Turning Point (18 page)

‘I heard petrol bombs – told people were hurt.'

The ambulance driver shook his head. ‘Nothing serious bar this lad. Nasty crack on the head. My mate's checking the crowd. We were lucky this time.'

‘A petrol bomb? Is that what blew up my bike?' Once again, Scott felt fingers rifling through his hair. Automatically, he pulled away.

‘Hurts, does it?'

‘A bit of a headache, that's all.'

Ignoring him, the doctor pulled a small torch from his briefcase. ‘Cover your left eye.' A narrow beam searched his right eye. ‘Now the other.' He snapped the torch off. ‘I think he's fine – but you'll ache like the very devil tomorrow.' He smiled down at Scott. ‘And it's not wimpish to admit you've got a massive headache. Your headgear says it all.' He nodded in the direction of the flattened helmet. ‘Take two of these now, and I'll leave you some for later. Officer?' A police officer standing nearby looked up. ‘He's all yours but I want him checked every couple of hours.'

The officer nodded. ‘In you go, lad.' He pointed to a second police van – half empty. ‘Don't look so worried – we do this all the time and we never lost a client yet.'

He grinned cheerfully at the paramedic inside the police van. A girl in her twenties, she was dishing out painkillers and plasters to a row of youths, sporting cuts and bruises.

Nervously clutching a handful of foil-wrapped painkillers and a cup of water, Scott climbed awkwardly into the van, his back protesting loudly with every movement. A hand flew out, helping him up the steps.

‘You hurt?'

Scott recognised the guy that had led the chanting. He had pulled off his mohican and it sat forlornly on his lap, like a cat that has fallen into a river, its spikes reduced to question marks. His own hair had been layered with clippers creating a pattern across the crown of his head and leaving a long back and sides, lank greasy strands falling down over his face.

‘Got a bad crack on the head,' the police officer answered cheerfully. ‘What's ye name, lad?' He pulled out a clipboard.

‘Ss… er… er…' Scott fumbled for the card in his pocket, and pulled it out. ‘Travers Randall,' he muttered, averting his eyes from the officer's gaze.

The young guy whisked the card from Scott's outstretched hand, examining it intently before handing it back. ‘Never seen one of them before. New, are they?'

Scott hesitated, uncertain how to answer.

‘'Ere, take the weight off.' The guy smiled in a friendly fashion and flapped his wig at the officer in charge, who had moved on still recording names. ‘He's local. They're generally okay. It's the bastards from county you want to watch out for.' He held up the remains of the loud-hailer, its edges flat and bent out of shape. He gazed at it ruefully. ‘Made the mistake of beltin' one of them rioters on the head with it.'

Scott leaned back against the side of the vehicle and closed his eyes, his head throbbing. Nervously, he fingered the plastic card in his pocket, wishing Travers had kept it. If he was caught with a phoney ID it would only make matters worse. Besides, it was Travers' finger prints that were recorded on it – not his. Waves of misery blasted in behind his headache. A week ago they'd been happy – looking forward to Switzerland. Now, there was nothing. He leant forward and, wrapping his head in his arms, gulped back his tears.

‘No need to worry, mate, they'll let ye go. You ain't done nothin'.'

Scott peered through his eyelids at the guy next to him, the loud-hailer still gripped in his hands, his dark eyes friendly.
Let him go.
He had to be joking. He was Scott Anderson, masquerading with forged documents and wanted for murder. And he'd just taken part in a riot. Who would believe him after that? He huddled deeper into his seat, ignoring the conversation around him. At the edge of the darkness, he spotted a kernel of light and reached out for it. At least, in a police station surrounded by rioters, he should be safe.

True to his word, Travers had rolled out of bed on the Saturday morning at eight, early for him and, by dint of threatening Natasha with
dire consequences
if she didn't get up immediately, managed to get them both out of the house by nine, collecting Mary on the way into Falmouth.

Mary, an only child of elderly parents, lived in a small Victorian villa and a bigger contrast between the two family homes it was impossible to find. Built around the turn of the twentieth century, when house building was in its prime, it had offered an inside bathroom and toilet – an unbelievable luxury in those times and greatly envied, especially by the less well-off who were forced to make do with a WC at the end of the garden. Over the following century, its solid construction had survived both the bombing in the Second World War and modernisation, although new drainpipes and double-glazing had been fitted, and it remained solid and enduring despite being unpretentious. The Randal house, by contrast, was a product of the twenty-first century. Built on a large parcel of land overlooking the river Fal where it flowed into the bay, it had been chosen for its mooring and the sea-going cruiser was usually to be found tied up at the end of an equally large garden. By force of habit, Travers' gaze focussed on the river when he got out of bed but the mooring remained empty, his father not yet returned from his trip to France.

‘Mum's going spare,' he replied in answer to Mary's question as to his father's whereabouts. ‘Dad'll be for the high-jump when he does appear.'

‘But he's always off somewhere, Trav,' Natasha butted in. Like all the Randal family, things came easy when she applied herself. Like Catherine Randal she was tall and willowy, and modelling school had been glad to accept her – earmarking her as a supermodel of the future. She was also a good driver, when she wasn't chatting on the phone and, more than once, Travers had to refrain from grabbing the wheel as the Range Rover headed, at what seemed unstoppable speed, for the car in front.

‘I wish you'd get off the phone,' he grumbled. ‘It's dangerous and stupid, especially in a town.'

‘I was talking to Gladys.' Natasha snapped the phone shut, dropping it back into the open mouth of her handbag. ‘She says that Scott is probably still asleep on her sitting-room floor but she met Hilary on the way out.'

Travers heaved a sigh. ‘Thanks, sis, I was that worried, it nearly kept me awake.'

In the back seat, Mary gurgled. ‘I assume, Tash, that since you've known Travers since birth, “almost staying awake
”
counts as ten out of ten on the worry scale.'

Natasha eyes flashed to the rear mirror, smiling.

‘No use you two ganging up on me,' Travers retorted indignantly. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. And it makes good sense to leave the worrying to someone else. Besides, I did try and check in with Scott this morning to see how he was but his phone was switched off, so I guessed he was still sleeping.'

‘It's unbelievable,' Mary said. She leaned forward and placed a hand on her boyfriend's shoulder. ‘I wish Mr Randal was back – he must know someone who could unravel this mess.'

‘I agree – Scott was a real state last night. You could see the suffering plain as plain. I don't suppose you caught the local news, Trav?'

Travers shook his head. ‘You know me. I never listen to bad stuff before breakfast. Why?'

‘They found a body… '

‘At the cottage? Oh my God!' Mary gasped. ‘You don't think… his dad…'

‘I don't know what to think. From what Scott said – could anyone have survived that firestorm? Hilary said Scott is blanking her – refusing to talk about it. I mean, what if it is his dad? Mum's practically a basket case already and dad's only been missing twelve hours. It's not like her to panic. But a whole gang of media guys have been invited for brunch tomorrow and she doesn't know whether to cancel or keep hoping he shows in time. But she's definitely…' Natasha broke off. ‘Did you say Upton Street, Mary?'

‘Twenty-two Upton Court.'

‘Okay, this is Upton Street, so I guess it's along here somewhere. Yes!' Natasha indicated left, pulling to a stop in a red-brick courtyard, fronting a collection of two and three-storey townhouses; a
For Rent
sign pinned to the ground-floor window of two of them.

‘Let me go, Travers.' Mary opened the rear door. ‘I'm not as intimidating.'

Travers wound down the window in time to see the door open and a woman in her early sixties, her iron-grey hair neatly curled, come out onto the doorstep.

‘I thought you were the postman,' she said to Mary. ‘Can I help?'

‘Are you Mrs Davis?'

‘Yes, and you are?'

‘A friend of Wesley's from school.'

‘Oh!' The woman took a step backwards as if surprised. ‘I'm sorry, you've just missed him. He's gone back to London.'

Travers opened the door and jumped out. ‘For the weekend?'

‘No, permanently.'

‘So you're not his mother?' Travers demanded belligerently.

‘
I beg your pardon?
' the woman retaliated, her tone fierce. Her hand curled round the edge of the door, ready to shut it.

Mary kicked him. ‘Sorry, Mrs Davis,' she smiled her words. ‘My boyfriend got out of bed the wrong side this morning. We said we'd give Wesley a lift to the station to save him struggling with his suitcase on the bus. What a shame. What train did you say he was catching?'

Automatically, as if wearing a timetable on her wrist, Mrs Davis glanced down at her watch. ‘I didn't.' Her tone cut the air like a knife. ‘How extraordinary, after months without friends suddenly three turn up on the doorstep. What did you say your names were?'

‘We didn't,' Travers said abruptly, drowning out Mary's response. He pushed her towards the open door of the Range Rover. ‘Get in.' He slammed the door, turning with a ready smile on his face. ‘Don't worry; we'll catch him at the station.'

‘I wouldn't bother. You'll be too late.' She spoke confidently, once again checking her watch.

Natasha swung the heavy vehicle swiftly round in a three-point turn. She waved her arm at the woman still carefully watching from the doorway, and called, ‘Thanks!' through the open window, before speeding back the way they had come.

‘Anyone find that conversation a bit odd – or was that just me?' Travers buckled his seat belt. ‘If you want to break the speed limit, sis, I'll ride shot gun and look out for coppers.'

‘No problem.' Natasha shifted into fifth gear, the engine responding smoothly. Spray flew into the air from the wet roads as they pounded along between rows of garish hoardings advertising mobile phones, retracing their route back through the centre of town. Not many people were about, the sudden squalls keeping pedestrians to a minimum.

‘Odd, in that you thought he lived with his parents?'

‘Mr and Mrs Davis, yes,' Mary said. ‘It's on his school record so why…'

‘Absolutely, Mary, bull's-eye!'

‘Will someone explain?' Intent on the traffic ahead, Natasha's face took on a bewildered expression. ‘Mary might understand your code but I don't.'

‘It's quite simple. Wesley arranges an interview for Jameson. Jameson disappears. Scott questions Wesley. Wesley disappears.'

‘And the woman at the door had the same name but she wasn't anybody's mother,' Mary added. ‘She might have been once – but she was old, like someone's grandmother. And did you notice how her manner changed. She was all friendly at first.'

‘That could have been meeting up with Travers. He does tend to be full-on.'

‘Come off it, sis. I wouldn't hurt a fly, you know that. Another thing, she took our number. I saw her watching as we turned into the main road. Put your foot down, Tash. If we miss him at the station, we'll pick him up in Truro. He has to change there for the London express.'

‘Right!' Natasha accelerated, the heavy vehicle leaping the orange traffic light. ‘I agree, if we're to help Scott we need answers and, after what you've just said, I can't help feeling Wesley knows more than he's letting on.' She swung the vehicle round an island, its neatly dug beds of earth waiting for the spring. ‘I wish Dad were here.'

The single-track line from Truro to Falmouth earned its keep in the summer when thousands of visitors flocked to the area to explore its fine beaches and walks. For twelve years, the threat of radiation had reduced outings to the seaside to a single-day affair; even then few people had ventured into the water for fear of contamination. Now, with beaches and rivers at a safe level, tourism was once again the main industry in the town, with cruise liners visiting its deep-water harbour. As yet, though, nothing had been done to update the century-old station, giving passengers the choice of waiting on the platform or in an apology of a waiting room. Dingy, its windows smeared with salt spray, it boasted an out-of-order vending machine and half-dozen plastic chairs, which had been bolted to the floor, its only source of heat placed high-up on the wall out of reach of vandals. From time to time, an attempt had been made to smarten it up with brightly coloured posters of the region but these were instantly reduced to pornographic message boards.

Before even the Range Rover had come to a stop, Travers was out charging into the building in the exactly the same way he charged down a rugby pitch – at full pelt – with Mary racing after him. Natasha switched off the engine, flicking the button on the key fob to lock the vehicle before following. They came to an abrupt halt, the diesel locomotive with its two carriages already in the station.

‘Start that end,' Travers bellowed peering into the end carriage. ‘Got him!' Flinging a quick glance at the station master, who was standing by the train whistle and flag in hand, Travers yanked the door open and dived in. He reappeared, carrying a suitcase in one hand and dragging the struggling figure of their schoolmate in the other.

‘Left without paying his bill,' he called out to the station master who had taken an anxious step towards them.

‘Want me to call the police, sir?'

‘Don't bother.' Travers smiled reassuringly. ‘Mum only wants to be paid. He can wait and catch the next train. Can't trust anyone these days.' He glared down at the squirming figure. ‘Not a word, if you know what's good for you,' he growled.

‘You don't understand,' Wesley gasped out over the strangle-hold on his collar. ‘They'll kill me if I say anything.'

‘I doubt that and you're staying – so get used to it,' Travers muttered, watching the train glide into movement. The station master, after casting yet another suspicious glance in their direction, vanished into the booking office and shut the door behind him.

‘We'd better go – he's bound to call the police,' Mary said timidly.

‘Might be a good thing if he did,' Travers agreed. ‘All this cloak and dagger stuff is doing my head in. Why are you running away?'

Wesley glared defiantly and his small eyes narrowed even further.

‘You might as well tell us because you're not leaving till you do.' Travers dragged the still struggling figure over to the Range Rover and manhandled him into the back seat. ‘You go in the front, Mary,' he said passing over the suitcase. ‘And dump that in the back.'

‘Wesley,' Mary patted his hand in a friendly fashion. ‘I'm sorry you missed your train, but we need you to tell us where Jameson is. Everyone's worried to death.' She unlatched the rear compartment hoisting in the suitcase before climbing in beside Natasha.

Natasha turned the ignition, switching on the windscreen wipers as a rainstorm blew in from the sea. ‘Which way?'

‘Somewhere quiet. The beach, it'll be deserted.'

‘Jameson's fine.' Wesley glared defiantly. ‘I told Scott. Ask him, he knows where he is.'

He flinched back into the upholstery Travers' fist an inch from his nose. ‘You're lying.'

‘No! Ask him. Ask Scott.'

‘It was Scott that sent us,' Travers said calmly.

Mary flashed a worried glance at Natasha. ‘I think we should go and have a chat with Sergeant Halliwell,' she said, naming the local police officer. ‘He'd be very interested in talking to you, Wesley, particularly since you arranged Jameson's interview and he hasn't been seen since.'

‘Okay!' Wesley's eyes flashed. ‘But you've just made one hell of a big mistake. When my boss hears about it, you'll be the one with a fist in your face and I'll be laughing.'

The coast road was empty except for dog-walkers braving the sudden squall. Natasha pulled to a halt. ‘I think we'll risk it.' She turned round. ‘My brother is a kindly soul and he'd think twice about kneeing a guy where it hurts most. I wouldn't… and I can spot a lie at ten paces.'

Mary glanced admiringly and bit her lip to stop from laughing as the older girl winked at her.

‘Okay, then. I'm not sixteen,' Wesley spat out. ‘I'm almost eighteen and for the last two years I've been a recruiting officer for a top European force – very hush-hush. Only a few people know about them.'

‘Is that why you move about?' Mary guessed.

‘Yes, I stay six months checking out the local area…'

‘So why did you pick Jameson?'

‘Because! He's totally brilliant with computers, which is what they want. He'll be trained up and earn shovel loads of money. He's lucky. I was only ever employed to recruit.' The boy's tone sounded genuinely envious.

He had to be telling the truth, Mary thought. ‘But why the secrecy and why did Jameson go without telling his family. It doesn't make sense.'

‘That's the price you have to pay. It's a secret task-force, I told you. Stands to reason – it wouldn't be secret if everyone knew about it,' he said, his tone shrill.