Remix (2010) (22 page)

“I’ll ring you in the morning.”

I said good night and closed the door. I leaned against it and listened as he started the BMW, turned it, left the Yard and set off down the road. When I could no longer hear the engine, I headed up the stairs, furious with myself.

Why did I do that? Why on earth didn’t I tell him? He’ll have to know eventually. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. He’s gone off all happy thinking I’ll be his girlfriend…he’ll be so hurt when he finds out. He’ll never understand why I kissed him. I should have told him about Ric, however awkward it was.

I opened the flat door, and called, “Hi!” into the quiet. No answer.

Dog jumped down from the sofa and made a fuss of me. Ric wasn’t around, and the door to the terrace was shut. I thought he must be asleep in bed. I climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, Dog trailing me. No Ric. I checked the bathroom, then went downstairs and checked that bathroom too.

It was one o’clock - why would he be out? My gaze passed over the coffee table, then returned to it. Some of the things I’d collected were missing…the smaller wrecking bar, a torch, a coil of rope, the navy hoodie…

Ric had lied to me. He’d gone to break into Phil Sharott’s on his own.

Chapter

24

*

I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the table. A lot of the stuff Ric hadn’t bothered to take - clearly he’d thought I was overdoing it. I got my mobile out of my handbag and rang his number. His phone was switched off. Dog jumped up and put his paws on my lap; there was something white round his collar. A note, folded small. I unfolded it.

I’ve gone to Phil’s - don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

Back soon,

Ric

X

Easy for him to say don’t worry. He failed to take Phil seriously as a threat, in spite of all I’d said; and if I’d gone with him, I’d have made sure he didn’t do anything reckless. Together we’d have had more options - if Phil found us and got nasty, I could have got away and rung the police. Ric needed me, and he didn’t know it.

I looked at my watch. By now he might have broken in, discovered something or realized he wasn’t going to, and be on his way home again. Or not.

The thought of waiting up for him - because there was no way I could hope to go to sleep - with my mind running repeatedly through every possible disaster was unimaginable. Supposing he didn’t return? How long before I should get help? Three am? Four am? If only he’d said on the note. By the time I was certain he was in trouble, it might be too late - especially as it would take time to convince the police. The very thought made me frantic. Perhaps I should ring them now?

Ric wouldn’t like that…but I had to do something.

I got up. I’d go after him. No time to waste.

I leaped up the stairs, pulled off my clothes and flung them on the bed. I dressed again in black combats, a belt, a long-sleeved black tee shirt, a sleeveless hooded gilet with lots of zips, and cheap black trainers. Running downstairs I divided the kit on the table between my many pockets, except for the rope which I tied to my belt, and the wrecking bar which I put by the door. I checked the fridge - Ric had taken the meat, so I tipped some of Dog’s dry food into a plastic bag and pocketed it.

Dog - should I take him? Yes - I could leave him in the van when I got to Phil’s; he’d be on his own for less time than if he stayed in the flat. I switched on the printer, opened the laptop and tried to collect my thoughts while it came to life. Just in case I didn’t come back, worst case scenario, I would print out
Private
Investigations
as planned. If I put it through James’s letter box on my way to Phil’s, he would find it in the morning.

I brought up the document, clicked File and Print, and while it was doing that, got the van keys out of my handbag, and attached them with the house keys and the torch to my belt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. With the quasi-commando clothes and my long fair hair falling about my shoulders, all I needed was a submachine gun, and my resemblance to one of the more heavily-dressed heroines of a video game would have been striking. Move over, Lara Croft. I got a hair band out of my bag and tied my hair out of the way.

A deep breath; I opened the door and picked up the wrecking bar.

“Come on, Dog, let’s go and find Ric.”

Out of Fox Hollow Yard into the sodium-lit street and across to the van. Eight minutes since I’d arrived with James. I unlocked the door and Dog hopped on to the passenger seat. The petrol gauge showed half full; it should be enough. James lives in Islington, north when I was heading west, ten minutes at that time of night.
Hurry
. I accelerated down the road; not much traffic, but I cursed every red light. James’s flat is at the end of a cul de sac. No lights in the windows; he must have gone straight to bed. I stopped the van on the double yellow lines outside, leaving the engine running, and reached for the three pages of
Private Investigations
.

I’d left them on the printer.

Bugger
.

For a moment I thought of trying to write it out from memory - I’d got a pen on me - and hunted around for paper. I’d cleared out the van recently. All I could find was a slip of white card from Waitrose’s car park, not big enough to write everything on, even if I had the time. I couldn’t go back to collect my notes - that would waste twenty minutes. I had a brainwave. I reached down into the gritty crevice where the driver’s seat meets the seat back, and felt for the emergency set of house keys hidden there. I wrote on the card:

JAMES

I need your help - if you haven’t heard from me Sunday morning

first thing,
but not before
, go to my flat, let yourself in, there’s notes on the printer,

read them and ring the police. Ric’s gone to Phil Sharott’s. I’m going there too.

Caz

I printed his name in big letters, so he’d notice it among the pizza leaflets. Then I secured the keys to the note with the band off my hair. I jumped out of the van, ran up the steps to James’s door, and dropped the small bundle through the letter box.

The van gets noisy above fifty miles an hour, and normally I don’t push it. But that night we fairly hurtled along the M4, even, on the odd downhill stretch, exceeding the speed limit, the engine roaring and the panels rattling. We drove through Maidenhead at two-fifteen, and by two-thirty arrived outside Phil Sharott’s house. I pulled in opposite the entrance. The gates were wide open (had Ric left them like that for a quick getaway?) but everything was still, dark and silent.

Better turn off my mobile; I didn’t want it ringing while I was snooping about. Which pocket was it in…
Shit!
I’d put it back in my handbag, and I hadn’t brought my handbag with me. What else had I forgotten? It was because I’d left in a rush, I hadn’t been expecting to go - I’d have got everything right if we’d gone Sunday night. I sat for a moment, dismayed, then gritted my teeth. I probably wouldn’t need to phone the police. Ric might have passed me on the motorway, going in the opposite direction, racing back to the flat. He might be there now. If so, reprieve: I was okay about the wasted journey in the small hours; ecstatic, in fact.

Cautiously, I opened the van door and got out. Dog came with me. I approached the entrance, keeping in the shadows by the wall. Dog growled softly in his throat at the darkness beyond the gateway. I switched on my torch and played its light in that direction. There was something there…a sudden movement made me leap back, even before the bull mastiffs broke into snarls and barks, and crashed against the gate. Reflex reaction shot me halfway to the van before I realized they weren’t giving chase. I crossed the road again to investigate. Their barking increased as I drew near, so I threw them a handful of dog food. While they snuffled in the grass hoovering it up, I saw why they hadn’t got me.

The dogs had ropes looped through their collars; the other ends were attached to the side of the gate. Ric must have done it, thinking that on his way out, once the gates were closed, he could free the dogs with the gate safely between him and them.

That meant he was probably still inside. Rats.

I got back in the van and drove down the road, looking for somewhere inconspicuous to park. A short drive leading to a wooded area seemed ideal; as I turned the van something gleamed in the headlights. Ric’s Harley, tucked away by the shrubbery.
He’s here
. I got out, leaving Dog inside, though I could have done with his company, and locked up. If I somehow missed Ric in the dark, he’d realize I was here too.
Don’t know what good that’ll do…

I went back along the road, wrecking bar held discreetly beside my leg, and approached Phil’s driveway. My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t imagine how it would cope when I reached the house. Maybe it would burst out of my chest and run for home. The bull mastiffs barked at me with more hope than ferocity this time, no doubt thinking I’d feed them again. Now my eyes were used to the moonlight, it wasn’t that dark. The keys at my belt clinked; I unclipped them and put them in separate pockets, and pulled my hood over my hair. I sidled past the CCTV camera, head down, and set off up the drive to the house, keeping on the grass near the trees, watching for any signs of life. If someone was there, I wanted to see him before he saw me. All I could hear was the occasional car passing on the road I’d left, each fainter than the last, the soft rustle of the breeze through the leaves, and the blood thumping in my neck. When an owl flew silently across my path, I jumped in the air like a startled deer.

The drive seemed longer on foot, and everything looked different by night. There was the lake to the right, shimmering through the trees. I slowed as I neared the dim bulk of the house with its circular lawn, and the separate garage block on my left. None of the windows was lit. I stopped on the edge of the gravel, got out the black socks and pulled them over my trainers, legs trembling. Dick Francis hadn’t gone on enough about how scary prowling around in the dark was. Or perhaps I was just a total wimp. A last look round before venturing across the open space of drive to the corner where Phil’s office was; no sign of life at all, but if there was a watcher at a dark window, I wouldn’t know. I walked slowly, trying not to make a sound. The office windows were closed; no blinds or curtains, and no marks of a forced entry on any of them. No one in there.

Where was Ric?

Keeping close in to the walls, I moved anti-clockwise, checking ground floor windows. I reached the corner; I peered round it, and traversed the side of the house. Nothing.

From the next corner, I could see the back garden; but calling it that gives the idea of a suburban patch of grass, with washing line, children’s bikes and a fence, and this was on another scale altogether. Extensive grounds, an estate agent might say; a stone-paved terrace with a swing seat, antique cast iron chairs, tables and sun umbrellas. From there, steps between topiary yews led to a big lawn (even in the dark, I could see the stripes on it) with a lime tree circled by a wooden seat. To the right, two tennis courts and a building with full length windows, that I guessed held a swimming pool. Flower beds, behind them big trees, the wind sighing through their leaves, and no indication of where the garden ended. It shaded into the night. Beyond would be the hangar containing Phil’s replacement for the Cessna, and the grass airstrip, the one Ric had taken off from in April over three years ago. And beyond that, too far away to be audible, the river.

I looked to my left. Creeper-covered brickwork, and bright rectangles of light shining on to the flowers and flag stones. My heart rate redoubled. Phil was up. No reason he would spot me. Deep breaths…

I tiptoed to the edge of the nearest French window, open to the night air. I crouched in the herbaceous border among the musk roses and moved my head carefully so I could see through the crack. A big room, softly illuminated by pools of light from silk lampshades, conventionally and lavishly furnished; no expense spared. Cream panelling, several sofas in green and beige, polished floorboards and Chinese carpets. Drapes rather than curtains edged the windows, their swags held back with tasselled cords. Paintings with their own little lights, vases of flowers; glossy books on coffee tables, no bookshelves. Not my taste, but comfortable.

A movement caught my eye. Emma sat at an antique desk, using a laptop. She wore a crimson evening dress, her hair was up, and her attention so entirely focused on what she was doing that I forgot to worry while I stared at her.

It hadn’t occurred to me she’d be there, though I might have guessed. What more likely than that she would spend the weekend with her boyfriend? So where was Phil? As this thought entered my mind, the door opened and he appeared, wearing a dinner jacket and carrying a tray. They must have been out to some dressy occasion. Emma didn’t look up. He came over to her, lowered the tray to the desk, stood behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders, pink against her creamy skin. She said something, but carried on typing. It was true, she typed with two fingers. Phil poured tea into a cup (herb tea? No milk). Emma absently sipped it, and went on with what she was doing.

Phil stroked her neck, and began to undo her hair.