The Retribution (36 page)

Time to make the most of it.

As usual when he was thinking, time had slipped past Tony without him noticing. He’d only realised how late it was when his stomach rumbled in protest at having missed out on breakfast and lunch. There were various tins and packets in the cupboards in the galley, but he couldn’t be bothered cooking at the best of times and today didn’t qualify as one of those. So he locked up and went ashore. He considered the pub but rejected the idea. He wasn’t ready for other people, not even strangers.

A few redbrick streets away, he found the perfect solution in a corner chippie. He hurried back to
Steeler
with a fragrant parcel of cod and chips so hot it nipped his fingertips. The prospect of something good to eat reminded him to hold on to the idea that not everything was shit.

He turned on to the pontoon where his boat was moored and stopped in his tracks. A familiar figure was standing on
Steeler
’s stern, leaning against the cabin with arms folded, thick blonde hair ruffled by the wind. For a moment his spirits lifted, grabbing at the possibility of a reconciliation. Then he made a proper assessment of her body language and accepted Carol wasn’t here to bury the hatchet and explore how they could best move forward together against Vance.

If that was the case, he had to wonder what she was here for. Standing staring wasn’t going to answer that question. Warily, as if fearing a physical attack, Tony walked down the pontoon till he was level with the boat. ‘There’s probably enough for two,’ he said.

Carol took the olive branch and snapped it across her knee. ‘I’m not planning on staying long enough to share a meal,’ she said.

He pulled a plate out of the rack and unwrapped his fish and chips, tipping them on to the plate. As she came gingerly down the steps, he backed into the main cabin and shoved his papers and laptop to one side so he could eat. He pulled a can of Coke out of his coat pocket and set it beside his plate. ‘Some would say this is more my style than what I’ve just lost,’ he said.

‘I heard about the house,’ Carol said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too. I know it’s trivial compared to Michael and Lucy, but it still hurts. So I have paid a little for my stupidity.’ He tried not to sound bitter. He could see from the narrowing of her eyes that he’d failed.

‘I didn’t come here to beat you up for letting them down.’ She leaned against the galley, arms folded, her pain obvious. So many times he’d imagined her here, daring to indulge little fantasies of them going out for a run on the narrowboat like normal people did. Who was he kidding? They weren’t normal, either of them. Even if they got out of this alive, they weren’t going to turn into the kind of pensioners who pottered around the canal system painting kettles with castles and roses and discussing which pub on the Cheshire Ring did the best steak pies.

Tony popped a chip in his mouth and gasped as the hot potato burned his mouth. ‘Wah! That’s hot!’ He chewed it, mouth open, till it was cool enough to swallow. ‘Sorry.’ Hapless grin, little shrug. Who did he think he was kidding? He’d never had the kind of charm to get out of trouble, least of all with Carol. ‘So why did you come and find me?’

Carol slammed the papers down on the table. ‘How can you be bothered with this? How can you give a shit about some weird fuck killing prostitutes when Jacko Vance is out there? You’re in his sights, just like I am. You should be working with Ambrose and Patterson, trying to find Vance, not fucking about here with something that is none of your business.’ She was shouting now, her voice shaking with tears he knew she would do anything to avoid shedding. ‘Clearly you don’t care about me, but don’t you care about yourself?’

Tony stared defiantly at her. ‘Actually, you’ve got that the wrong way round. I probably don’t care enough about myself, but I really do care about you. And Vance knows that. That’s probably why Chris is in hospital right now.’ Even as the words crossed his lips, he cursed his own stupidity.

Carol looked as if he’d slapped her. ‘Chris is in hospital? This is the first I’ve heard about it. What the hell happened to her?’

Tony couldn’t meet her eye. ‘She went to fetch Nelson instead of Paula. Vance got into your flat and booby-trapped the cat-food bin. She got a face full of sulphuric acid.’

‘Oh my God,’ Carol said faintly. ‘That was meant for me.’

‘Yes. I think it was. To make you suffer more and to make me suffer too.’

‘What— How is she?’

‘Not good.’ There was no easy way round the truth now he’d opened the door on it. ‘She’s lost the sight of both eyes, her face is terribly burned and they’re scared about her lungs. She’s in a medical coma to keep her stable and pain-free.’ He reached out for her but she flinched away. ‘We didn’t tell you because we thought you had enough to contend with.’

‘Christ,’ she said. ‘This just gets worse. What are you doing now? Why aren’t you working on Vance?’

‘I used to think you could,’ she said, her face crumpling. She bit her lip and turned away from him.

Tony’s mouth smiled but the rest of his face didn’t follow its lead. ‘You can fool some of the people some of the time … I’m sorry, Carol. I really am. If it makes you feel any safer, I think he’s going to go for hurting Micky next. That probably means Betsy’s the one at risk. Alvin’s done a big production number with the local police, they’ve got armed protection at their place.’ He poked his food with his finger, appetite gone. ‘I don’t know what else we can do. And yes. I’m bloody terrified of what he’s got planned.’

‘Ironic, isn’t it? We’re protecting the woman who enabled Vance’s criminal career all those years. Their fake marriage facilitated him abducting and imprisoning and torturing and raping and killing young women. And you and me, the ones who stopped him, we’re the ones who have lost. She’s going to walk away unscathed again,’ Carol said, anger taking over. ‘It’s so unfair.’ She slumped into the big leather swivel chair opposite him, running out of energy at last.

‘I know. But at least you’re safe here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think he knows about this place. I think he’s had someone investigating our lives, watching where we go and what we do and who we see. Those hidden cameras in the barn—’

‘What hidden cameras? Why wasn’t I told about this?’ She managed to summon up her last reserves of outrage. ‘And how the hell did you know?’

‘The techs discovered them while I was still there. Didn’t Franklin tell you?’

‘Franklin tells me about as much as you do, as it turns out.’

‘He was watching them?’

‘He picked his moment. When they were least likely to notice him walking right up to them.’

‘Bastard,’ she said. She closed her eyes and dropped her head in her hands.

‘There’s a cabin up front,’ Tony said. ‘Nice bed. Arthur liked his comforts. You could catch a couple of hours’ kip before you actually fall over.’

She shook herself, stood up and promptly sat down again. ‘Whoa. Haven’t got my sea legs yet. Thanks but I need to—’

‘You don’t need to be anywhere. Your team in Bradfield know how to run an operation. Alvin Ambrose and Stuart Patterson need some space to prove themselves to you before you’re really their boss. If they do need you for anything, someone will call you.’ He’d never tried harder to make her trust him. Even if it was only until she was awake again, it was worth the effort.

Carol looked around, considering. ‘What about you? You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?’

‘I never sleep,’ he said. ‘Why would one more night make any difference?’ It wasn’t strictly true. The terrible sleep patterns of most of his adult life had succumbed to the calm of Arthur Blythe’s house. It was one of the reasons he’d loved it so much. But he’d never told anyone, and he couldn’t tell her now. It would feel too much like a desperate reach for pity. ‘Go and sleep, Carol. You can fall out with me all over again when you wake up.’

By late afternoon, he had a quad bike on a trailer attached to his SUV. From the same farm shop he’d bought a massive sack of specialist stud feed cubes. How ironic was that, a pair of lesbians running a racing stud? At least it made dressing the part easier. He’d also bought a quilted green gilet, a lambswool sweater, a tweed cap and a pair of riding boots. He was all set.

Two miles from Micky’s farm, he pulled off the minor road on to a track that led through a patch of woodland. Once he was out of sight of the road, he unloaded the quad bike then unhitched the trailer and turned the SUV round, ready for a quick getaway. He changed into his disguise, trimming his moustache into a narrow toothbrush and replacing his Patrick Gordon glasses with a pair of goggles. He loaded the sack of feed nuts on to the back of the quad bike, on top of his fire kit, and started it up.

Vance could feel his heart pounding as he approached. He was taking far more of a risk than he enjoyed. But he was determined to make Micky pay for what she’d done to him. He’d thought of leaving her alone for a while. Wait till the police got tired of keeping an eye on her. Let her fear and fret for months, never knowing when he’d come for her. There would be a certain satisfaction in that. But what he wanted more than that was to get away clean and free. He didn’t want to have to come back to the UK once he’d left. He wanted to be done with his retribution. Pay the bills and walk away.

So here he was, motoring towards Micky’s perfect bloody life. He hoped she was enjoying this last evening of peace.

As the shadows lengthened, he made his way through the final gate and drove towards the barn. One of the stable lads came round the end of the block as he approached and flagged him down. ‘Micky asked me to drop off these stud nuts,’ Vance said casually, his accent as upper crust as he could make it. ‘What’s going on? The place is bloody crawling with police.’

‘You know that bloke Vance that’s escaped from prison? Him that’s on the run?’ He sounded Irish, which was perfect. He couldn’t know all the neighbouring landowners the way a local would. ‘He’s Micky’s ex. He’s threatened her with all sorts, apparently.’

Vance gave a low whistle. ‘That’s hard luck. Tough on Micky. And on Betsy too, poor old thing. Anyway, I better stick these in the barn like I said I would.’

The lad frowned. ‘That’s not our usual brand.’