Gone to Ground (33 page)

Switching on her radio, she listened to the local news: yet another survey had been published, asserting that Nottingham—taking into account murder, rape, robbery, gun crime, assault—was the most dangerous city in England and Wales in which to live. Lies, damned lies and statistics, the leader of the city council had retorted.

Well, he would, Lesley thought.

And yet, was it true, in her experience that the city was a dangerous place? Did she hesitate to walk alone at night? Compared to other cities she'd lived in, or knew—Derby, Cardiff, Manchester, Leeds—did she feel less safe?

The answer, in general, was no, she did not.

Turning right in front of County Hall and crossing the Trent, she continued along London Road, past the building where she worked, around the roundabout and left onto the road leading to High Pavement and Weekday Cross. Miracle of miracles, there was a parking place on the waste ground at the corner of Hollowstone Hill, and she swung the Peugeot into the space—tight, but just room enough—grabbed her bag, locked the car, and set off up the short hill on foot.

As she turned into Commerce Square, her foot slipped on the damp cobbles and her legs went from under her, but before she could hit the ground a hand reached out and grabbed her arm, hauling her upright.

"Thanks," she mumbled, turning, surprised, and as the grip on her elbow fastened, she was slapped hard across the face by an open hand. She screamed and a fist drove into her chest and as she doubled forward, too winded to cry out, the hand that had held her tugged at her bag, struggling to free it from her arm.

"Bitch! Leggo you fucking bitch!"

Blindly, Lesley clung to the strap of her bag all the harder and her attacker kneed her in the shoulder, kicked her in the ribs.

"Let fucking go!"

Two fortyish couples turned in from the street at the same time as a younger man exited from one of the buildings across the square.

"Hey!" one of the men shouted. "Hey!" And the younger man started to run to Lesley's aid.

The attacker swung one more blow in her direction and set off diagonally across the square, fending off the man trying to intercept him and disappearing down the narrow slope of Malin Hill, the sound of his boots on the cobbled stones echoing back into the dark.

"Here," one of the women said, leaning over Lesley. "Let me help you up."

"Leave her, Margaret," said her friend. "Let her sit awhile. Come to."

"Could've been a sight worse," one of the husbands said. "Didn't get away with anything, at least."

Lesley thanked them for coming to her assistance and assured them that a taxi to take her to accident and emergency was unnecessary. Between them they helped her to her feet, and two of the men insisted on walking her to her door.

"Sure you'll be all right?"

"Just a few cuts and bruises, I'll be fine. And thanks again."

She had only been indoors a few minutes, and was gingerly removing her clothes to inspect the damage, when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

Silence at the other end, save for the sound of someone breathing; someone breathing quite heavily as if perhaps he or she had just been running fast.

THE POLICE OFFICER WHO TOOK LESLEY'S STATEMENT was meticulous, polite, and young enough to make Lesley aware of every line in her face, every ache of her already aching body. He should be wearing, Lesley thought, as she watched him make another careful entry in his notebook, one of those signs some drivers have nowadays when they've just passed their test. Probationer: beware.

Having taken her through it all once, he did so again, in brief; just checking the salient points. Yes, her attacker had been white, tall, clean-shaven; yes, he had certainly been young, twenty-three, twenty-four at most. At this point she had given the officer a look and smiled and, catching her meaning, he had blushed.

Sweet, Lesley thought.

Would she recognize him again? Well, it had been getting dark, and she wasn't sure. But she thought she might. The officer checked the details, as far as Lesley had been able to remember, of what the man had been wearing. Jeans, boots, dark track suit top.

And his voice? She'd heard his voice?

"He called me a fucking bitch," Lesley said, and the officer blushed again. Where do they get them from? she thought.

"Was there anything distinctive about it?" the officer asked. "The way he spoke?"

"Not really. He sounded local, that's all. But not broad. You know, not strong."

"And you're positive you didn't know him? You hadn't seen him before? Hanging round?"

"Positive."

"This call, then. To your flat. Just after the incident, I think you said?"

"Yes, a couple of minutes, no more."

"And you thought it was the same person who'd attacked you?"

"Yes. That was what I thought then."

"But not now?"

"It's possible. I don't know."

"And you thought it was the same man because..."

"Because he was breathing heavily, as if he'd just been running. Running away, that's what I thought."

"Those kind of phone calls," the officer said, "men who don't identify themselves, there are other reasons for them breathing heavily."

And a blush came to his cheeks yet again.

Though it had taken her twice as long as usual to get there, and despite one side of her face looking like celery root, Lesley had presented herself for work on time, ready for the late shift starting at two.

Alan Pike's immediate response was to tell her for heaven's sake to get back home.

Stubborn, Lesley had refused. "There's no need."

"Look at yourself."

"Alan, it's radio. Not television. It doesn't matter how I look."

"You've been beaten up. You've been mugged."

"If everyone in this city who was mugged refused to turn in for work next day, the whole place would come to a standstill."

Pike had sighed and shaken his head and allowed her to stay. "Just as long as you're here, a personal response to the new crime figures, that wouldn't be a bad idea."

Lesley had phoned Helen at the hospital that morning to tell her what happened—Helen's last day there, she was being discharged that afternoon—and Helen had called Will, who had driven over to Nottingham as soon as he could get away.

When he arrived, asking for her, Lesley decided it was time to take a break and they sat outside on the steps, making the best of the weak sunshine, Lesley breaking her own rules and treating herself to a bar of chocolate and a can of Coke, Will with a cup of tea from the machine.

He listened attentively as she described her visit to Prince's house in the fens the day before.

"This housekeeper," Will said, when she was through. "She seemed genuinely concerned Prince shouldn't find you there?"

"Yes."

"Frightened, even?"

"Maybe not frightened exactly, but worried, apprehensive. More for Lily's sake, though, than for mine."

"You have any sense of why that was?"

Lesley broke off another piece of fruit and nut. "Because he wouldn't have wanted her talking to me? Answering questions? Because he was afraid of what she might say? I don't know." She popped the square of chocolate into her mouth. "It's as if he doesn't want her talking to anyone."

Will nodded.
Maybe he's afraid if too many people start digging around, sooner or later they're going to find out where the bodies are buried?
Helen's words came back to him, clear as day.

"If she was that concerned about Lily," Will said, "the housekeeper probably wouldn't have told him you'd been there."

"Agreed. But Lily could have said something herself. I got the impression she just came out with whatever crossed her mind, irrespective of the consequences. Besides which, there are the cameras."

"Cameras?"

"One behind the gate at the side, where people drive in, and another over the main door at the rear. There may even be more."

"They were switched on when you were there?"

"I suppose so, I really don't know."

Will leaned back and tried some more tea. Maybe he'd pressed the wrong button by mistake.

"You think there's a connection, then," Lesley said, "between me going there and what happened later?"

Will set the tea aside. "You go to this meeting, press conference, whatever, and Prince threatens you. What was it? Don't make the mistake your brother made? You try and track him down at his house, and afterward someone's broken into your flat and been through your things."

"I've got no proof of that. It could just have been my imagination."

"I know. But let's say for the moment your intuition was right. You've been asking questions, after all. And not taking no for an answer. Isn't that what Prince said about Stephen, where he went wrong?"

"Yes."

"So he wants to find out what, if anything, you know, what you've learned, and gets someone to search your flat—I doubt very much if he would have done it himself. Whoever it is goes through any papers, files, whatever's on your computer."

"He wouldn't have found anything."

"Which is maybe why he left you alone. Until yesterday."

Lesley was shaking her head. "I don't know."

Will smiled. "You were the one who thought Prince was behind everything."

"Yes, it's just..."

"How long was there between you leaving the house and returning home? A couple of hours?"

"At least."

"Plenty of time to set something up, assuming he knows the right people. Teach you a lesson."

"And Prince does? Know those kind of people?"

"Everything I've learned about him these last few days suggests that he does. Bribery, threats, intimidation, that seems to be how he works. When he feels he has to."

"He's been in trouble, then? With the law?"

"Not as much as he should have been."

Will levered himself to his feet and Lesley followed suit. "I owe you an apology," he said. "When you first came to us, I should have taken this more seriously. I should have had someone look at Prince right away."

Lesley held out her hand. "You'll let me know what's happening?"

"As much as I can. Only promise me one thing."

Lesley knew what he was going to say.

"Keep away from Prince and that place of his. Okay?"

Lesley smiled. "Okay."

Will went down to where he'd parked his car, and Lesley watched him drive away. She considered eating the last two pieces of chocolate before going back to work, but folded the paper back round them instead and dropped them down into her bag, pleased to have restored her self-control.

Michael Allen had moved from Worksop, but not far. Mansfield he was now, working three days a week in a charity shop just off the market square, volunteering two evenings at a homeless shelter. The rest of the time got filled in somehow, books from the library, occasionally something worth seeing at the Palace Theatre, nieces and nephews he liked to keep in touch with, holidays in Devon—the same spot, Paignton, he'd been going to now for years, a self-catering apartment overlooking the beach.

When first he'd relocated to Mansfield, one or two had approached him about standing for the local council, but he'd declined.
All that behind me now Done my bit. Retired.

When Will had phoned him, Allen had not been inclined to talk to him at all. But Will had persevered, and finally, his interest piqued, Allen had agreed. There was a room at the back of the shop where they could talk. Somewhere between half-past three and four?

Will crossed the square, weaving his way between stalls selling everything from fruit and vegetables to electrical goods and clothing that paid little or no heed to fashion.

Allen was repositioning some boxes of children's board games in the window when Will arrived, extricating himself carefully and, once Will had introduced himself, shaking his hand.

Mid-sixties, Will thought, certainly no more: a trim man, medium height, with thinning hair; gray trousers with a vestige of a crease, check shirt, a neat brown woolen slipover, polished brogues on his feet.

"If you'll just give me a few minutes," Allen said, "then we can talk."

Will browsed through several shelves of books, videos nobody wanted anymore, audiotapes of
Just William
and
Hancock's Half Hour,
a rack of men's shirts, striped most of them, each one more impossible than the last.

"Would you like something?" Allen asked when he reap-peared. "I can make coffee? Tea?"

Will said thanks, but he was fine.

The room they sat in was a storeroom with just space enough for the two folding chairs on which they sat, knees almost touching. Up close, he thought he might have been wrong about Allen's age and he was older than he'd thought. Sixty-nine? Seventy?

"All that business," Allen began uncomfortably, "it was a long time ago. I don't ... well, I don't think about it, it's all in the past." He was rubbing his hands along his thighs. "We move on, don't we? We move on."

"The last thing I want to do," Will said carefully, "is to bring up stuff that's going to make you feel uncomfortable. All I'm looking for really is a bit of clarification. Whatever went on in Worksop, the shopping centre business, the detail, that's immaterial."

He paused and Allen looked at him, apprehensive, concerned.

"Like you say," Will went on, "it's all in the past."

"Yes."

"It's just that, coming at things from something of a tangent, there are issues I'd like to feel clear about. Clearer than I am now."

"Issues?" Allen had ceased to rub his legs and was pressing his hands together at the same times as moving them round, finger over finger, thumb to palm.

"You put yourself forward to the Fraud Squad, claimed to have information about wrong doing. Whistle blower, I suppose we'd call it now."

"Yes, but..."

"I'm not sure how much evidence you actually produced, enough to persuade the Fraud Squad to investigate, certainly."

"Look..."

"And then you changed your mind, withdrew whatever accusations you'd made..."