gotcha
Productions, how may I help you?’ said a cheery female voice.

‘Well for a start you can put me through to someone with a bit of clout,’ growled Coleman.

Meanwhile, Bernie Fielding had spent most of the day in Oxford, shopping for new clothes. He’d got himself a zippy new mobile phone that folded up to the size of a tea bag and a very tasty leather jacket – a man in his position needed to create the right impression. Now, back at the caravan, Bernie stuffed the last of the carrier bags and boxes into the bin under the sink, while admiring the way his new shoes looked with the chinos he’d bought. All in all it had been a good day. He’d even taken a test drive in a new BMW; after all his credit record was as white as the driven snow now and there was a limit to how good an impression he could realistically make driving a fifteen-year-old, canary-yellow 2CV, however lovingly maintained.

Easing off his new shoes, Bernie opened the fridge and flicked on the TV. Stella had already said she’d drop by around eight for a drink. He’d bought a couple of bottles of Chablis, glasses, new sheets, a selection of towels and a toothbrush just in case. She had promised to show him the rest of the sights. Bernie grinned and popped the top on a can of ice-cold Pilsner. Stella Ramsey was a girl with a lot of sights worth seeing.

Bernie unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his belt. There was just time for a shower and a shave and a – Something stopped him mid-stride on his way to the bathroom. There on the TV was a woman who looked remarkably like his ex-wife,
Maggie. Weird. He looked again and turned up the sound just in time to catch some guy saying, ‘…finally tracked to ground con man Bernie Fielding.’

Bernie Fielding? Bernie spluttered and inhaled his beer, struggling to breathe as he felt an icy finger track down his spine. Then remembered that he wasn’t Bernie Fielding any more. He was James Cook, man about town, man with a healthy bank balance, looking for a new house, with a new woman and a whole shiny, brand-new life to play with. And then, hot on the heels of his sense of relief, was the realisation that it really
was
Maggie on the TV and that – thanks to his interfering – someone else
was
Bernie Fielding. The breath stayed where it was, trapped high up in his throat as he fought to exhale. Someone who he had, in a moment of divine madness, sent to Maggie’s home address, someone who at the stroke of a computer keyboard had inherited his whole life. His
whole
life. Lock, stock and litigation.

Bernie shrugged and flicked on the gas to heat the water; it’d be all right, Maggie had always been a smart cookie, she’d sort it out, she was good at…

The sound of the gas igniting with a dull spark made Bernie stop dead in his tracks, fingers tightening around the beer can.