Hot Pursuit (9 page)

He turned to look back at the TV screen, even
though the action had moved on to an advert for Alpen, while something dark and cold slithered down from his brain to his belly.

‘Oh my God, no,’ he whispered thickly. It was the closest Bernie had said to a prayer in a long, long time. The gasmen.

He had stolen James Cook’s identity, an identity that was presumably already earmarked for someone else. Someone who needed to be hidden, someone whose life was at risk, someone who needed to be anonymous. What was it those men had asked him first this morning? Bernie felt the cold thing in his belly slither round and contract into a curled fist.

‘Are you James Cook?’ That’s what they had said. ‘
Are you James Cook
?’ He replayed the words over and over in his mind and, at that moment, Bernie knew without a shadow of a doubt that the two of them had been carrying guns and only by some miracle had he escaped being shot. But worse – much, much worse – was the realisation that because of him the men were probably already on their way to Maggie’s cottage looking for the man who really should have been James Cook.

Bernie swallowed hard. Scamming was one thing but this was way out of his league. He might be a thief, a con man and a first-class bloody liar but Bernie Fielding was no killer, and if he didn’t do something soon he might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

Galvanised into action, Bernie picked up his new mobile phone, eyes still firmly fixed on the TV screen. He called directory enquiries and then dialled Maggie’s number. At first when it rang Bernie felt a great sense of relief, and then as it rang on and on it was replaced by a terrible sense of dread. What if the two men had already found Maggie and the boys?

Bernie shuddered, his heart skipping a beat as a wave of nausea rolled through him. It was too awful to contemplate. Surely someone would have seen the advert and realised their mistake. Someone would help, surely? Mind racing, Bernie hurried into the bedroom and started to collect his things together. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was planning to do but he knew that he had to do something and he had to do it fast.

Picking up the keys to the 2CV, Bernie raced out of the caravan. As he got to the car park he was suddenly aware that a police car had pulled up alongside his car and two uniformed officers were busy giving the canary-yellow Citroën the once-over.

‘Oh bugger,’ hissed Bernie and, head down, hands in pockets, he moved off between the caravans, trying hard not to attract attention, and headed for the village.

In West Brayfield Maggie was reversing the Golf out of her driveway. Over the fence Mrs Eliot was
smiling and waving them all off with a hankie. The branches of the bay hedge that Maggie had planned to prune scraped past the window and ground noisily over the roof.

‘What did you say to her?’ asked Nick, fastening his seat belt.

‘That we’d got to nip down and sort something out at the beach hut. A minor emergency but nothing that she need worry about. I told her that I’d ring and let her know if we were going to be more than a day or two.’

Nick pulled a face.

‘Oh come on,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s my friend as well as my neighbour. I had to tell her. I couldn’t just do a moonlight flit without saying something, that really would worry her.’ Maggie looked at his face and added. ‘Please, Nick, stop panicking. It will be all right, she only knows that the beach hut is somewhere down in Somerset – if I didn’t tell her some yarn or other she’d probably ring the police and cause all sorts of fuss. Relax.’ Maggie let the clutch out and the car eased across the weedy gravel. ‘And besides her memory is terrible these days.’

‘So
are
we going back to the beach hut, then?’ asked Ben, hanging over the back of the seat.

‘No,’ said Maggie.

‘No?’ repeated Ben.

‘No,’ said Maggie, ‘now sit down, put your seat belt on and be quiet. You’re going to Grandma’s.
I’m taking Nick –’ she hesitated, wondering what to tell them.

‘Home,’ said Nick decisively, without meeting her eyes.

‘Home,’ Maggie nodded. If only she was half as certain.

‘So why did you tell Mrs Eliot that we were going down to the beach hut, then?’ said Joe.

Stumped, Maggie glared at the two of them. Joe glared right back. ‘You said that you would take us to the zoo tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You promised.’

Meanwhile, in the hotel room near the airport, Nimrod was waiting for the next part of the puzzle to slot into place; he was waiting for the call that would tell him what happened next. He’d slipped his gun, still in its holster, under a pleat of sheet on the bed so that the butt was no more than a heartbeat away. These days he felt naked and vulnerable if it wasn’t close by. Gunmetal is cold in a way no other thing ever is and has a smell that once experienced is never forgotten – a combination of the oil and cordite that settles down deep into the mind, and that if not truly present is always there in the imagination or at least Nimrod’s imagination.

Nimrod and Cain were both experts at their craft – cold, accurate, unflinching. They could strip their weapons down and reassemble them
blindfolded in a matter of seconds. The weapons the two men carried, manufactured by Heckler and Koch, were familiar, trustworthy tools that fitted as naturally into their hands as the chisel of a master carpenter or the trowel of a bricklayer. Like any other tools, over the years they had become more like an extension of their personalities.

Sitting on the room’s only armchair, Nimrod felt a familiar soft glow in the palm of his hand. It was sign – a portent. They couldn’t do anything now without further orders but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the call came. He had phoned the Invisible Man with what they knew and now they had to wait. Waiting was always the worst part; it made him tetchy, itchy and prone to throwing things. Mostly tantrums.

Across the room, Cain flicked backwards and forwards through the channels. ‘So, do you still want to watch
Gotcha
when it comes on, then? It’s always a bit of laugh, and maybe we’ll get some more information on our man, Nick Lucas, or whatever his name is now. Bloody funny that he showed up on there, eh? Fancy him being a con man, eh? Who would have thought it.’ Cain shook his head. ‘You’d think he’d be straight as a die. Bloody amazing. Just goes to show you never can tell.’

Nimrod nodded. Across the room the titles for
Gotcha
were already rolling. He had been running
through another checklist that began with two pairs of latex gloves and a soft pair of black leather ones to cover them. Without the latex it was possible that the leather would eventually give a print as clear as if he wasn’t wearing gloves at all. Besides, Nimrod had always enjoyed the tight, slightly hot and sweaty feel of latex against his skin.

‘And tonight, in a change to our advertised programme,’ the presenter was saying, ‘we bring you a special report on…’

‘Here we go. Turn it up a bit, will ya?’ said Nimrod, moving the chair closer to the screen.

Maggie’s mum, who had been watching a wildlife programme about tree frogs on BBC2, peered suspiciously at Nick over the top of her reading glasses and then back at Maggie. The two boys had gone outside to feed the goldfish in Granddad’s pond and play in the sandpit, the sound of their voices from the perfectly manicured garden a constant backdrop to the conversation currently going on in the sitting room.

Maggie’s mother was sitting in an easy chair near the fireplace. She was a taller, greyer, plumper version of her daughter although somewhere down the line Mrs Morgan senior had ditched the sense of humour and gone for something altogether more practical and hard-wearing. She lived about fifteen minutes drive down the road from Maggie on a neatly clipped and nicely maintained
housing estate in a large bungalow on a corner plot, and was currently sipping tea from a bone china cup and saucer.

‘So, how long did you say you’re going to be away for?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve got W.I. on Monday night and your dad’s got bowls on Wednesday. You know that he doesn’t like to miss it – not now that they’re through to the league.’

Maggie set her cup down on the side table. ‘To be perfectly honest I’m not sure yet, that’s why I’ve got to nip down and take a look and see what’s what. I had a phone call earlier today –’ She tried hard to sound light and bright and matter of fact even though she guessed her mother wouldn’t be fooled for an instant. Maggie didn’t like lying but couldn’t see she had much option and it was almost true; after all they
had
spoken to Coleman on the phone. ‘We just need to go to the beach hut and sort a few things out.’ Maggie smiled, with a confidence she didn’t feel, while trying to be as non-specific as possible.

‘We?’ Maggie’s mother sucked at a stray something in her teeth.

Maggie nodded.

‘Down at the beach hut?’

Maggie nodded again.

‘In Somerset?’

‘That’s where the beach hut is Mum,’ snapped Maggie.

Her mum looked briefly back at Nick. ‘If you
had let us know earlier your dad could have driven down with you and taken a look at whatever it is. He’s good with his hands. What is the problem anyway? You know he’ll want to know. I’ve always said that place is a liability, it’s like the Forth Road Bridge – I mean I know it’s nice to have a bolt hole and all that, but the upkeep, and the petrol to get down there. It isn’t the drains again, is it? Your dad said that the whole system was past its best. I know you love that place, Maggie, but sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t just a terrible white elephant.’

It was an old song. Maggie made a noncommittal noise.

However, her mum didn’t intend to be put off that easily. ‘So how long do you think you’re going to be gone, then?’

‘I’ve already said that I’m not sure,’ said Maggie.

‘No more than a few days,’ Nick added helpfully, ‘it shouldn’t take us too long to sort it out, should it, Maggie?’

Maggie’s mum turned her eyes on him. Her gaze had the same intensity as the spotlight above the chair on
Mastermind
. Maggie sighed; the man really was a fool, cute but a fool nonetheless.

‘A few days?’ repeated Maggie’s mum slowly. It was a technique that had served her well over the years; simple repetition until the accused eventually gave up, broke down sobbing and confessed
all. Maggie knew that for a fact – it had worked on her often enough – and like Maggie her mother had sensed that Nick didn’t hold up well under pressure. It was time to get him out of there.

Nick nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘At the beach hut?’ asked Maggie’s mother.

Maggie got to her feet with an air of brisk workmanlike endeavour. This was too much like a choral round. It could go on for hours.

‘We’ve been through this already, Mum. If you don’t mind having the boys for a day or two I’ll give you a ring as soon as I know exactly what’s happening and we’ve had a chance to get things sorted out.’

‘And if anybody asks you –’ Nick began warily. Maggie swung round and flashed him a warning glance. Instantly, his jaw snapped shut like a mousetrap. He was learning fast. ‘I mean, not that anyone is likely to ask you anything,’ he concluded lamely. Maggie held his gaze and he smiled with as much sincerity as he could muster.

As they got to the door Maggie’s mum caught hold of her arm, eyes alight with barely veiled curiosity. ‘So, before you head off into the sunset, are you going to tell me who your new friend is then? Or do I have to interrogate the boys once you’ve gone?’ she asked, nodding towards Nick’s retreating back.

‘He’s just a friend, that’s all. No one you need worry about.’

Her mother’s expression didn’t falter.

Maggie sighed into the pause. ‘If I told you, Mum, you wouldn’t believe me.’

The older woman sniffed. ‘Maybe you’re right. With your talent for choosing wrong-uns it’s probably better if I don’t know anyway,’ she said. ‘Although I have to say he seems like a nice chap. Just you be careful what the pair of you get up to.’ And then she thawed. ‘Your dad’ll be so chuffed when he hears that the boys are stopping for a few days. Give us a ring when you get yourself organised and if it’s a big problem for goodness’ sake let us know – your dad’ll worry himself sick if we don’t hear. And behave yourself,’ she added with a sly grin.

Maggie smiled and, leaning forward, kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I’m just going to go and say goodbye to the lads.’

As Maggie headed out into the garden Nick said his goodbyes and then went out to wait in the car. Maggie couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as she came back; he looked very lonely sitting there all on his own.

‘And tonight in a change to our advertised programme,’ the presenter was saying. ‘We bring you a special report on…’

‘Here we go. Turn it up a bit, will ya –’ said Nimrod, moving the chair closer to the screen.

Cain hit the sound button and, scrunching up a couple of pillows, settled himself down on the bed. Cain and Nimrod were both all ears, all eyes, as the
Gotcha
credits rolled up on the screen.

‘…the rise of street crime in our inner cities. Muggers, pickpockets aggressive begging and unlicensed hawkers are fast becoming the bane of modern urban life.’

Cain grunted and swung round to stare at Nimrod. The female voice continued. ‘Some areas of our cities are virtual no go areas – a veritable thieves kitchen for the unwary.’ The shot widened out to reveal the
Gotcha
studio where a thin redheaded woman was sitting on a desk, holding a
clipboard and looking terribly earnest. ‘In Dickensian London we might have expected these things but, as crime figures about to be revealed by the Home Office show, statistically, it appears we are more likely to be mugged or killed on the streets of London than in New York…’

The two men looked at each other in bemusement, at which point the telephone rang.

‘Yes?’ said Nimrod as he snatched up the handset.

At the other end of the line, the cool voice of the Invisible Man said, ‘Get yourself a pen and paper – I’ve got Mr Lucas’s new address here for you.’

Nimrod beckoned to Cain. ‘Paper, pen, pronto.’

Cain did as he was told.

The man at the end of the phone continued, ‘Isaac’s Cottage, thirty-four The Row, West Brayfield – it’s in Norfolk. You know where that is?’ He spoke very slowly and precisely, enunciating every word as if Nimrod might not understand.

‘Yeah. I’ve got it,’ snapped Nimrod, scribbling the details down on a menu card.

‘Good. In that case it’s time to rock and roll – and lads, let’s try and get it right this time, shall we?’

Nimrod was about to say something but stopped himself; he was too much of a professional to point out that it was hardly their fault
that they hadn’t got the right man last time. The Invisible Man should be bloody grateful they hadn’t shot the guy in the caravan.

‘He was a con man apparently. They pulled the telly programme that I phoned you about, the
Gotcha
thing, you know?’ Nimrod complained. He had been quite looking forward to watching it although he didn’t like to say so. Nimrod decided not to go into the whole Bernie Fielding versus Nick Lucas thing; in his experience it was the faces not names that counted.

‘Well, well well, what can I tell you? Looks like the other side have got some influence after all, probably hoping we wouldn’t see the trailers,’ his contact said with a grim laugh; it was not an attractive sound. ‘Right, so you know where you’re going now?’

‘Yeah, we’re already on our way,’ said Nimrod and nodded towards Cain as he hung up.

‘What?’ mouthed Cain. For a moment he seemed too big, too heavy for the anonymous little hotel room, and it struck Nimrod that, a little like seals or killer whales, the pair of them were only truly at home and at their best in their natural environment.

‘Switch the bloody telly off, will you,’ snapped Nimrod, pulling a road map out of his briefcase. ‘We’re on the move.’

‘All right, all right, there’s no need to shout, I was looking forward to watching that,’ Cain
growled back. ‘I was looking to see if there was anyone on there that we knew. I saw my brother-in-law on a couple of weeks back.’

‘Big Tone?’ said Nimrod with surprise, before he could stop himself.

Cain nodded. ‘Yeah. He looked real well. Put on weight, good tan –’

‘What, your Tone was on the box? I didn’t know they’d pulled him in for another job.’

Cain pulled a face. ‘Well, I assumed it was him. The photo-fit was a dead ringer.’

‘What do you mean our date’s off, James?’ snapped Stella Ramsey, pouting angrily. ‘I was just going upstairs to put my face on. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’ She was standing by the back door of the post office wrapped up in a pale blue dressing gown with a towel around her hair. She smelt warm and womanly and looked all pink and shiny from the bath. ‘Pension day is a real pig – I’ve been on my feet in that bloody shop since eight o’clock and you know how much sleep I had last night.’

Bernie grinned, struggling to keep his mind on track. The combination of memories from the night before and a bathrobe that finished well above Stella’s knee, and certainly wasn’t generously cut, meant the struggle wasn’t a walkover by any means. Where the two sides of the fabric crossed he could see the rise of a generous creamy-white
breast. Bernie swallowed hard, reminding himself that this really wasn’t the moment.

‘I’m really sorry, Stella, but something has come up. I’ve got to go and – and go –’ Bernie hesitated, hastily re-embroidering and bolstering the story he’d been cooking up on the short walk over from the caravan park. He glanced back over his shoulder implying it was vital that no one overheard their conversation and also to check that the police hadn’t followed him from the car park.

‘The thing is, Stella, what you have to understand is that a lot of my work is top secret, all very hush-hush. Government mostly; I can’t say too much at the moment, but I’ve just had a phone call.’ Bernie tapped the mobile in his top pocket, then looked up to see how he was doing. He was hoping that if he played his cards right Stella might lend him her car. It didn’t look good; she had crossed her arms over that wonderful chest of hers and, pale-faced and silent, appeared to be sucking her teeth. Dark eyes watched his every move.

‘I know you’re disappointed but I haven’t got the time to hang around to explain. Those men this morning, at the caravan?’ Bernie continued. ‘Let’s just say they weren’t from the gas board after all. I don’t want you to be muddled up in this, Stella, it might get dangerous and messy. But I do want to take you out again – I really did have a lovely time and you truly are an amazing
woman. I should be back tomorrow, probably – maybe the day after. I’m really sorry.’

It was almost the truth; certainly the bit about being sorry but perhaps not the bit about coming back. How long would it take the police to find his caravan? Five, ten minutes at most? How much information did they have? From somewhere close by Bernie could hear the sharp, agitated sound of little dogs barking and wondered if one of them was Stella’s mother’s parrot.

‘I see,’ Stella said coolly; she didn’t sound or look at all convinced. ‘Why don’t you just say you don’t want to see me again, James?’ And then she paused and added, ‘You know my mother said you looked like trouble.’

Feeling wounded Bernie was about to protest that he hadn’t even met Stella’s mother when a crisp vision of some wizened old bat watching his progress across the village green sprung into his mind. Bernie could almost see her studying him through a set of high-powered binoculars from an upstairs window.

‘I thought we’d had a really nice time,’ said Stella.

‘We did and it was great,’ he protested. ‘Honestly – I truly mean it. I’ve already told you that I’d really like to do it again.’ On the walk over it had crossed Bernie’s mind to ask her to come along to Norfolk for the ride but then again there were just too many things he would have to explain – like Maggie, for a start.

Maggie. Her name switched on like a neon light in Bernie’s head, refocusing his mind and sharpening his resolve.

‘It’s not like I don’t want to see you again, Stella – it isn’t that at all. It’s just that I can’t see you tonight.’ Bernie looked down at his feet. Given another half an hour he knew from experience that he could have won her round, but he didn’t have half an hour and it didn’t look like he was going to get the car, either. ‘I have to be going.’

‘You could have rung me,’ Stella said huffily, pulling her robe tighter. ‘You’re all the same, you men, take what you want and then bugger off, just like that. I feel used,’ she snapped and, turning on her heel, scuttled back into the post office.

Bernie sighed. There was no time to protest his innocence and so he headed out towards the main road. It was early evening and still quite light, although the heat was leeching out of the day. As he passed the front of the shop he pulled a piece of card out of the bin, hoping that Stella’s mother had got her spyglass pointed elsewhere, took a felt-tip pen from his jacket pocket and wrote ‘Cambridge/A14’ in big bold letters. At the next junction he stuck out his thumb and tried hard not to look like an escapee from a lunatic asylum.

‘Do you want me to drive for a little while?’ asked Nick. ‘Give you a bit of a break?’

‘No, you’re all right,’ said Maggie. ‘Why? Bored already are you?’

‘No, it’s just that if I drove for a few miles you could eat that ice cream without having to steer with your knees,’ he said, grinning at her.

‘I am
not
steering with my knees.’

‘You are.’

She made a face. Nick held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right, I’m not going to argue with you,’ he said, and then, ‘How much further is it? Are we nearly there yet?’

Maggie looked across at Nick and laughed. ‘Oh come off it – it’ll be absolutely ages before we get there. You sound like one of the boys. Just eat your sweets and relax; enjoy the scenery. It’s a lovely drive and a beautiful evening. Chill out.’

Nick’s expression didn’t change. ‘I would if I didn’t have to keep worrying about what you were going to do next,’ he said.

‘What do you mean,
what I’m going to do next?
Are you criticising my driving?’

‘No, no, not at all. I’m impressed, so far you’ve tuned in the radio, changed the tape over, rung up the holiday place to let them know we’re coming, opened a bottle of water and now you’re eating an ice cream. What’s next? A crossword puzzle and a bit of light reading?’

Maggie looked at him, eyes alight with mischief. ‘Are you serious? Oh for God’s sake, Nick, lighten up. Although actually there is a
crossword-puzzle book in the back if you fancy doing one. You could read out the clues. I’ll even let you write the answers in; I enjoy a good crossword.’

They had been driving for the best part of two hours. The daylight was slowly fading, the sun dipping down into the western sky, tingeing everything with a delicate golden light. Maggie was right, it was a glorious evening.

Nick folded his arms over his chest. ‘Coleman said that he was going to send in a crash team to pick me up.’

Maggie looked across at him. ‘Yes, he did, and he also said you would be perfectly safe at my cottage and that there was no such person as Bernie Fielding. Call me cynical if you like but it’s not the most impressive track record I’ve ever come across.’

He shook his head in exasperation. ‘I know, but I
need
Coleman. I need him and his bloody relocation squad to keep me safe and help me start over again. I can’t do this on my own, Maggie. I’m a chef, not some kind of undercover super-sleuth. Those people will kill me if they can find me. This is not some game. I’m deadly serious. I have to believe that Coleman can make this come right.’

Up until that moment Maggie had almost had a bunking-off-work feeling about the drive, her sense of relief and elation increasing with every
mile, but the tension in Nick’s voice knocked the feeling right out of her.

‘You’re not on your own. You can ring Coleman when we get to the beach hut and arrange for him to come and pick you up from there. Surely as far as Stiltskin is concerned one place is much the same as another?’

Nick shook his head. ‘God this is such a mess.’

‘We had to leave,’ Maggie said as gently and persuasively as she could. ‘You saw that trailer on TV – we couldn’t stay at the cottage. You’ll be fine now.’

‘If you tell me that this is just a glitch –’ Nick said, swinging round to glare at her.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Maggie said. ‘But it will be all right. Cross my heart.’ Making the gesture with the hand that she had the ice cream in, Maggie was going to add ‘hope to die’ but decided under the circumstances it probably wasn’t appropriate.

Recovering his composure Nick picked up the map. ‘Okay. So where did you say we’re going to again?’

Maggie swung round to point out their destination on the road map he was holding. The car swerved with her.

‘Just tell me where it is,’ Nick growled, hastily shaking the map out straight. ‘And keep your bloody eyes on the road, will you? I want there to be something left for Coleman to rescue.’

‘You worry too much,’ Maggie laughed. ‘It’s a little cove in the Bristol Channel. Find Minehead first and then come back a little way. It’s not far from Watchet, near East Quantoxhead. St Elfreda’s Bay.’

Nick looked at her blankly.

‘Here, give it to me, let me show you,’ she said with a broad grin, making as if to take it away from him.

Nick held the big, badly creased map tight against his chest like a security blanket. Maggie laughed again and licked at her ice cream. ‘You are such a big baby.’

‘Am not,’ he snapped, but she could finally see flicker of humour lighting behind his eyes.

‘So tell me again, Robbie, if we filmed the wrong man, why is it that we’re going back to West Brayfield?’ asked Lesley anxiously, peering out at the passing countryside careering by the car’s windows. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you said we were going to go out for a meal and a drink tonight?’

‘You’re right, I did say that we would eat out and we will, but not yet. The thing is that they’re not answering the phone,’ growled Robbie, pulling out from behind some cretin driving a classic Jag at forty-five miles an hour in a flat cap and driving gloves. Old farts reliving their youth, they shouldn’t be allowed out on the bloody roads.
Robbie had not been best pleased to find that Madam Upstairs had pulled the plug on his Bernie Fielding special at the last minute. Bitch. No consultation, not so much as a word to him. It was a personal insult – particularly as once he’d finished editing Robbie had spent the rest of the afternoon in the office composing his speech for the Journalist of the Year Award. Sodding bloody woman.