No Escape (17 page)

Christopher looked directly at Lizzie. ‘Also known as the goddess of sexual heat,’ he said. ‘As Bill said, crammed with sex, these myths.’

‘Was that strictly necessary?’ Lizzie asked later, when the visitors had gone and Gilly was in the kitchen.

‘What precisely?’

‘The one-track conversation.’

‘You picked Kefalonia,’ Christopher said. ‘Hardly my fault Pan sowed some of his wild oats here.’

She looked at him for a moment, then turned away. ‘I’m going to help Gilly, and then I’m going to bed.’

‘Am I permitted to join you?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Of course,’ she said, and then added, unable to help herself: ‘No real alternative, anyway, with no spare room.’

The visit to Melissani, the subterranean lake within a cave, was on the agenda for the last day on the island, but before that the plan was for Lizzie to bring her latest
recipes to life on a barbecue to be set up somewhere in another cave just a few kilometres from Sami.

Drogarati, said by locals once to have been a dragon’s lair, was, according to experts, a hundred and fifty million years old, a truly remarkable, vast cavern filled with thousands of
multicoloured stalagmites and stalactites.

‘It’s so big,’ Lizzie had told the children during the journey from Palermo, ‘that there’s a concert room at the back where they can seat a thousand
people.’

‘Wicked,’ Jack had said.

‘Can I come?’ Edward had asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Lizzie said.

‘You promised I could come to a shoot,’ her oldest said.

‘It depends,’ she said.

Arden thought it a fine idea, though not just for Edward. A barbecue in a cave, he told Lizzie, was precisely the right setting for the family-oriented segment he’d had in mind all
along.

‘Though the company might need you and Christopher to sign an insurance waiver.’ He saw Lizzie’s expression. ‘Problem?’

‘Not with that,’ she’d said. ‘You said family-oriented, Richard, but Jack couldn’t possibly come to Drogarati, not with all those steps. I shouldn’t think he
could even get close.’

‘Of course not,’ Arden said. ‘Stupid of me.’

‘Not in the least,’ Lizzie hastened. ‘It was a lovely idea.’

‘Would Jack mind missing out, if we went ahead without him?’ The producer shook his head. ‘He always seems very laid-back about his limitations.’

‘He is,’ Lizzie confirmed. ‘I just hate leaving him out of things.’

Less than two hours later, Arden called from his hotel to tell Lizzie that the company had shot down the whole plan.

‘Not because of family involvement,’ he explained. ‘It’s the whole shebang – cooking in that place – too dangerous, apparently.’ He paused. ‘But
it’s not all bad news, Lizzie, because we’ve found another cave.’

‘As good as Drogarati?’

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘A very ordinary, dull-as-ditchwater cave.’

‘Why’s that so good?’

‘Because we can still shoot footage in the original place, but since it’s Lizzie Piper and her food the viewers are most interested in, the cave’s fairly irrelevant. So now
you’re going to do your barbecue thing at this other little cave – or rather, just
outside
the cave on a charming little beach which even happens to have a decent enough path for
Jack’s wheels.’

‘Richard, how lovely.’ Lizzie was touched. ‘How did you find this place?’

‘I didn’t,’ Arden said. ‘Gina went off location hunting yesterday, and your pal Susan went with her.’

Down to Susan then, Lizzie decided, unable, perhaps unfairly, to picture Gina caring too much about anything so unglamorous as DMD.

It was all delightful – the most enjoyable shoot of the trip so far, from Lizzie’s point-of-view – until disaster struck.

‘Action,’ Bill Wilson said.

‘Mummy!’

Sophie, impeccably behaved till then, but spotting a rather large lizard just feet away, became unnerved and made a sudden dash for her mother, grabbing hold of Lizzie’s T-shirt and
distracting her at precisely the instant that an unexpected gust of wind blew off the Ionian Sea.

The flames on the big stone barbecue flared startlingly high, making Sophie shriek and back into Edward, who stumbled sideways, knocking a rack of white-hot shellfish, octopus and oil over his
bare right arm and leg.

‘Oh, my
God
!’ Lizzie pushed Sophie out of the way.

‘Water!’ Jack spun his chair and started for the bucket behind his mother, but Christopher got there first.

As Edward began screaming.

Joanne was in the back garden hanging a pile of Tony’s shirts on the clothes line – he liked his shirts hung out to dry rather than put in the tumble drier because
he claimed they smelled better – when Irina, playing on their small rectangle of lawn, stopped bouncing her red ball, ran to her mother and grasped at her jeans.

‘Man,’ Irina said.

Joanne looked first down at her daughter, then up towards where she was pointing, and her heart began to pound, for there was indeed a man standing on the far side of the brick wall that
separated their property from the common land beyond.

‘Mrs Patston,’ the man said, ‘please don’t be alarmed.’

‘Go inside,’ Joanne told Irina. ‘Go on, darling, quickly.’

‘Mummy come too,’ Irina said.

‘Mrs Patston, my name is Michael Novak, and I’m here to offer you help.’

Joanne stared at him. His head and shoulders – all she could see of him above the wall – looked respectable enough. Which meant, she knew, nothing.

‘Please go away,’ she told him.

‘I will,’ Novak told her, ‘as soon as I’ve passed on a message.’

‘Mummy
come
.’ Irina tugged at Joanne’s jeans again.

‘Irina, go inside,’ Joanne said again. ‘I’ll come in a minute.’

‘But Mummy—’

‘Now!’

The child, startled at being spoken to so sharply by her mother, ran through the kitchen door into the house. Joanne waited a moment, then took two steps closer to the wall. The man was breaking
no laws she could think of and, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, she found she was not sufficiently disturbed by him to consider phoning the police.

‘My card.’ Slowly and deliberately, anxious not to scare her off, Novak laid his business card on top of the wall.

‘I’ll take it when you’ve gone,’ Joanne said.

‘Good idea,’ Novak said. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

‘What do you want?’ Joanne looked back at the house, saw Irina at the kitchen window, gazing out. ‘Please tell me quickly,’ she said, and fixed her eyes on the man again.
‘I don’t like leaving my daughter alone for long.’

‘Of course not,’ Novak said. ‘I’m a private investigator, Mrs Patston.’

‘What do you want with me?’ Joanne felt confused, hot and bothered, as if she’d had too much sun, though it was in fact a cloudy day.

‘A client of mine, a solicitor who knows a little about your predicament—’

‘What predicament? Who says I need a solicitor?’

‘No one.’ Novak went straight on, slowly, clearly. ‘My client would very much like to meet you to discuss the possibility of helping you break away from your
problems.’

‘Break away?’ The hot, confused feelings intensified.

‘If that’s what you would like. It’s your call.’

‘Who
are
you? I don’t understand how you know anything about me?’ The word ‘solicitor’ scrabbled its way to the forefront of her mind, made her scared.
‘Who is this solicitor? Why didn’t you – he, she – just phone me, or write?’

‘He thought this might be better for you,’ Novak said. ‘He thought you might prefer it if your husband wasn’t involved.’ He paused. ‘This help,’ he said
slowly, carefully, ‘is for you and Irina, not your husband.’

Joanne said nothing, just stood very still.

‘Take my card, Mrs Patston, and think about it.’ Novak’s smile was gentle. ‘I realize this is an unusual approach, and you’re quite right to be wary, but this whole
thing really would be in your hands.’

‘What thing?’

‘A way out,’ Novak replied.

Joanne looked back, saw Irina still waiting, watching. ‘I have to go inside.’

‘Right,’ Novak said. ‘If you want to get in touch, we’ll be waiting to hear. If not, we won’t trouble you again. Like I said, it’s your call.’ He nodded
towards the card on the top of the wall. ‘Might be better not to leave that lying around, don’t you think?’

Swiftly, gingerly, like a wild animal snatching at a piece of food, Joanne stepped forward and grabbed the card, then backed off again.

‘Great,’ Novak said. ‘I’ll be going now.’

It came to her, suddenly, like a punch in the stomach. ‘Was it the hospital? Is that how you know?’

Novak read the terror behind her eyes. ‘This isn’t official, Mrs Patston. You don’t have to worry about that, not from us.’

‘So what
is
it then?’ Joanne asked desperately.

‘Just help,’ Novak said.

In the days following the accident, from the chaos of casualty in Argostoli to the Athens hospital where Edward spent one night before being flown home to the Beauchamp, Lizzie
saw Christopher yet again at his very best. While she feared and fretted over her son and, riddled with all kinds of guilt, forced Richard Arden to accept that she had no intention of returning to
the Roadshow for the foreseeable future, her husband operated on Edward’s burns, eased his pain and comforted him, still making time to console Sophie and Jack.

Observing Christopher, Lizzie felt in awe, thankful, and ashamed.

This was, just as he had told her, what really counted. That other, single aspect of their life together was minor by comparison. This was not just a
good
father she was seeing; this was
a remarkable, brilliant, valuable man, a man capable of taking care of the most important people in her life.

So now, Lizzie did what mothers always did when their children were ill or in trouble: she made pacts. If only Edward would recover completely, be swiftly out of pain, be not badly scarred
– if only Sophie didn’t feel guilty about her part in the accident – if only Jack’s condition wasn’t affected by his shock and distress, Lizzie swore she’d try
not to care what Christopher was occasionally driven to do to her in bed. Never complain again.

Never again threaten to leave.

On the first day of September, a Sunday afternoon, while her father was off somewhere with friends, and her aunt was taking care of her and her brother, Kylie Bolsover was
looking for a spanner in the garage with which she hoped to be able to fix one of the wheels on her skateboard, when she found something that she did not understand.

At least, she understood
what
it was.

A rock, wrapped in a large rag stained with oil and something else; something that was not oil, but was almost, not quite, blackish.

She tried, for a few moments, to unwrap the rock completely, but some of the rag, where it was dirtiest, was stiff, reminded her of what her daddy’s shirts had felt like when her mother
had sprayed starch on them when she was ironing, and those stained bits were stuck to the rock.

What Kylie did
not
understand was how the rock and rag were making her feel.

Sick. Scared.

She went to find her aunt.

Clare took the call.

‘Is Michael Novak there, please?’

An unfamiliar female voice, apprehensive, even secretive. Clare knew, with a rush of intuition, who it was. ‘Mrs Patston?’

Silence.

Mistake.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said, trying to sound calm. ‘Mike’s—’

‘It is Mrs Patston,’ the woman said.

‘I don’t know why I thought it might be,’ Clare said.
Friendly
,
easy, don’t scare her off.
‘Mike’s just out getting our lunch, but he’ll
be back any second. If you don’t mind holding on—’

‘All right.’

In the background, Clare heard a child’s voice, calling. ‘
Mummy
,’ clear enough, then something else she couldn’t catch.

‘Is that your little girl?’ Still easily, wanting to hold her.

‘Yes. How long will he be?’

Novak strolled through the front door of the office with a brown paper bag in one hand and a
Standard
in the other.

‘Joanne Patston for you, Mike,’ Clare said, clearly enough for the woman at the other end to hear.

‘Great.’ He dumped the bag and paper on her desk and took the phone.

‘Mrs Patston, I’m glad to hear from you.’

‘We’ve got him.’

DC Pete Jackson’s voice rang with triumph as he came into the almost empty incident room, then stopped as he saw Shipley on the phone.

She ended her call. ‘What?’

‘Doctor Patel just called,’ Jackson said. ‘She couldn’t hold.’ The ginger-haired DC’s cheeks were almost as ruddy with excitement as his hair.
‘Fax’ll be through shortly.’

‘Come on, Pete,’ Shipley said. ‘Don’t make a meal of it.’

‘All there. The blood’s Lynne’s and the rag’s got a good print, stupid bastard.’

‘Okay,’ Shipley said.

‘Is that it?’ Jackson was put out by her lack of enthusiasm.

‘No.’ Shipley frowned into her open desk drawer. ‘It’s great news.’

‘But?’

She looked back up at him. ‘In his own garage?’

The DC shrugged. ‘Like I said, stupid bastard.’

‘No one’s that stupid, Pete.’ Shipley paused. ‘
We’re
not that stupid, for fuck’s sake. That garage was searched.’

‘I know.’ Jackson’s pleasure was already fizzling out. ‘It was the first thing Mrs Wakefield said.’

Except her attitude had been accusing, not sceptical. ‘
I thought your people had searched the place
.’ Understandable. Smoking gun right under their noses and missed.
Head-rolling stuff, if it was true.

DCI Kirby – when Shipley went to see him – felt it
was
true, though he far preferred an alternative scenario in which Bolsover had kept the rock and rag hidden elsewhere until
after the police search.