The Power of One (12 page)

‘I've got the set-up clear now. It's going to look amazing. I just need to meet with the engineer and get the final positions worked out. Then get someone to write a narrative so we can hang everything together.'

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until his next set. Leaving Lucy to change for her next performance, he slipped along to the office to use the phone.

‘Got to be quick, Rina. Any news?'

‘Lydia and Edward are with Fitch. Mac has been over and we've exchanged stories. And yes, he was mad, but not too angry, I don't think. And he wants you to do something for him.' She gave Tim the names and the message.

‘Will do. Look, I'm likely to be a bit late back. Blake has some drawings to show me and we've a few things to discuss about the Christmas performance so don't worry. Better go.'

He glanced curiously at the names he had written down, then tucked them in a pocket he didn't use in his act and made his way back to the grand dining room, shifting focus from men with guns to diners eager to try and guess how his tricks were done.

I
t was ten o'clock by the time Mac had a full team assembled at the de Freitas' house. He had tried to keep things as low key as possible, but knew that the lights would attract a lot of attention, the position of the house just back from the road and perched high on the cliff making it difficult to be discreet.

DI Kendal joined him just as the CSI team arrived. ‘Who's getting charged the overtime on this?' Kendal wondered.

‘Maybe we should send the bill to the MOD,' Mac suggested. ‘After all, they are supposed to be giving us extra resources. Speaking of which, our friend Abe Jackson …'

‘Didn't answer his phone. I left him a voicemail. What do you make of him, Mac?'

‘Let's just say I'm reserving opinion on a lot of things,' Mac said. ‘Jackson included.'

They stood in the doorway, watching the CSIs in white overalls move carefully across the hall. Mac could see the broken table which Tim had used to attack the man who had been blocking their way out. He could see the telephone point at the foot of the stairs, but definitely no phone.

‘Let's go and sit in the car,' he suggested, ‘and I'll fill you in. Then we can decide what we'll tell Jackson when he gets here.'

Kendal was curious. ‘You mean our cooperation won't be full and frank?' he joked. ‘My car, then. I took the time to make coffee and Fliss packed some sandwiches. I've a feeling we're going to be here for a while.'

‘Fliss? Should I be congratulating you?'

‘Unfortunately, no. Unlike certain people I could mention, I'm still, shall we say, between relationships. Fliss is my big sister. She and her kids come down for a few weeks most summers, take over my house, have themselves a cheap holiday.'

It struck Mac just how little he knew about his colleague. Kendal listened as Mac told him about the phone call the de Freitas's had received, their subsequent flight and Rina's adventure. CSIs busied themselves near the gate, torches in hand, minutely examining the brickwork.

‘And the phone has disappeared,' Kendal mused. ‘That sort of implies that the message was purely for Edward and Lydia. Maybe there was something that Paul's killers didn't want anyone else to hear?'

‘Then why risk it being recorded?'

‘Seems they covered that risk pretty quickly. So our second man was called Ian.'

‘Or Paul knew him as Ian.' Mac stretched uncomfortably. Tired now and, frankly, bored, wishing he could just leave the forensic team to do their work and get home to bed. Or that, at the minimum, Miriam was among them. A couple of nights before, she'd have been on call as it was, but tonight she'd gone out with her sister and Mac didn't yet know if she'd go home or come back to the boathouse.

A call from one of the white overalls fetched them out of the car and over to the gate. They had found the bullet, lodged in the brickwork at what would have been the top of Tim's car. Battered and distorted from the impact, Mac would not have liked to guess at the calibre, but the sight of it horrified him as it was suddenly brought home just how close his friends had come to disaster.

‘We've got company,' Kendal said. ‘Mr Jackson himself.'

‘We just tell him there was a report of shots being fired,' Mac said. ‘And the de Freitas's are gone, we don't know where.'

Kendal's eyes narrowed and for a moment Mac thought he was going to argue. He could not have blamed him if he was. ‘Dave, I might not have told you any of this,' Mac said. ‘Let's pretend I'm withholding information from you as well.'

Kendal seemed to make up his mind. He nodded. ‘We'll keep it vague for now,' he agreed. ‘Our old friend the anonymous caller?'

‘Won't stand up to scrutiny but will do for now. You'll have to be the one that got it though. We close at six in Frantham. The anonymous caller would be wasting his breath.'

Kendal laughed, then nodded agreement. Abe Jackson, was out of his car now and headed their way.

A
s planned they had stopped at the services on the M5, close to Avonmouth. Fitch leaned against the Range Rover sipping his coffee and waiting for the others to come back from the toilets. Something nagged at the back of his brain, but he couldn't place what it was. It manifested as a feeling of vague unease, but he'd had this feeling before and it had never let him down. It was different from the anticipation and tension felt before combat. Different again from the kind of anxiety felt when you knew what the actual risks might be or the kind of stage fright or performance anxiety he had always experienced in his days working the door for Joy's father in one or other of his nightclubs; knowing he was on show, a prize exhibit, there to stop trouble before it started just by the force of his presence. And Fitch was a big man, a powerful man and right now a very twitchy man.

Relieved, he saw the three of them coming back, Joy chatting easily to Lydia, looking for all the world as though the two had been friends for years. Joy was like that, Fitch thought. She had a real talent for putting people at their ease and drawing them out of themselves. He was glad to see, though, that she was not so absorbed in the conversation to have forgotten to stay alert. Joy was more wary, these days. More conscious of potential danger and Fitch noted the way she walked, quickly and purposefully, keeping Lydia and Edward moving at pace between the cars instead of taking the clearer and quicker route via the road, her gaze shifting from side to side, even while she listened to Lydia.

She looked straight at Fitch as they came closer, inclined her head just slightly to the left. Fitch opened the doors, casually asking Edward if they'd found all they needed and were ready for the off.

His change of position allowed him to see what was bothering Joy. Two men in a red saloon, watching as they crossed the car park, their car paused but not parked close by the exit, as though they had halted, uncertain of where to go. He understood now why Joy had avoided the road.

Getting into the four-by-four, Fitch examined his options. The exit took them directly past the red car. A second lane, marked ‘fuel', veered off towards the petrol pumps and then on to another slip road.

Fitch started the engine, drove slowly towards this second lane, keeping the red car in view for as long as he could. As he turned into the filling station, Joy took over the observation, flipping her sun visor down and checking her hair. Outside, it was getting dark, the deep-blue black of the sky mitigated by the yellow sodium lights.

‘They're moving,' Joy said softly.

Fitch nodded.

He eased between the pumps, slowing as though preparing to stop, then, as though suddenly changing his mind, veered off towards the exit and accelerated away on to the slip road. The red car followed, also at speed. Not wanting to panic his passengers, Fitch accelerated steadily down the slip road, indicated, and prayed that whatever might be in his way would get out of it. Foot to the floor, he crossed on to the motorway, into the middle lane, past a line of lorries, finally settling down between a van and a family car. Three cars back he could see the red saloon.

Joy turned the radio on, and fiddled with the tuning. ‘You think?'

‘I think.'

‘How?'

‘They could have been waiting for us but … no. Too many possible services, too many possible routes. They're tracking us someway.'

He glanced once more in the rear-view. Not at the traffic this time, but at his passengers. Lydia had fallen asleep and Edward looked about to follow.

‘Their phones,' Fitch said. ‘Rina said that Lydia was in such a panic she even left her handbag behind. I'm betting her phone was in it.'

‘What do we do?'

‘For now? Nothing. Closer to home we call for reinforcements. For now, we don't stop again unless we have to get petrol, then we all keep together.'

Joy nodded, pale faced. Fitch knew she was remembering how her father had been killed. ‘Should we try and get off the motorway?'

‘I think we're safer on it than on some country road,' Fitch said. ‘We keep traffic between us and them. I should have made you stay home,' he added, suddenly furious with himself.

‘Hey, since when have you been able to make me do anything. Not even Mum can do that. Dad neither, when he was still here.'

She glanced behind to look at Lydia and Edward, who were now both asleep. The red car was now only two vehicles back.

I
t was after midnight by the time Tim started for home. The coast road, late at night, was usually deserted and, although it took a bit of concentration to drive it at any time, Tim knew it well enough to relax. He was halfway back to Frantham when he really became aware of the car that had been following. He'd noticed it a mile back, hoping it would dip its lights before it pulled behind him but thought little more about it. It was only as it began to close on him, and did not dip its lights, that Tim became at first irritated and then concerned. The headlights shone in his rear-view mirror, dazzling him whenever he tried to look behind. In the wing mirror he could see a dark car, glimpse the driver but the glare of the lights hid everything else. Tim was trying to figure out what was going on when the car suddenly pulled out from behind him and drew alongside. Just for a second, he relaxed. Better to have the idiot in front than tailgating, but the second of relief was all he got. The dark saloon swerved, broadsiding Tim.

Tim yelped. The dark car drew away, then clipped him again. Tim nearly lost control, the wheel torn from his grip by the sudden lurch.

When the car eased back for a third try, Tim acted. He accelerated away, surging out from between the car and the thick hedge that loomed beside him.

‘Deep breaths, deep breaths. What would Rina do?' Rina didn't drive. Tim kept his foot down, taking bends at a speed he normally would not even contemplate, counting on the hope that he knew this road far better than his pursuers. It dawned on him that they didn't want him dead. To kill someone on this road would be an easy thing, especially in a car much larger and heavier than his own. Ramming him hard enough to send him spinning off the road, shooting out the tyres, shooting him for that matter. Any of the above and a good many alternatives would do the trick. No, they wanted him alive. Tim did not find that the least bit of a comforting thought.

‘What to do? What to do? What the hell would Rina do?' That was it! Rina didn't drive.

Tim travelled this road most days, in all weathers and at all times. He knew it so well he could have done it blindfolded. There had to be a place where he could bale out of his car and hope to escape his pursuers. There were no lights and the night was pitch black away from the town. Tim thought hard. The other car was gaining on him, the road straightening out for a few hundred yards. Up ahead was a series of bends and …

Tim accelerated, he took the first bend at sixty, the second so hard he felt the back wheel lift. He undid his seat belt and on the third bend he accelerated again, swung the wheel and pulled as hard as he could on the handbrake. The car skidded in the road, the spin slowed only when it hit the hedge. Tim had the door open before it stopped, threw himself sideways and rolled into the line of trees that he had remembered ran parallel to the road. He landed hard, stumbled to his feet and ran, trusting that the engine noise would muffle his crashing and tumbling through the undergrowth, then threw himself to the ground and burrowed deep into a thicket of hazel and thorn.

He lay still, listening to the sound of the car engine, then the voices of the men, angry and frustrated. Beams of light darted between the trees. Tim crouched lower, closing his eyes and hiding his face in the dirt, blessing the fact that he'd not taken time to change after his act and he still wore the dark suit and black roll-neck that was his unassuming uniform.

He just had to wait. Just had to lie still and not move and wait until they went away.

He heard the car engine start up again. Lights flared and he realised they had turned the headlights of the car on to the little wood. Tim pressed even closer to the ground, wishing that he dared to wriggle deeper under the thicket but he could not, dare not move. He could hear his own heart pounding, the ground magnifying the pulse until it seemed to echo so loudly in his ears that he was sure the men would feel it, never mind hear the sound. His breathing was ragged and uneven; unsatisfying. He was light-headed, adrenaline pumping so hard through his body that he felt almost dissociated from it, as though his heart beat so hard it bounced him from the ground.

He could hear the men shouting, hear them crashing about in the undergrowth. Was aware of the light and shadows shifting as they crossed back and forth in the beam of the headlights. How long before they went away?

It seemed like forever. Tim tried to count, to focus on his breathing, to put himself somewhere else and not be there. Twice, their random search brought them within a few feet of where he lay. Twice, Tim was certain that he'd been discovered. He heard one of the men using his mobile phone, knew from his frustrated swearing that the signal was weak and kept dropping to nothing. They were asking advice, he guessed. No one had considered he might escape. Hearing the fury in the man's voice, Tim could only guess at the added beating he'd receive for having put them to such trouble. And that led to another thought, what the hell did they want to know. What did they think
he
knew and that in turn led to another worry. Rina. Whatever they might think he knew, chances were, they'd assume that she did too.