The Catch (13 page)

‘It was her innocence that made her so convincing, remember? She had no reason to lie, because she didn’t realise her brother was a dirty, unscrupulous ... grave robber.’

‘Hey, it was my bloody money in the first place!’

Dan took a deep breath. ‘You should be thankful Cate lied about not knowing us. Otherwise we’d be sitting in a cell right now.’

‘Except, like she said, they may come sniffing round at work, and then I could be in the shit.’ Robbie sighed, still looking to Dan for sympathy.

‘You’ve got no idea what you’ve done to your sister, have you?’

‘It was one little white lie ...’

‘They won’t let it go now. Cate told these detectives that she handed over three thousand quid. If they can’t find it, they’ll conclude that this wasn’t just a hit-and-run. So they’ll keep up the pressure on Cate, and they’ll also start looking at you. The missing money gives them a mystery. Your best hope of staying out of this is to remove that mystery.’

Robbie looked blank. Either he didn’t understand, or more likely he was pretending he didn’t.

‘How?’

‘You take it back,’ Dan said.

****

Robbie seemed genuinely astonished. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me?’

‘As if I’m in the mood for that.’

‘But you heard what Cate said. They’ll have searched the road by now.’

‘Yeah, and I heard what
you
said. It could have gone anywhere. They’ll think the search team missed it first time round.’

Robbie snatched up his glass, only to find it was empty. He glanced at the bar.

‘Uh-uh. You’re driving.’

‘You really are serious?’

‘Absolutely.’ Dan checked his watch. ‘You can’t go yet. Better to wait till about half-nine, ten.’

‘What if the cops are still there?’

‘You drive on past. Nothing suspicious about that.’

‘Look, Dan, it’s not that simple. There are people expecting that money back—’

‘You’ve spent it, haven’t you? One bloody day later and you’ve blown it already.’

‘Only a bit. About four hundred.’ Robbie’s voice was high-pitched with indignation. ‘One minute I was skint, the next minute I had three grand back in my pocket.’

‘So now you’re skint again?’

‘Yeah. I haven’t even got the four hundred.’

Dan could barely contain his fury. He knew exactly what Robbie was angling at. ‘How much
have
you got?’

‘I can scrape together a couple of hundred.’ He frowned. ‘And I threw the envelope away.’

‘Okay. So you get the two thousand eight hundred and an envelope. And I’ll loan you the other two hundred.’

Robbie nodded, still more aggrieved than grateful, until he caught Dan’s glare. ‘I’ll pay it back next week.’

‘Yeah. You will.’

‘I promise.’ Robbie slapped his chest, an oath of sorts. ‘Can you come with me? Be my point man ...’

Dan pulled a face, but he’d been half expecting the request. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Cheers.’ Robbie sat forward, his hand drifting towards the empty glass. ‘I was impressed by how well you held it together. Smooth as silk when she put us on the spot. A born liar, eh?’

‘I didn’t lie to her. I told her that I hadn’t let you drive, which is true. And I didn’t kill O’Brien.’

‘But you hit—’

‘You grabbed the wheel, Robbie. You’ll deny it till you’re blue in the face because that’s your style. But the fact is, I know you did it and so do you.’

‘I was mucking around,’ Robbie protested. ‘You don’t honestly think I meant to kill him, do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dan said. ‘I really don’t know.’

Jerry was in the shit, both literally and metaphorically, and it was all because of Stemper. Stemper – and the damn retainer.

The retainer was Jerry’s lifeline, and he couldn’t turn his back on it. He had sod all in the way of a pension: didn’t even want to think about how he’d fund a retirement that was conceivably only a few years away. He almost hoped he would die first, rather than end up alone and decrepit, mouldering in some filthy flat with ice on the inside of the windows, spooning cold baked beans out of the tin ...

The Blakes had brought him on board at a time when he was slipping into the final act of his patchy, eclectic career: still making a living, but only by jumping through hoops, and tiring fast.

He’d assisted a former Cabinet minister in writing his memoirs. Did book research for various politicians and through them landed PR duties for a quango or two. Some investigative work for a TV documentary, and then his journalism – rock and roll and classic cars, both of the vintage variety – but less and less of that once news went online and everyone expected to read it for free.

For a pittance, he still wrote book reviews: favourable ones for his mates or media people who might be useful to him; negative for everyone else, to demonstrate that he wasn’t a soft touch.

The Blakes turned all that into a sideline. Thirty grand a year, and all he had to do was be available when they needed him, for whatever it was they wanted him to do. Within reason, of course.

Within reason
. They had all used that phrase, in perfect agreement, but no one had ever spelled out what constituted ‘reason’.

You never do, in the salad days.

****

Bitching aside, Jerry accepted that tonight’s second task probably fell within those parameters. Tramping through mud in the cold and dark was far from pleasant, but it wasn’t like going hand-to-hand against the Taliban, either. And yet ...

There was a nagging sense of disquiet; almost fear at times, insubstantial but
there
. All he kept thinking, in his natty journalistic style, was that the retainer had provided a lifeline, but could yet end up as a noose.

He wasn’t normally this morbid, but then he didn’t normally have to contend with Stemper. That the Blakes would bring him in seemed grimly inevitable. And Stemper had something missing. Jerry could see that clearly, though it amazed him how many people failed to notice.

Jerry had first met him at a function organised by the Blakes. Stemper had been charming, even gregarious, and Jerry had watched him closely and known that it was an act: a brilliant performance that even managed to encompass flashes of humour. Jerry had met plenty of psychopaths in his time – at record companies, fashion houses, and of course Parliament – but he’d never encountered one who could fake a sense of humour.

Everyone said Stemper was excellent at his job, but nobody ever went into detail about precisely
what
he did, or
how
he did it. Instead there were euphemisms like ‘mission accomplished’, ‘a job well done’, ‘top-flight performance’. In the absence of solid information, Jerry could only let his imagination fill in the gaps.

He’d swear blind that tonight’s escapade was Stemper’s idea. And because the Blakes were so in thrall to him, they couldn’t see it was a complete waste of time. If he valued his dignity, Jerry knew, he ought to walk away now. Tell them where to stuff their retainer.

But thirty grand a year. If that vanished, so would Jen-Ling – and she was all that stood between him and those cold baked beans ...

Couldn’t risk that. He just couldn’t
.

****

The accident site was on a long country road with narrow verges, trees one side, a hedgerow on the other; nowhere to stop and pull in. It was a dry, clear evening with a few wispy streaks of cirrus, glowing white against the darkening sky.

Jerry reached the spot where Hank O’Brien had met his end. It was marked by a couple of signs, a semi-circle of plastic bollards and some crime scene tape fluttering between the trees. Jerry saw how easy it would have been to knock down a pedestrian on this stretch of road. Especially a tosser like Hank, probably marching along with his back to the traffic.

About two hundred yards further on Jerry found the entrance to a field, barred by a gate. A dirt track led across the field, roughly in the direction of O’Brien’s home. Perhaps this was the route he’d intended to take.

It was too conspicuous to park here. Knowing his luck, the bloody farmer would turn up on a tractor.

Swearing softly, Jerry did a clumsy five-point turn and drove back to the pub. His third time there today. For that reason he wouldn’t go inside, though he’d have liked to grab some peanuts or crisps. Maybe a quick Scotch to warm himself through.

The car park was nearly full, and he could sense the buzz of activity coming from within the pub. A lot to talk about, after last night.

He set off slowly, partly out of reluctance, partly because he needed the cover of darkness. He had a small rucksack containing water, a bag of Glacier mints, a notepad and pen, and the camera. There were also latex gloves and a hunting knife, just in case.

Once he was on the open road a mean wind seemed to spring up from nowhere. Jerry shivered. He’d put on a shirt, a fleece and a leather jacket. Thought that would be plenty, but it didn’t feel like it now.

‘Fucking Stemper,’ he muttered.

****

The idea of climbing a tree had a certain juvenile appeal: took him back to the halcyon days, playing Robin Hood and Davy Crockett with his pals in Battersea Park. And the branches might offer shelter from the wind.

But the trees, which from the car had appeared so dense and solid, were in reality thin and fragile and knotted together like wicker. They weren’t strong enough to bear his weight, and at ground level the foliage was too thin for concealment.

Jerry was forced to cross the road and squeeze through the hedge, almost directly opposite the accident site. In the fading light he failed to notice a stray bramble, which tore the skin from his forehead.

‘Shit!’ He burst into the field, only to tread heavily in a cowpat. Blood trickled down his face as he peered at the mess on his boot.

He dug around in the rucksack and found a crumpled napkin to stem the bleeding. Then he stumbled along the edge of the field, the earth soft and squishy, like walking on butter.

He stopped at a point where he could observe the road, perhaps thirty or forty feet from the accident site. He could hear the police tape vibrating in the wind with a
thoc thoc thoc
sound that made him think vaguely about boats, sailing, summertime.

He popped a mint into his mouth, telling himself to suck it slowly. Within a few seconds he forgot, crunching it down and praying his teeth would cope, given the cost of dentistry.

A few minutes passed before he thought to try the camera. It was a Canon, a simple point-and-shoot. He leaned through the hedge and snapped off a shot of the road. The flash bloomed like a tiny supernova and the shock made him reel back, nearly falling into the mud.

Shit
. He fumbled with the buttons, trying to switch the flash off, but none of the icons on the screen made any sense. Snarling and cursing, he came close to pitching the damn thing across the road.

A couple of cars passed before he’d worked out how to do it. His next practice shot was of a van, heading south. Jerry had to kneel in the weeds to get the right angle. He pressed the shutter, the camera at arm’s length and tilted diagonally. But the picture was useless, the van no more than a white blur in the darkness.

Without a flash, the exposure time was far too long. He’d never get the registration plates that way, and he was buggered if he was going to jump back and forth through the hedge to scribble down the numbers like some lunatic bloody trainspotter.

Jerry’s resentment was building with every minute. The Blakes shouldn’t have placed him in this position. It was downright demeaning.

That wimp Gordon. If he got his woman in line, instead of constantly deferring to her. Anyone could see that Patricia had the hots for Stemper, but Gordon seemed oblivious to it. And God only knew what Patricia saw in Stemper – the guy looking at them all like they were specimens on his laboratory bench.

Jerry shuddered.
What a waste of fucking time. No one’s gonna turn up
.

That thought went round and round in his head for the next hour, the way a song lyric would get lodged in his brain when he couldn’t sleep.
No one’s gonna turn up. It’s a waste of time. No one’s gonna turn up
.

And he went on believing it, with bitter conviction, until they turned up.

They held off and held off, but finally they had to go. It was Dan’s idea to keep waiting. He told himself he was doing the sensible thing, rather than delaying because he was scared. But the ever-present sense of foreboding gave the lie to that.

Before they left the pub, Dan had a second pint of lager. Robbie wanted another drink, but had to settle for a J20. He didn’t take kindly to that, nor to the reminder that Dan’s car still had to be sorted out.

‘If what Cate said is true, and they find paint from the Fiesta on his ...’

‘Yeah, all right. I’m dealing with it.’

‘Soon, Robbie. It has to be soon.’

‘I hear you, okay?’

Tired and irritable, they wandered through The Lanes in search of food. Ended up at a chain Italian. Dan ordered a pizza and ate it mechanically, each mouthful dropping into his gut like a stone. Another hour crawled past.

Robbie received a couple of texts during the meal. After reading the first one he snorted and put his phone down without a word. But the second one drew a sigh.

‘Who is it?’

‘Bree.’

It took Dan a second to place her. ‘You’re still fooling around with her?’

Robbie nodded. ‘Amazing in bed, but she’s getting clingy.’

‘If her husband catches you ...’ Dan realised what he was saying, and let it drop. After last night, he should know better than to caution Robbie about his behaviour.