The answer is almost more disturbing than the thought that someone wants to kill me: someone wants to terrorise me and make my life a living hell.
That’s what I can’t come to terms with. Never in my whole life have I fucked someone off to the extent that they’d want to ruin my life. Not even Russ Alman. It sounds bizarre to say it, considering the fact that he lost his house and his livelihood when the business collapsed, but I knew him well. And I’d know if he’d harboured those sorts of feelings. Above all else, I need to trust my own instincts. It’s all I’ve got right now.
I try to push the paranoia to the back of my mind and simply take in the scenery around me. I feel dreadful at pushing the memories of Lisa and Jess to one side, but it’s the only way I’ll be able to cope and get through this. I have to go into survival mode. I don’t have anything else.
It’s a good hour or so before I’m in the centre of Innsbruck. It’s a busy place, and I blend in nicely, I think. I feel much more comfortable since changing my clothes and I’m making good progress.
I know no-one’s followed me from the forecourt, and although someone working there will no doubt have found my car empty pretty quickly, there’s not much they could do. If they looked down to the footpath they’d see what appeared to be a completely different bloke just passing by. If they traced the car, then what? Presumably it’d go back to Claude. I can’t be sure, though. For all I know, the car wasn’t even registered to him. If it was, then they’d probably find the link with Jess pretty quickly. And then the search would be on in Innsbruck – big time. Otherwise, it might take them a bit longer. They might do some DNA swabs. Is my DNA even on record? I doubt it. My parents are dead and I don’t have any siblings or children. Or would they have got it from my toothbrush back at home in East Grinstead? That’s the sort of thing you always see on these TV crime dramas.
Either way, they’ll track me down to Innsbruck before too long. All I need to do is keep my head down and well away from any cameras. My main advantage is that they’ll be looking for someone in a shirt and light chinos carrying a holdall, not a guy in a jumper, jeans and beanie hat with a big carrier bag. That should buy me some time.
I follow the signs for the station, or Hbf as they’re written here. It’s a stunning scene – the snow-capped mountains tower over the station. It’s certainly one of the prettiest train stations I’ve been in. Much better than East Grinstead, anyway. It’s just a shame I won’t be staying.
I step inside the station and look up at the large departures board. I’m looking for somewhere further east that’s still in the Schengen Area. That way, I won’t need to show my passport. I know I can’t go much further east. There’s Hungary and Slovenia, but any further than that and I’ll be . . .
That’s when I spot it. The name almost jumps out at me, beckoning me. It seems right.
I spin around on the spot and walk over to the ticket machine. I tap the flag to indicate that I want the instructions in English, and then I scroll through the list of destinations. I take a deep breath and swallow as I tap Bratislava.
34
Dan hasn’t felt anger like this since that night in Pendleton House. Another downside to the once laser-focused local press widening out and becoming more regional is that his own local newspaper has started to include news from the other side of the county. It’s not an area he particularly wants to be reminded of, and those reminders are now stronger than ever as he recognises the face beaming out at him from the front page.
It’s a picture of Mr Duggan – Frank, according to the article, which describes him as a local businessman and philanthropist – who has recently died at the age of eighty-nine. The article makes no mention of his involvement with Pendleton House – good or bad – and describes him as a stalwart of the local community.
Dan had often wondered what had happened to Mr Duggan. He hoped it was one of two things: either he’d seen the error of his ways and changed his behaviour, or he’d been found out and locked away for a very long time. Mostly, though, he tried to forget completely about what went on all those years ago.
The rage burns inside him. A pure fury at realising not that Mr Duggan is dead but that he lived a long and healthy life, dying peacefully in his sleep. He realises that Mr Duggan will never face justice. Ever since that night, that had been what had kept him going. Now, even if the truth about Mr Duggan comes out – which it inevitably will – Dan knows deep down that it will change nothing. He will never have had to truly face up to what he did.
He tears the front page off the newspaper and scrunches it up into a ball, throwing it and the rest of the newspaper into the recycling bin. A few minutes later he’s feeling sick at its presence in his house, so he takes the contents of the recycling bin outside and puts them in the main wheelie bin.
‘Everything okay?’ Lisa calls to him when he gets back inside the house.
‘Fine,’ he replies, heading through into the kitchen to make himself a strong cup of tea.
‘Are you sure?’ Lisa asks.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ he barks, trying to keep a lid on his frustration but failing miserably. ‘I just said I was fine. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Me?’ Lisa says, herself trying to remain calm. ‘Hang on a second, you’re the one responding like this. I only asked if everything was okay. Clearly not, judging by your reaction.’
‘What are you getting at me for?’ Dan replies, feeling his eyes misting over with anger. He can almost see the red fog. ‘I’m fine, alright?’
‘Oh, whatever,’ she replies, turning to leave the kitchen.
Dan grits his teeth. ‘Don’t you fucking dare speak to me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that. With your fucking sarcasm and attitude problem.’
‘Attitude problem? Seriously, Dan? Are you even going to go there right now?’
Whatever he says, and whatever Lisa replies with, it inflames the situation further and infuriates Dan. ‘What are you trying to say, Lisa? Hmm? Go on, tell me. What are you trying to say?’ His face is pressed almost right up against hers. He can see fear in her eyes, but he can also see that she knows he won’t do anything stupid. She knows he’s not that kind of person.
‘Dan, I can’t cope with these mood swings of yours. You can’t just decide to—’
‘Mood swings?’ Dan yells, wheeling away from her before turning back and raising his fist before he even realises what he’s doing. He does realise, though, and he freezes on the spot, his eyes burning into his wife’s as she shoots him a look of disgust and pity.