I hear my mother’s words, but they don’t register. My body is still rigid, my nerve-endings still jangling.
‘That last bend.’ She’s out of breath. ‘We turned off before he rounded the corner. He didn’t see.’ She bursts into noisy tears. ‘He didn’t see us turn off.’
Slowly I sit up and look around. We are on a farm track, half a mile or so away from where a parting between hedges shows where the road is. There are no other cars.
I unclip the fastenings on Ella’s seat and pull her to me, kissing the top of her head and holding her so tightly she wriggles to be let free. I lift my T-shirt and unclip my bra, and she feeds thirstily. We relax into each other and I realise my body has been craving this as much as hers has.
‘A gun?’ It doesn’t sound real. ‘A fucking gun?’ I pick up the bag and place it on the front seat next to her. It was less than three feet from Ella’s head. I don’t let myself think what might have happened if it had gone off; if I’d picked up the bag the wrong way, stepped on it …
Mum says nothing. Her hands are still gripping the steering wheel. If she’s having some kind of breakdown, I need to get her into the passenger seat. I wonder if we should abandon the plan and drive to a police station. Whatever we do, we need to go soon; we’re sitting ducks here, in open countryside. Dad’ll realise we turned off; he’ll double back.
‘I told you. It was insurance. I don’t even know how the bloody thing works.’
I pull Ella gently off my breast and feel under the seats for my phone. There’s a text from Mark.
No sign of the ex yet. Have texted everyone to cancel the party. Police are on their way. They need Angela’s date of birth and address. Call me!
I avoid answering.
Black Shogun followed us but we managed to lose him. Will call when we get to the flat. Love you x
A deep breath heads off the tears. ‘Let’s go. We should use the back roads till we hit the motorway.’ I strap Ella back in, and put on my own seatbelt. We drive – more carefully now, although with no less urgency – on winding B roads within spitting distance of the A23. The twists and turns – and the frequency with which I turn around to check on the cars behind us – make me nauseous, and the journey seems to go on for ever.
We don’t talk. I try, twice, but Mum’s in no fit state to make plans. I just need her to get us to Mark’s flat in one piece.
I feel better once we’re on the M23. The motorway is busy; we are one of thousands of cars on their way to London. The chances of my father finding us here are tiny, and if he did, what would he do, with so many witnesses? So many cameras? I catch my mother’s eye and give her a small smile. She doesn’t return it, and I feel my anxiety well up in response. I scan the surrounding cars for the Shogun.
We join the M25. I look into the cars either side of us. Most are packed with families heading home after Christmas, or to friends for New Year, the seats piled high with presents and spare duvets. A couple in a beat-up Astra are singing enthusiastically, and I picture the CD of classic hits in the car stereo.
My phone rings; an unfamiliar number on the screen.
‘Miss Johnson?’
Murray Mackenzie. I curse myself for answering; contemplate hanging up and blaming a bad line.
‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something … unexpected. Is someone with you?’
I glance at my mother. ‘Yes, I’m in the car. My … a friend’s driving, it’s okay.’ In the rearview mirror my mother looks quizzical and I shake my head to tell her it’s nothing to worry about. She moves into the fast lane, seeking speed again now we’re so close to safety.
Murray Mackenzie seems to be struggling to find the right words. He starts several sentences, none of them making sense.
‘What on earth has happened?’ I say eventually. My mother’s eyes watch me in the mirror, flicking between me and the road. Anxious on my behalf.
‘I’m sorry to break this to you over the phone,’ Murray says, ‘but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible. Officers are at your house now. I’m afraid they’ve found a body.’
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a cry. Mark.
We should never have gone. We should never have left him to face my father.
Murray Mackenzie is still going. He’s talking about fingerprints and deterioration and DNA and a tentative ID and—
I interrupt, unable to process what I think I heard. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘We can’t be certain, but early indications suggest the body is your father. I’m so sorry.’
The relief I feel that we’re safe is instantly tempered by the knowledge that the only person at Oak View when we left was Mark.
I’ll wait here and call the police.
What if Dad showed up before the police arrived? Mark’s strong; he can take care of himself. Did he attack my father? Defend himself?
‘How did he die?’
I try to work out how long since the Shogun was behind us. Why would Dad go back to Oak View, when he knew we wouldn’t be there? Even if he doubled back straight away, how could he have got there so quickly? In the rearview mirror, my mother is frowning. Hearing half a conversation, even more confused than I am.
‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to be certain, but I’m afraid there’s little doubt he was murdered. I’m so sorry.’
I feel hot, the nausea returning. Has Mark killed my dad?
Self-defence. It would have been self-defence. He can’t go to prison for that, can he?
There’s something pulling at the corners of my mind, like a child tugging my hand and telling me to look … I wonder if my mother is following this; if, in spite of herself, she feels a tug of sorrow at the death of a man she presumably once loved. But in the rearview mirror her eyes are cold. Whatever was once between my parents died a long time ago.
Murray is talking, and I’m thinking, and my mother is staring at me in the rearview mirror, and there’s something about the look in her eyes …
‘… in the septic tank for at least twelve months, probably longer,’ Murray is saying.
In the septic tank.
This has nothing to do with Mark.
I picture the narrow, well-like hole in the garden of Oak View; the bay tree in the heavy pot. I remember Mum’s insistence that we move the pot away; think of her obsession over Robert Drake’s extension. The extension that required digging up the disused tank.
She knew. She knew he was there.
My chest is too tight. Each breath is smaller than the last. My eyes are locked on my mother’s, and although the phone is by my ear, I can’t hear what Murray is saying. I can’t speak. Because I realise there’s only one reason she would know Dad was in the septic tank.
Because she put him there.
PART THREE
FIFTY-FIVE
ANNA
My mother’s eyes flick between me and the motorway. I remain frozen, the phone clamped to my ear. Murray Mackenzie is still talking, but I’m not taking anything in. Mum moves into the fast lane again and we overtake the same couple in the beat-up Astra. Still happy, still singing.
‘Miss Johnson? Anna?’
I’m too scared to answer. I’m wondering if there’s any chance my mother might not have heard what Murray had to say – might not have guessed from my expression what I’ve heard – but the look in my mother’s eyes tells me it’s all over.
‘Give me the phone.’ Her voice shakes.
I do nothing. Tell him, a voice inside screams. Tell him you’re on the M25 in a Volkswagen Polo. They have cameras, motorway patrols, response officers. They’ll get to you.
But my mother speeds up. Cuts back into lane sharply and without warning, the car behind pressing violently on the horn. The volume of traffic that earlier felt comforting now feels terrifying; every car is a potential collision target. Ella’s car seat, once so robust, now appears flimsy and insecure. I tighten the seatbelt around it; pull on my own. Murray’s no longer talking. Either the line’s dropped out or he’s ended the call; assumed I’ve hung up on him again.
‘Who was that in the Mitsubishi?’
Nothing.