Nowhere to Hide (23 page)

And now it was on. Because there was a chill in the air. A recurrent breeze through the house that occasionally caused the bedroom door to bump gently against the frame. Something had allowed the cool evening air into the house.

Shit.

Moving silently, she pulled on the jeans and her flat-soled shoes. She picked up the handbag that she always left on her bedside table. It contained her mobiles and, in a concealed pocket, her warrant card and other key documents. She made her way to the door and peered out into the landing, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Nothing. No sound that she could make out. But definitely that chill that she'd detected, an unaccustomed movement of air through the house.

She moved across the landing, straining her ears. There was nothing more than the faint whisper of the breeze, the occasional soft thump of the bedroom door. The house was in near darkness, illuminated only by the last red rays of the sun and the first pale orange of the street lights.

She inched silently down the stairs and paused at the bottom, her back to the wall. If there was a door or window open, someone was inside. Had whoever killed McGrath come for her as well? If so, he wouldn't use the same method twice. If the police really did still harbour doubts about McGrath's death, a second fire at her place would quickly dispel them. More likely, she'd be killed somewhere away from here. Or they'd make her death look like suicide. Either way, the implication would be that the mysterious Maggie Yates was somehow involved in McGrath's death.

That wouldn't work, of course, once Salter revealed who Maggie Yates had really been. But the killer wouldn't know that. Unless the killer knew that only too well–

Christ
.

She could still hear nothing. She looked around the dark hallway, considering her options. The kitchen first, she thought. She could find a weapon there. If some bastard had broken in with the intention of killing her, she wouldn't worry too much about the implications of defending herself.

She edged along the hall, keeping her back to the wall, eyes darting between the doors to the kitchen and the living room. The kitchen looked deserted. She eased back the door to ensure no one was hiding behind it, and then looked around. Now she saw the source of the cool breeze blowing through the house.

The rear door, which led out into the small back garden, was ajar. As far as she could see in the darkness, it appeared undamaged. So either she'd accidentally left it unlocked, and maybe even unfastened. Or someone had managed to get through it.

She'd spoken to Salter about wanting to get the security tightened on this place. It was standard domestic stuff, not even high quality. Nothing to keep out even a moderately skilled housebreaker, let alone a professional.

She stepped across the room and looked out into the garden. No sign of anyone, though the bottom end of the plot, backing on to the gardens of the next road, was lost in darkness. She turned back into the room and, still facing the centre, her eyes fixed on the door, she felt her way along to the drawer where she kept the kitchen knives.

Reaching behind her back, she began to fumble in the drawer, her fingers rummaging blindly among the contents. The drawer was filled with kitchen utensils – wooden spoons, ladles, a cheese grater. None of this stuff was Marie's own – it was an off-the-shelf job lot the landlord had supplied when the Agency had arranged the furnished let.

There had to be a knife in there. She was struggling to remember whether she'd used a knife earlier, whether it was sitting in the dishwasher waiting to be cleaned. With a wary glance towards the door, she decided to risk turning to look.

Her back was turned for no more than a few seconds, but she knew she'd made a mistake. She felt, rather than heard, the presence behind her.

When she turned, the man was standing in the doorway. In the dim light, she could make out nothing except that he was of average height, stockily built, running slightly to fat. He had a baseball cap pulled over his forehead and a black scarf wrapped round the lower half of his face.

Without speaking, he stretched out a gloved hand.

Balanced across the palm she could see two kitchen knives.

Marie took a deep breath and tried to suppress her rising sense of panic. Somewhere in her head, as if belonging to another person, her rational mind was continuing to work, assessing the options, trying to come up with any sort of game plan.

‘Who are you?' she said, making an effort to keep her voice steady. ‘What do you want?' She had no expectation of a response, but she knew the importance of trying to engage with a potential attacker. Of trying to turn a mechanistic process into a human encounter. If he was a pro, it would make no difference. If he wasn't, it might buy her a few minutes.

She was conscious of the external door, still ajar to her left. Could she reach it before he reached her? He was standing casually, the knives still balanced playfully on his palm, as if he felt fully in control.

‘What the fuck are you doing in here?' she said.

There was no chance of provoking a reaction. The man watched her in silence, and she could sense that he was enjoying her discomfort, relishing her fear.

Not a pro, she thought suddenly. He wants to give that impression, but he isn't. She couldn't immediately tell what made her so sure. Then she realised that the answer lay in what she'd just recognised. He was getting a kick out of scaring her. It was in his body language, the way he was standing, the way he was watching her. The way he was playing with the knives, trying to show how bloody clever he was.

She'd dealt with hit men in her career, interviewed one or two as part of investigations. For the real pros, it was just a job. Sure, most were psychopaths, lacking the basic empathy that oils normal human relationships. But they were in it for money, not for kicks. Get in, do the job, get out. Don't get caught. Leave no trace. Anything else was at best a waste of energy, at worst a dangerous distraction.

A real pro would have done the job by now.

If he wasn't the real thing, he might give her an opening. He'd already made his first error. He'd delayed, allowed her time to think, time to recognise his weakness.

If she made a break for the door, he'd get there first. The answer was to do the opposite.

‘Not very talkative, are we?' she said. She took three deliberate steps towards him. ‘Wonder who you are behind that cap and scarf? Someone I know, or a perfect stranger?' She took another step. She was only a few feet away from him. ‘Shall I find out?'

It was a big risk. He might be an amateur, but that made him unpredictable. A pro would do nothing to compromise his anonymity. An amateur might do any damn fool thing. But she could sense her gamble was paying off. He looked wrong-footed, his posture suddenly less relaxed. He wanted to threaten her, regain control, but didn't want to speak.

‘Let's have a look.' She took another carefully measured, step forward and, with brutal suddenness, kicked hard at the man's groin.

She'd trained in self-defence earlier in her career. She couldn't recall if this move had been on the curriculum, though the female instructor had been keen to emphasise the particular vulnerabilities of the male body.

It worked well enough. The intruder jerked back, then toppled forward like a suddenly deflating balloon, clutching his hands between his legs. As his head flew back, she caught a glimpse of his face between the scarf and the cap. No one she knew.

As he staggered forward, she launched another ferocious kick at his head. Her shoe caught him square in the face. He fell sideways, catching his head against one of the kitchen units.

She paused, weighing up the odds of finding some way to secure him. But she'd have to find some wire or tape and she didn't know how long it would take him to recover. And if she called the police, it would just open the whole can of worms around her and McGrath.

Clutching the handbag over her shoulder, she headed out of the open back door and made her way round the side of the house, fumbling for her car keys as she reached the front drive.

As she pressed the fob to unlock the doors, she could already hear footsteps behind her. She dragged open the car door and fell inside, slamming shut the central locking. To her left, she could see the man, still half-crouched in pain, moving towards her.

She jammed the keys clumsily into the ignition and started the engine. Slamming the car into gear, she pushed the accelerator to the floor, the car screaming away from the curb just as the man reached the passenger door. Moments later, she reached the edge of the estate and turned on to the main road.

What to do now? She was tempted just to give it all up, tell Salter where to stick his bloody job, and head home. Back to Liam and away from all this crap.

But she didn't really want to do that. Not yet. Now, even more than before, she wanted to know what the hell was going on.

She headed towards the centre of town, her eyes flicking to the rear view mirror for any signs of pursuit. If she wasn't going to head home, where could she go?

She thought first of Lizzie. But the last thing Lizzie needed was more trauma and another reason to be afraid.

Which left only one other option. Jack Brennan. She knew nothing of Brennan's circumstances – whether he was married or single, where he lived. But she had no other bolt hole. He could only tell her to bugger off.

The other question was whether she could trust him. But then what had she to lose? For all her suspicions, she really knew nothing. Even if Brennan was trying to get her to spill the beans, she really had no beans to spill.

She pulled off the main road into a pub car park, found Brennan's number and dialled. The phone was answered almost immediately. ‘Yes?'

‘Jack. Marie Donovan.'

‘Everything okay?' he said. ‘I thought we were going to talk tomorrow.'

‘There's been a development.'

‘Not a good one, presumably.'

‘You might say that. I think we need to talk.'

‘Sure. You mean now?'

‘Yes, and not over the phone. And Jack–'

‘Yes?'

‘There's one other thing. I need somewhere to stay.'

There was a pause, and Marie could sense him thinking through the implications of what she'd just said. ‘Sounds like some development,' he said at last. ‘You better come on over.'

She didn't know what to expect. In giving his address and directions, Brennan hadn't let slip any indication of his domestic circumstances. She didn't know whether she'd find some louche bachelor pad or a haven of familial domesticity. In the end, it was neither, but a neat backstreet semi in an unassuming corner of Cheadle Hulme. It had taken her longer than she'd expected to get here up the M56, but she'd at least put some distance between her and her intruder.

She rang the bell, still uneasy about the set-up she might be imposing herself upon. Coppers' wives aren't usually keen on their husbands bringing work home, especially in the form of a female colleague.

But she knew almost as soon as he opened the door that, whatever Brennan's circumstances might be, he lived alone. It was partly the ease with which he greeted her, but it was also that, even on first glance, the house somehow lacked a woman's touch. Neat enough, and well maintained, but with a functionality that struck her as quintessentially male. White painted walls. A few prints that looked as if they'd been bought from IKEA. An unsullied beige carpet.

‘Have you eaten?'

It was only when he asked the question that she realised how hungry she was. Apart from the abandoned sandwich, she'd eaten nothing for the best part of twenty-four hours. ‘Now you come to mention it,' she said, ‘no.'

‘I was just about to stick something on. Nothing fancy, but you're welcome to join me.'

‘If you're sure?'

‘I can spare a plate of pasta. Come through and we can talk while I get it going.'

She followed him into the kitchen. Again, it was neat and clean, with a surprisingly impressive cooker and range of kitchen equipment and utensils. The kitchen of a man who likes cooking, rather than the domain of a woman or even a couple.

Brennan busied himself chopping onions and garlic, and gestured towards an opened bottle of red wine on the table. ‘Help yourself. In fact, help both of us. I'd just opened it when you called. Glasses in that cupboard.'

She filled two glasses and handed one to him, watching his hands as he prepared the food. A touch of vanity permeated everything he did. She could see he was conscious of working in front of an audience and there was some showmanship in his movements – the rapid chopping of a practised chef, the demonstrative way he tossed the ingredients into the pan. But he might have behaved the same way even on his own. As with the way he dressed, it was the style of a man conscious of his impact on the world. It was even mildly endearing.

Most importantly, he made her feel at ease. For the first time since she'd encountered the intruder – for that matter, for the first time since McGrath's death – she began to relax. She felt safe here. She trusted Brennan, even knowing that there were risks in doing so.

Brennan glanced up at her, as if he'd been reading her thoughts. ‘You okay?'

‘I am now.'

‘So what's happened? You were pretty cryptic on the phone.'

‘Someone broke into my house. I think they were trying to kill me.'

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Christ. Tonight?'

‘Just before I called you.' She described how she'd discovered the intruder and managed to make her escape.

‘You left him there?'

‘I don't think he wanted to steal the DVD player. He might have taken my laptop, but I keep that clean. I imagine he'd have made himself scarce pretty quickly.'

‘You reckon this was the same person who killed McGrath?'