Remix (2010) (28 page)

“Caz, your hands…” James sounded appalled, and I could see why; they were covered in blood. “Did he do that?” For a moment I thought James might assault Phil too.

“No, I tried to cut the tape with broken glass.”

“Finish that drink and I’ll find something to bandage them with.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said. “Just surface cuts. Stings, though. Jeff’s are worse. Shouldn’t we put a tourniquet on his arm?” He had jagged cuts from wrist to elbow dripping dark blood on to the carpet, and another on his chin.

James took hold of his wrist and examined it. “Some of these are quite deep. Let me put something round it.”

“Can’t be arsed,” Jeff said. “I’m not going to bleed to death.”

“Why did you go through the window?” James asked, curiously. “You should have tried the door first, old chap. It wasn’t locked.”

“Boring. I like smashing things. What shall we do now? Trash the place?”

“Nah,” said Ric. “Could be it belongs to me.”

“I’m not sure I should drink this,” I said, swirling my brandy. “I don’t know what Phil injected me with. I still feel a bit funny.”

“He injected you?” James frowned. “I’d better ring for an ambulance.”

“Hold on.” Ric put his glass down, crossed the room and crouched by Phil. He yanked his head off the floor by the front of his polo shirt and slapped his face a few times. Phil groaned.

“Wake up. Listen to me. What did you inject into Caz?” When there was no reply he shook him, hit him again, and repeated the question.

Phil’s eyes opened. “Ketamine.”

“Sure? How much?”

“Five millilitres.”

His head thumped to the floorboards as Ric let him go and rejoined us. “It’ll be pharmaceutical ketamine, supplied by legit Asian manufacturers. An anaesthetic, they use it on third world battlefields. You’ll be okay - but don’t drink the brandy. It’ll make you sick as a dog.”

James took the glass from my hand, put it down behind him on the drinks cabinet, and poured me an orange juice. I’d have preferred the brandy.

Ric turned to Jeff. “How did you know to come here?”

“Your phone was off, so I went to Vikki’s gaff. I rang the bell, and Jas opened the door. I was like, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I thought you wouldn’t get my note till the morning,” I said to James. “I thought by then we’d be dead.”

“I wouldn’t have done, but my downstairs neighbour had her handbag stolen at a club. I’ve got her spare keys, so she rang my bell at a quarter to three, and when I went to let her in, I saw your note with my name on.”

“Lucky or what? Awesome…”
Thank you, God
.

“It said wait till the morning, but I was worried. I went straight to your flat and got the papers you’d left. Then I was really worried. I knew you wouldn’t want me to call the police. I’d just about decided to drive to Cookham when Jeff turned up. We joined forces.”

“Dream team,” said Jeff. “He’s the muscle and I’m the brains…”

“…with additional responsibilities for invective, illegal substances and velocity. We came in Jeff’s Maserati. Terrifying experience. We must feature on every speed camera from Hoxton to Cookham.”

“They can’t do me for it. Matter of life and death.”

“We rang the doorbell, then Dog showed up. He led us round the back, and we saw your van.”

I picked Dog up and hugged him. We all grinned at each other, then Ric and I filled them in on the events of the night while we waited for the police to arrive. I don’t know if it was reaction, or the few sips of brandy, but I felt enormously cheerful, though admittedly it might take a few days for my legs to stop shaking. I checked in the mirror, and was pleased to see I didn’t look too terrible, all things considered. I went and washed my hands, and James found some plasters to put on them. Ric said he’d leave the gash on his head for now, and let the police doctor look at it. Jeff, ignoring the state of his arm wandered here and there, poking at things, trailing spots of blood. He picked up the shotgun and examined the engraving. “Purdey,” he read. “It’s second-hand. Fucking skinflint.”

“Do us a favour, don’t point it this way,” James said. He and Jeff seemed surprisingly relaxed with each other. They must have bonded on the journey.

Jeff took the shotgun to the remains of the window he’d demolished. “How d’you work it?” He fiddled around with it, then fired twice into the first glimmers of dawn. I put my hands over my ears. Dog, unable to do this, hid behind Ric. Jeff clicked the trigger a few more times and turned. “Where does he keep the ammo?”

“No idea,” Ric said. “It’s okay, Dog, just a noise. Ask Phil.”

I doubted he’d get much out of him; Phil lay comatose, breathing audibly, where Ric had left him, a darkening crimson patch on one side of his face. But - “Where’s Emma?”

She wasn’t in the room; she must have sidled out while our attention was on Jeff firing the gun out of the window. Ric found the last of my duct tape and, with a certain satisfaction, secured Phil. Then we all went into the hall to investigate. James opened the front door; outside, beyond Jeff’s car, was the green circle of grass, trees and the curving drive in the misty pale golden light of dawn. Its peaceful beauty made me catch my breath; my eyes filled with tears; was it the remains of the ketamine, or because this was a day I’d not expected to live to see?

A revving engine obliterated the birdsong, and into this idyllic English scene, from the garages to our right, a scarlet sports car erupted. It shot past us, spraying gravel, just missed the Maserati as it turned, ran over the edge of the lawn leaving tracks, and sped away down the drive. We all gazed as the car diminished then disappeared behind the distant trees.

“She’s in a hurry,” said Ric. “I wonder where she’s off to?”

“Pity the gun’s empty,” said Jeff, regretfully.

James’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t tell me you’d have taken a pot shot at her?”

“Keep your hair on, Jas, I only meant I could have shot up the tyres.”

Chapter

30

*

Minutes later flashing blue lights approached through the trees, and two police vehicles, gaudy in luminous green and blue, drove rapidly to the front of the house. Four uniformed policemen, two of them armed, got out and crunched over to us. James stepped forward.

“I’m James Holland, I rang you. When I got here twenty minutes ago, I found Caz and Ric tied up. Phil Sharott was going to murder them.”

The senior officer raised his eyebrows. “Where is he now, sir?”

“I’ll show you. He’s tied up.”

The armed officers went with James into the house; the other two stayed with us.

“Is that your shotgun, sir?” the inspector asked.

“Nah, it’s Phil’s.”

“Better give it to me, then, sir. We wouldn’t want there to be an accident.”

Jeff handed it over. The officer took hold of the end of the barrels between finger and thumb. He laid it carefully in the boot of the jeep, put on gloves, then picked it up again and checked its chamber. “This has been fired recently.”

“Phil was trying to scare me,” said Ric.

“I had a go with it, too,” Jeff said.

The younger policeman stared at him, then Ric, opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Jeff. “It’s Ric Kealey, back from the grave. The Man They Couldn’t Kill.”

The senior officer turned from stashing the gun in the boot, blinked, and considered Ric. “Is this true, sir, are you in fact Ric Kealey?”

“Yup.”

“In that case…Ric Kealey, I am arresting you in connection with the murder three years ago of Bryan Orr, also for
breaching bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time.” He ran through the obligatory caution mechanically, mind elsewhere.
“You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” His manner returned to a neutral amiability. “If you’d like to spread your arms out against the jeep, sir, I’ll just look you over for weapons.”

“He didn’t kill Bryan,” I said, as the officer patted Ric down. “Emma Redfern did.”

“We still need to take him to the station, miss. Where is this Emma Redfern?” he asked, clicking handcuffs on Ric’s wrists. Dog wagged his tail at the policeman, as though Ric had made a new friend, and Ric didn’t seem that worried either. He gave me a smile and a wink while no one was looking.

“She drove away ten minutes ago. In a red sports car.”

“An Alpha Romeo Spider,” added Jeff.

“D’you know the registration number?”

We shook our heads. The officer reached for his radio and put out an alert for the car. James came through the front door, followed by Phil, untaped but in handcuffs, then the two policemen. One of them carried the box of drugs, the other a stack of smaller boxes, green and white with flying pheasants on them - shotgun cartridges, I guessed. Phil’s head was bowed. His lip was bloody and swollen, his face a mess where Ric and Jeff had beaten him up. He walked stiffly, limping slightly. This must be the ultimate humiliation for a man like him. I felt a tiny spark of compassion for him, though God knows why - I certainly felt none at all for vile Emma. The officer put Ric in the police jeep, putting a hand on his head to guide him (why do they do that?) Dog jumped in after him, and they put Phil in the back of the van.

We hung around for a while, something we were going to do a lot of that day, waiting for reinforcements. The sunlight got brighter, the haze retreated. Another panda car arrived, and four policemen got out; I gathered they were there to search the house. They took Phil’s keys, then we were off. Jeff made towards his Maserati, but James persuaded him to leave it there and come with us in the police car. We all insisted on crowding into the jeep with Ric, as none of us wanted to be with Phil. Dog clambered about, licking us indiscriminately, his tail swiping our faces. Our mood was frivolous, as if we were teenagers off to a party; we teased Ric about being handcuffed, and the policeman joined in. We wanted him to turn on the siren, but he wouldn’t.

Maidenhead police station is modern, utilitarian red-brick with greenery in front and more buildings and car parks behind. A big sign outside the entrance says THAMES VALLEY POLICE. I felt hungry and light-headed, but not sleepy, and was enjoying myself, in a weird way. It was just like being in a police programme on television, except everything happened slowly with long gaps between. They took Phil, and left the rest of us in a waiting room, watched over by our friendly policeman, while they fetched a doctor.

When he arrived, the doctor cleaned up the wound on Ric’s head, and was in favour of his going to A & E for evaluation. Ric had to convince him he hadn’t been unconscious for all that long; he said firmly he was just a bit groggy, with a headache, and he’d be fine. The doctor said no alcohol, rest, and have someone keep an eye on him. Then the policeman took Ric away for questioning. The doctor stitched and bandaged Jeff’s arm, got a blood sample from me and departed.

We got cups of revolting tea out of a machine. James said it was better than my coffee. For breakfast we had crisps and Kit Kats out of another machine. Jeff smoked, below a sign telling him not to.

Next I was taken to an interview room, and a policeman and policewoman recorded me while I told them everything that had happened. There was a box of tissues on the table, in case I got upset, but I was still spookily cheerful. After that, I hung around some more, chatting to James and telling him all the bits he didn’t know about. Jeff was off being interviewed. Strangely, the night’s ordeal had done away with the embarrassment I’d expected to feel at being alone with James - goodness, we’d been kissing each other only six or seven hours before. I don’t know whether it was my escape from death, or his seeing me in Ric’s arms, but we seemed to be back on our old friendly footing, which was great.

The police were going to collect the diamonds, the stolen passport, the Euros and the papers, and wanted me with them. To retrieve the things I’d need my wrecking bar, but it was now evidence, labelled and tucked away in its own plastic bag, so they brought one of theirs. We left from the car park in a police car, and drove past the main entrance. I noticed five men, dressed for comfort rather than style, hanging around, cameras round their necks. They turned to watch us go, and one took a photo. The news was out.

Thinking of news…I got the driver to stop by a corner shop, while I dodged in to buy the
News of the World
. One relieved glance told me Emma had cancelled her interview with them, no doubt persuaded by Phil: the lead story was not
MY ROCK STAR RAPE HELL, Ric Kealey raped me, then I found Bryan’s body
, as I’d feared; it was
LOVE-CHEAT M.P.’S SEX TAPES, read full transcripts
. I bought a copy anyway to show Ric. Church bells rang in the Sunday morning peace of Maidenhead, and the journey to Fox Hollow Yard was quick and smooth. It’s true what I’ve read, that marked police cars travel in a bubble of other drivers’ good behaviour.

James’s BMW was parked outside the Yard. He’d need to move it before Monday morning. As we climbed the stairs to my flat, the policewoman told me she’d got her daughter a Mamas and Papas furry rocking horse which she loved. Though I’d only left ten hours earlier, the flat had a blank unfamiliar air; I felt a sense of disconnection, as if I’d been abroad for a month. It occurred to me that if it hadn’t been for James, I’d probably still have arrived here at about this time, but bound hand and foot. Phil would have ransacked the flat, then strangled me and set fire to the building. No doubt he’d have drugged me first. I didn’t even want to think about what Emma might have done if they hadn’t found what they were looking for. Had James arrived while this was going on, Phil might have killed him too. For a moment, it was as if the sun had gone in, and I shivered.