See How They Run (12 page)

‘
M
r French
? Harry? Are you there?’

‘Sorry. Yes. I think those men are back. Can you get someone round here now?’

‘We’ll have a car on the way, but I need to know a bit more about the nature of the emergency. Now, these men. Where are they right now?’

‘Uh, they’re outside, I think.’

‘So you’ve seen them? Can you describe—’

‘I can’t actually see them. But they’re watching the house.’

‘And is it these men that have your wife and daughter?’

‘No. She – they – went off with someone else …’ He faltered, aware that it was impossible to explain it coherently.

‘All right, Mr French, let’s go back to your wife and little girl. When were you last in contact with them?’

To Harry the question seemed to be coming from the end of a long tunnel. Much closer was the sound of his mobile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted. ‘This is a mistake.’

He cut the landline over the operator’s protest, answered his mobile and Ruth said: ‘Jesus, Harry, where were you?’

‘I thought …’ He felt his body slump. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter. They’re here, right now. Luckily it doesn’t look like they’re preparing to break in. My guess is they want to follow you, hoping you’ll lead them to Renshaw via your wife. That means we need to lose them, okay?’

Harry shuddered, thinking:
I don’t want to play this game …

‘Harry?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Good. Now focus. Be ready to move when you get the signal. Right?’

‘All right.’

T
he signal was
the bleep of a horn, and it came only a few minutes after they’d agreed on a plan. While he was waiting he received a text from Sam, asking if he was okay. Harry realised it was now past two o’clock: he should have returned from lunch more than an hour ago. He texted back, saying he’d been forced to take the afternoon off because Alice had come down with a migraine. A feeble excuse, but it would have to do.

When the taxi pulled up outside, Harry locked the house and got into the back seat, trying not to scan the street for the vehicle that was set to follow him.

‘Station?’ the driver queried, as if such a short journey wasn’t worth his while.

‘Please. And I’m late. Can we hurry?’

The man scowled, slotted the car into gear and pulled away. Harry didn’t risk glancing back until they were turning the corner, but when he did he saw the blue Audi on their tail.

In the short time it took to reach the railway station, Harry tried to steady his nerves for what lay ahead. Already he was at a loss to understand why he’d called the police. But it was equally chilling to consider how isolated he was, despite being in his home town. He couldn’t approach his family or friends without placing them in danger.

Like it or not – and even though he still didn’t trust her fully – Ruth Monroe was his only hope right now.

T
he taxi pulled
into the station’s main entrance. Harry found a ten-pound note and reluctantly handed it over, knowing there wasn’t time to wait for change. The driver’s scowl was now tinged with disbelief at the scale of the tip.

Harry got out and hurried towards the concourse. The blue Audi was several cars back, queuing to turn into the station. There was a man in the passenger seat: grey-haired, a rounded, reddish face and a piercing gaze. Eye contact lasted less than a second but Harry felt sure this was the man from Wednesday night – the one with the gun.

Niall Foster, if Ruth was correct.

As the Audi came to a halt, the passenger door was swinging open. Harry had guessed they would pursue him on foot, to see which platform he made for.

He picked up his speed, muttering apologies as he bumped shoulders with other passengers. He spotted a large party of students and used them for cover, cutting away from the barriers and instead making for the station’s rear exit.

Once he’d passed the row of ticket machines there were fewer people around and he could run properly. This felt like the closing straight, his footsteps thudding on the timber boards of the long walkway that led out to Stroudley Road. In seconds he’d reached the roundabout next to the short-term parking bays.

He looked back and saw an elderly couple on the walkway, veering to one side as someone came up behind them. The man from the Audi was hurrying forwards, but with his head turned towards the station platforms, as if he wasn’t certain which route Harry had taken.

Dashing past a rack of pushbikes, Harry grew frantic as he realised there were very few places to hide. A few more seconds and he was going to be in plain sight.

He sprinted faster still, detouring on to the road because of a construction site that had swallowed up the pavement. Just beyond that was a hotel, the Jurys Inn, and slotted between that and the building site was a narrow walkway with steps leading down towards the lower section of Stroudley Road. In other words, a valuable shortcut – but only if Harry could move a lot faster than the man behind him.

He reached the walkway and darted along it, not even daring to look back. There were four flights of steep concrete steps, and he descended them at a reckless speed, using the handrail in the centre for balance and leaping five or six steps in one go.

By the time he reached the bottom his ankles were in agony. He’d agreed to meet Ruth at a bus stop just round the corner, but as he ran down the hill he heard the whine of an engine being pushed to the limit. The Corsa burst into view and he dashed towards it, waving at her to stop before she turned into Stroudley Road, which went nowhere other than the station.

As she screeched to a halt, Harry grabbed the door, threw himself in and they were moving again, Ruth in the midst of a rant about the city’s road layout, its idiotic twenty mph speed limit, the endless fuckwittery of other motorists. Harry had to interrupt after checking the junction as they drove past: ‘No sign of Foster.’

‘That’s something,’ Ruth muttered. ‘Much better if they don’t know I’m involved.’

She floored the accelerator to beat the lights at the junction with New England Road, but didn’t spare him a glance until they were on Preston Road, heading north out of the city.

‘You haven’t brought any stuff.’

‘Wasn’t time – uh, speed camera coming up.’

She braked hard enough to pitch him forward, crawled past the camera and then accelerated once they were beyond its range.

‘What do you mean? You had plenty of time.’

‘Sorry.’ He felt foolish now; ashamed. ‘I called the police.’

Ruth groaned. ‘And told them what?’

‘Nothing that made any sense.’ He thought back over his garbled explanation. ‘In fact, I bet it sounded like my wife had run off with someone, and I’d cracked up as a result.’

‘Did they say if they were sending a car?’

‘I’m not sure if it got that far. Shame, though. If they’d turned up and seen those guys acting suspiciously—’

‘I’m glad they didn’t. Would you want a couple of dead police officers on your conscience?’

Abashed, Harry shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I understand why you were tempted, but you can’t do anything like that again. No unilateral decisions whatsoever, you hear me?’

The dressing-down made him bristle for about six seconds, until he accepted that she was right. If he’d wanted help from the police he should have called them at four o’clock on Thursday morning.

Belatedly he recognised that they were making for the A23, following the route that Alice and Renshaw had taken, though by now there was no chance of picking up their trail.

He glanced at Ruth. She had a quiet, unshowy driving style, quick to read the traffic, controlling the vehicle with small, deft movements. She looked relaxed but alert, in a way that hinted at professional training. He pictured her driving down this road on Wednesday night, in determined pursuit of Laird’s men.

He frowned as a thought came to him. ‘When you followed them down here, did they go anywhere else?’

‘Say again?’

‘You told me you followed them to Brighton. Did they head straight to Lavinia Street, or did they go anywhere else first?’

Now there was a grin, little more than a twitch of her mouth. ‘Where do you think we’re heading now?’

T
hey drove on past Hickstead
, the Seat labouring through the long climb up Handcross hill. Evie had quietened at last, and her eyes were growing heavy. She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the carrier, although various limbs kept prodding into Alice’s stomach and legs. Alice wondered how long she could stave off the next feed, if Evie grew hungry.

The conversation with Harry had left her feeling sick with worry. As a new mother her emotions were volatile enough already: the last thing she wanted was to turn into a weepy, raging nut-job while she was in a car with a stranger. But Renshaw would fall silent for a minute, only to worry away at the issue once again.

‘You cannot say who this woman might be?’

‘No.’

‘But she was with your husband? Alone with him?’

‘I think … I think they might have been in a car.’ She frowned as this occurred to her. Why wasn’t he at work?

‘The woman knows about me. That I do not like.’

‘I don’t understand – we promised not to say a word.’ She fretted over it, trying desperately not to let her imagination run wild. ‘He said she could help us.’

Renshaw’s snort might have been cruel, except that Alice now found it all too easy to see it the same way he did:
As if anybody could be that gullible
…

The A23 became the M23, and the motorway traffic grew heavier once they were past the junction for Gatwick airport. A plane was coming in to land, crossing the carriageway just seconds before them. It was a sight that normally made her dream of holidays, of foreign travel and grand adventures, but now it made her yearn to be home.

The periods of silence grew longer. Alice had any number of questions but Renshaw seemed dangerously out of his depth on the busy road, often failing to anticipate the actions of other motorists. Whenever a vehicle nearby changed lanes, he braked and swerved unnecessarily.

‘Is anyone following us?’ she asked.

‘I cannot say for sure. I think not.’

‘In that case, can you pay a bit less attention to your mirror and a bit more to the road ahead? Otherwise we’re going to crash.’

‘We will not crash,’ he said, but he seemed more offended than angry that she had criticised his driving.

She yawned. ‘Do you know where we’re going yet?’

‘All I can say is this: when I know, you will know.’

His tone was gentler than before: perhaps a conscious effort to be more civil. She thought of all the time he must have spent holed up alone. His social skills were bound to be rusty.

‘Surely we have to go to the police?’

‘Probably, yes. But later. Please relax, try not to worry. You are safe.’

Alice yawned again, overcome by a sudden weariness and an almost reckless disregard for the future. Right now, wasn’t it enough to be away from those men? Away from Harry and his mystery woman friend?

Actually, she thought, what she craved was oblivion.

She looked down. Evie was asleep. Good for her.

A moment later Alice closed her eyes, too.

I
t was
a struggle to keep his temper in check as Ruth revealed that she’d known the whereabouts of their intruders – and she, of course, was sharp enough to see it.

‘If you’re pissed off with me, Harry, just come out and say so. You feel I could have done more to help. If I knew where Foster and Bridge had gone after they invaded your house, I should have called the police and had them arrested at the hotel—’

Harry was nodding emphatically. ‘Yes. So why didn’t you?’

‘Because it sounds fine, in theory. The reality would have been very different.’

‘So you keep saying. I just wonder if it isn’t an excuse.’

‘An
excuse
?’

‘Yes. If you really want to see these people brought to justice, how many more crimes are you prepared to witness and do nothing about? At what point will you decide that enough is enough?’

In barely more than a whisper, Ruth said, ‘When that time comes, Harry, I want as few people as possible caught in the crossfire. People like you. Alice. Your daughter.’

‘That’s not fair. You can’t claim we’re the reason you haven’t—’

‘I’m choosing to help you, remember? I could have abandoned you back there. And once they figured out that Renshaw had got away, their next target would have been you.’

She checked her watch, but the pause was clearly designed to let the warning sink in.

‘Round about now you’d be lying in a pool of your own bodily fluids, begging to tell them how long Renshaw and your wife have been conspiring together.’

It sounded horribly plausible. Harry crossed his arms and lapsed into silence. They left the A23 at the Hickstead junction, crossed the bridge over the main road and turned into the services car park. Ruth drove slowly, on the look-out for Laird’s men, and finally steered into a space close to the Little Chef restaurant.

‘They’re not here,’ she said.

‘Did you think they would be?’

A shrug. ‘Either way, it’s a good place to wait.’

‘What are we waiting for?’

‘
We
’re not. I need you to stay here while I go back to Brighton.’

Harry stared at her for a moment, but could read nothing of value in her expression. Finally she produced a smile, a peace offering of sorts.

‘I’ve gotta check out of my hotel. And I might run past your place one more time. In fact, give me your keys and I’ll pick up a change of clothes for you.’

‘And what am I meant to do in the meantime?’

‘Keep an eye out for their cars. Eat something. Try to relax a little.’

He snorted, as if the very idea was ludicrous.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there is one other thing you can do.’

A
couple
of minutes later he was standing in the car park, listening to the traffic thundering past on the A23. As he watched Ruth drive away he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being played for a fool. At the same time, it didn’t feel like he had much choice: there was no one else who could help get his wife and daughter back.

He looked down at his phone, the number keyed in and ready to go. He didn’t think much of the task she had given him, but decided it best to get it over with.

The phone rang eight or nine times, long enough for the jitters to subside. Just as he was about to cut the connection, a woman answered.

‘This is Keri. What can I do for you?’

‘Ah, Keri, hi. I, er, I wondered if I can see you some time?’

He was stammering, sweaty of palm and sixteen again, but the woman seemed unsurprised by that. Her voice was warm, friendly rather than seductive, and once again confounded his expectations. She sounded well-educated and intelligent, with a soft Midlands accent.

‘Well, I’m not available tonight. Tomorrow I can do twelve o’clock, midday.’

‘Midday? Right, okay, yes.’

‘An hour?’

‘Er, yes, please. Um, whereabouts are you?’

‘Thetford.’ A hint of suspicion audible in her voice. ‘How did you hear about me?’

‘A friend recommended you. Sorry, I’m new to this. I meant, where in Thetford?’

‘Not far from the centre. Look, you call again tomorrow, at eleven, to confirm the booking. Then I’ll text the address. Safety and discretion are important, for both of us.’

He could tell she was smiling, which at least meant she’d bought his story. That was something, even if he hadn’t managed to get a specific address. He thanked her and rang off, wondering if Ruth would regard his effort as a failure.

He’d know soon enough – assuming that she was coming back. It had crossed his mind that he’d already outlived his usefulness.

T
his particular Little Chef
, because of its proximity to Brighton, wasn’t one he’d visited before, but he was familiar enough with the chain. The dining room was quiet, with only half a dozen tables occupied, mostly by travellers in ones and twos. Harry gave them all a careful appraisal during the brief wait to be seated.

He chose a table by the window, where he could see if any suspicious cars came or went. Studied the menu and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, along with a coffee and some water.

It was mid-afternoon, the sky outside still bright but fading fast, in the poignant manner of late autumn. There wasn’t much traffic to monitor, and while he was glad of that, it soon made him restless. His mind kept drifting back to the early hours of Thursday morning, trying to analyse why and how his life had been turned upside down.

The answer, he knew, lay in their failure to notify the police. He tried to craft a different narrative, where he rolled out of bed and watched the van drive away and then called 999. Police cars raced to the scene but the men in the van, still loitering in the area, spotted the flashing lights and realised that Harry had disobeyed their instructions …

No good. How about: he and Alice got back to sleep, but in the morning they went to a police station and gave detailed statements. Except that Alice couldn’t bear the thought of describing the sexual assault, so they agreed beforehand to leave that part out. Then, while being interviewed separately, inconsistencies started to appear, and the police became suspicious …

Harry sighed. It was futile trying to re-imagine the past. For better or worse, this was the path they’d taken. There was no
Sliding Doors
scenario available to them here.

A second delivery, Alice had said. But what had possessed her to take the package across to number 43? If she’d phoned him at work, he could have come home and together they might have been able to plot a course of action; something that wouldn’t have led to all this … turmoil.

His food arrived. He ate with a fierce appetite, then ordered more coffee and tried to make it last. Time was beginning to drag, and it didn’t help that every few minutes he called Alice and got bounced to voicemail.

At first he thought better of leaving a message, but then he succumbed.

‘Alice, it’s me. I love you. Call me when you can, please.’ His voice was choking up; he struggled to finish: ‘We’ll get through this, Alice. I know we will.’