Road Closed (35 page)

She poured herself a large mug of coffee and began to review the schedules she had brought home. She couldn’t settle. Unwelcome images haunted her: Ian Peterson drenched in blood, Brenda calling for Callum Martin as she lay dying on the filthy floor. Resolutely Geraldine thought about Craig. She made a mental list of her reservations about him. His lax attitude towards the law could have been a problem. He had been eager to abuse her position to park in a restricted area. Thinking back to their trip abroad, she recalled him laughingly offering to write in her passport. Admittedly the reason had been innocent, but even so it was the thin end of the wedge. It was easy to falsify official documents.

A thought struck her.

Hurriedly, she pulled a file out of her bag and leafed through it to find a list of people who had hired cars from Avis Rental in Sandmouth town centre the previous Saturday. She glanced down the short list of names.

AVIS RENTAL UK

She turned to the next list and paused. Someone called Bobbie Geere had hired a car and driven from Sandmouth to Harchester on the night Raymond Barker had been attacked. Who was Bobbie Geere? So far they had been unable to trace the grey haired woman who had hired a car under that name. There was no evidence of a false driving licence printed in that name. All known forgers in the area had been interrogated, every computer Sophie Cliff could have accessed had been examined.

Geraldine picked up a black biro and began to doodle. She knew she was losing her focus, like Bennett, happily working out his crossword clues.

‘It’s really not difficult,’ he had told her. ‘Just a question of substituting the right word for the clue.’

The phrase repeated itself in her mind. It seemed to take on a new meaning: ‘substituting the right word for the clue’. Craig had offered to write ‘Dubrovnik’ clearly over the faint imprint in her passport. It was easy to falsify official documents. Geraldine continued her doodling. Five seconds later, she knew how Sophie Cliff had driven from Sandmouth to Harchester and back again, undetected.

Sophie’s doctor had recommended she take a short holiday while her house was out of bounds. Geraldine had checked the story herself. She turned the pages of her note book and found the right page.

‘She’s naturally very disturbed by her husband’s sudden death. It’s deeply shocking,’ the GP had told her. ‘I suggested she take a break. Go and stay with her parents for a while.
It’s not a good idea for her to spend too much time alone at a time like this.’

Geraldine wondered if the doctor’s suggestion had given Sophie the idea to book into a hotel, and hire a car under a false name. She had probably planned to return to Harchester every evening to watch Barker and wait for a chance to exact her revenge. At the end of the evening she would park the hired car nearby and sneak back into the hotel ready to appear at breakfast the following morning.

On the first evening, Sophie Cliff had failed to set fire to Barker after assaulting him in the street. On the second evening Barker had spent the night in hospital. On her third outing, Sophie had broken into the house where Barker was apparently at home by himself. Prepared with a can of petrol and matches, she had attempted to burn Barker to death. Presumably she regarded this as just retribution for her husband’s death. She must have believed she had succeeded because the next morning she had checked out of the hotel and returned to Harchester to wait for her husband’s body to be released for burial. It was a desperate plot, and completely insane.

Geraldine drove to the station. She made her way to the DCI’s office, ignoring the duty sergeant, and knocked firmly.

James Ryder looked up from his screen, surprised to see her. ‘I thought you were off today –’

‘It’s Sophie Cliff, sir,’ Geraldine interrupted. ‘She’s the one who attacked Barker.’

‘She was in Sandmouth –’

‘No sir. She drove to Harchester and back again on Saturday and Monday. And probably on Sunday too. I think she was determined to keep coming back, night after night, until she found her chance to attack Barker.’

‘We’ve been through all this, Geraldine.’ The DCI sounded tired. ‘Unless we can find the car she stole, and prove she was using it for –’

‘She didn’t steal a car sir, she hired one using a false driving licence. She forged the name herself. It was easy enough to do. I can’t believe we didn’t spot it straight away, it’s so obvious.’

‘It’s certainly likely. I agree it would’ve been easy for her. But we’ve checked all the computers she could have had access to, including all the internet cafes in Sandmouth, and –’

‘It’s simpler than that, sir. We were so sure she could have produced a false passport using her technological know how –’

‘Which she could have done.’

‘We overlooked something much simpler. And impossible to trace. Look.’ Ryder frowned as Geraldine put her notebook down on his desk and opened it at a clean page. With a black biro she wrote the name SOPHIE CLIFF. ‘It couldn’t be done on a laminated photo driving licence, sir, but all it takes is a fine black biro, and the name on a standard green paper driving licence can be altered in seconds.’ She changed some of the letters of the name she had written, S to B, P and H to Bs, C to G, L and I to E, F to R and F to E. The name changed in front of their eyes: BOBBIE GEERE. ‘The second E of Geere is a bit squashed, changing the I to E, there isn’t quite room, but the rest of it…’

‘Pull her in. Now.’

Geraldine drove back to the motel. The manager barely looked up from his television. He shovelled a handful of peanuts into his mouth and shook his head. ‘She’s not been back since you were last here.’ He chomped noisily, mouth open. ‘People don’t generally come back. We’re more of a stopover. People passing through. Ships passing in the night.’ He seized another fistful of peanuts.

The local CID called on Sophie Cliff’s parents but she wasn’t there. They didn’t know where she was.

Geraldine went to see Thomas Cliff’s mother.

‘Have you seen anything of Sophie since your son’s death?’

‘What would I want to see her for?’

‘I’d like to speak to her –’

Mrs Cliff butted in. ‘I knew it was her all along. I told you, didn’t I?’

‘I just want to ask her a few questions –’

‘And now you don’t know where she is. She’s run off, hasn’t she?’ the old woman’s eyes glittered. ‘There’s an admission of guilt, if ever I heard one. You should’ve listened to me. I told you it was her, didn’t I?’

‘And you have no idea where she might be?’

‘How would I know? If you ask me, she’s probably left the country. She knew I was on to her. It was only a matter of time before you lot caught up. Took you too long, didn’t it? You should have listened.’

Geraldine returned to the police station but there was no news. Sophie Cliff’s description had been circulated to every train station and bus depot, airport and ferry operator, as well as every police station, but without any results.

The DCI walked into Geraldine’s office, unannounced as usual. ‘We’ll find her,’ he said, speaking more to himself than to her. She nodded. He didn’t sound very sure and left as suddenly as he had entered. Geraldine turned to her computer and tried to focus on her report.

A few moments later her phone vibrated. Geraldine felt an irrational flicker of hope as she took the call but it wasn’t Craig.

‘At last. I’ve been trying to call you for ages. Guess what?’ Hannah didn’t wait for a reply. ‘He’s back.’

‘What?’

‘Jeremy. He’s come back. Geraldine, how can I ever thank you?’

‘Hannah, I’m really pleased for you, really I am, but it was nothing to do with me. I hardly said anything to him. I only saw him for a few seconds.’

‘No, but you did go and see him. He said it made all the difference.’

‘I can’t think why.’

‘He said it made him think what I might be like, all on my own, if he didn’t come back.’ There was a pause. Geraldine wondered about the conversations her friend must have had.

‘I’d be like Geraldine if it wasn’t for you,’ she imagined Hannah saying to her husband. With an uncomfortable flash of insight she understood what they must think of her – pathetic, lonely Geraldine.

‘Geraldine, are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m really pleased for you, Han.’

‘We’re going away,’ Hannah babbled, ‘just the two of us. A romantic break. He says it’s going to be a second honeymoon. My mum’s taking the kids for a long weekend and guess what? We’re going to Dubrovnik. Your recommendation.’

‘That’s great, Hannah.’ Geraldine wedged the phone under her chin and resumed checking through the papers in her desk. ‘Look, Han, I’d love to chat but –’

‘I know, you’ve got to get back to work,’ Hannah interrupted her, but she wasn’t angry. She was laughing.

‘Have a great time, and call me when you get back,’ Geraldine said, but Hannah had already hung up.

63

Candles

Driving home, Geraldine took a detour up Harchester Hill and turned into Harchester Close. The police cordon had been cleared away. A ribbon of blue and white tape fluttering from a gate post was the only evidence they had been there.

Geraldine parked outside number 17. The house was concealed from the road by high hedges. She paused at the gate and peered at the house front with its boarded up windows and black smudged brickwork. She crossed the empty drive and tried the garage door. It wouldn’t open. The house looked deserted. She tried the bell. It didn’t work. She knocked, loudly. No answer. A memory of blackened worktops above a floor littered with sooty debris flashed through her mind; a melted kettle, grotesquely misshapen, a congealed mess that had once been a phone, a coating of ash covering every surface. The stench of burning plastic seemed to fill her lungs and she turned away, breathing so deeply it made her light headed.

Halfway down the path Geraldine glanced back at the house. A glimmer of light flickered through a narrow gap in the boards over an upstairs window. Geraldine stared, but there was no further sign of life. She strode back up the path and rapped smartly on the front door. There was no answer. She examined each of the downstairs front windows but they were impenetrable. She rattled the side gate. It wasn’t locked so she went through into the back garden. She couldn’t see anything through the first four windows or the patio doors, but when she reached the final window at the back, she found
a gap between two boards. Standing on tiptoe, she squinted through into the darkness, but couldn’t see anything inside.

Summoning back up, she pulled off one shoe and hammered at the wood without making any impression on it. She turned and grabbed an ornamental tree growing in a terracotta pot, raised it above her head and hurled it at the path. The pot shattered. Seizing a long shard of clay she levered gently at the gap, prising the boards apart until she was able to work her fingers through the space and grab the edge of one plank in both hands. With a sudden effort, she shoved it and staggered as the wood gave way under the pressure. Splinters pierced her flesh and she scratched herself on a nail. She didn’t stop to examine her injuries, but pushed at the planks, which had been nailed roughly across the window, until there was a gap wide enough for her to clamber through. She was careful to avoid contact with any remnants of glass left behind in the frame when the window had shattered in the explosion.

Climbing on to an upturned pot, she wriggled through the gap, landing awkwardly on her hands and knees on thick carpet. She pulled herself upright, swore under her breath as her knee hit a low table, and felt her way to the door. The stench of burning hung in the air. She wondered if she should have waited for back up, but couldn’t turn back now. Someone was in the house. It could only be Sophie Cliff. If they waited, they might lose her. They might not find her again.

Moonlight shone through the window illuminating the study she was in. She stepped out of the room into darkness. The windows were boarded up. No lights were on. She felt in vain for her torch. It must have slipped out of her pocket when she fell in through the window. If she hadn’t been inside the house before, it would have been impossible to negotiate her way around in the dark. As it was, she was going to find a few bruises on her upper arms and shins.

It was difficult to move around silently. At one point she thought she heard footsteps behind her. She spun round, squinting into the darkness, but couldn’t make out any movement. All was quiet. She was making her way towards the front of the house when a slight noise made her stop. Above her head it sounded like someone had closed a door. In the faint light from her phone screen, she found her way to the stairs and began to climb, listening at every step.

Silence.

At the far end of the landing a line of light shone beneath a door. Shuffling towards it Geraldine felt, rather than heard, a presence behind her. She spun round. A heavy object clouted her on the shoulder. Startled, she lost her balance and staggered, disorientated in the darkness. Before she could recover, her assailant gave her legs a violent tug. She fell backwards to the floor. Something pressed down on her knees. Her hands were efficiently tied together and her ankles bound before her head began to clear. She was dimly aware of a shadowy figure above her as a rough cloth, like a towel, was wrapped around her head.

The darkness was impenetrable.

Firm hands gripped Geraldine under her arms and dragged her along the floor away from the stairs. She yelped as her shoulder hit a sharp ridge. She was being manoeuvred through a doorway. She waited, listening. Faint scratching sounds. The soft thud of feet on carpet.

As her blindfold was removed, lights flashed. It wasn’t her eyesight playing tricks on her. The room was lit by flickering candles. They covered every surface: standing on cupboards, along a shelf above the radiator, on the ledge below the window.