Two men escaping. Perhaps reason enough, in a panic, to blast away. But the woman?
‘You shot this woman out of the blue,’ Brad said. ‘She didn’t try to escape. She didn’t move. She didn’t do anything. There was no reason to kill her.’
‘You were chasing Miss High Heels through the woods, so how would you know? Maybe she pulled a weapon.’
Last he’d seen, the dead woman had been shivering with fear, a million miles from launching a counter-attack against two masked gunmen. ‘You planned to kill them all. Not just Grafton. Not just a scare. Kill them all. Everyone here tonight. Planned all the way.’
Mick stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
‘This doesn’t work if the woman who got away from you in high heels saw a face that wasn’t dark-skinned, does it? So, can you be sure she didn’t see your shiny white skin?’
‘I didn’t let her escape on purpose,’ Brad said, shifting the focus from the question. Because she might have seen white skin through the large eyeholes in his ski mask. And that would well and truly fuck up the plan. ‘Since we’re in this shit together, at least admit you came here planning to kill everyone.’
‘What did you think, we’d blast Grafton away and make the others do pinky promises that they wouldn’t tell? Besides, any friend of his doesn’t deserve to live.’
A scary thought. Brad wondered what would have happened if this party had been for thirty or forty people. He wondered if he had really believed Mick’s assertions that the plot had been to steal Grafton’s money and smash his legs and spine to confine him to a wheelchair. But it was what it was, and they had to deal with it. They didn’t have a choice.
‘So what’s next?’
Mick walked to the sofa and sat down, just feet from the dead woman. The cushions moved under his weight, and the woman’s head lolled to one side. Mick laid his head on hers, like lovers watching a romcom, and laughed at Brad’s expression.
‘We need to find the wife. Tonight; because when she finds out her hubby’s dead, she’ll have no reason not to go to the cops. Let’s not panic, though. We’ve got all night.’
‘We don’t have to do that,’ Dave said, shocked. ‘She didn’t see our faces. She can’t tell anyone. The so-called plan still works. It could still work if we torched this joint.’
Mick stared at Brad.
Brad stared back.
And then Brad said: ‘I don’t know if she saw I was white.’
Dave started to complain again. Mick halted him with a raised hand.
‘Don’t worry, Dave, because Brad got the registration of the car she jumped in. Right, Brad?’
Brad nodded. ‘I got both. Two cars out there.’
‘There we go. Good news all round. Dave, you go and make sure we haven’t left anything that can make Her Majesty our landlady for the next fifty years, like some of that cheap tacky jewellery dripping off you with your name all over it. Brad, you go to the shed. Then we find whoever picked up the wife and make him wish he hadn’t. I’ll call Król for that shit. Right up his alley. Then we go home and celebrate. That’s a plan and a half. Grafton’s going to spare me a bottle of Scotch. I reckon he won’t mind. I’ll ask him and take silence as a yes.’
‘And what’s in the shed that you could possibly want?’ Brad said. He had a notion in mind, but dearly hoped he was being silly.
Mick’s grin said he wasn’t in luck. ‘This is my one and only date with Grafton, and I’m not leaving the dance early.’
Three
Karl
He had been on his way to a house in Wilmington, to see a client, but that plan was out the window. Once he was through the housing estate, he cut north on Leyton Cross Road because a sign pointed that way for the A2 which he could use to get back to London. As if sensing that he had changed his route, the woman in the summer dress asked him where he was going.
‘To a police station,’ he said, surprised. Where did she think – Alton Towers?
Since reaching lights and civilisation, she seemed to have calmed down. But suddenly she appeared agitated.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, his own fear rising. He checked the mirrors, just in case she’d spotted a tail. He imagined a man on a bike emerging out of the darkness like a ghost ship, but the world behind was black and blank.
‘We need to go somewhere safe,’ she said.
He was full of conflicting emotions. The urge to do the right thing was wrestling a cowardly craving to stop and kick her out. He didn’t like hassle, and this was a big one. At the same time he was annoyed at her for dumping a shitstorm in his lap, and embarrassed that he felt that way.
‘What do you mean? Police stations are safe places. You’re making no sense. You want this guy caught, right?’ Plural, he remembered. More than one guy.
Her hand went onto his arm, which made him jerk and almost tug the van into the oncoming lane and an insurance claim by a people carrier.
‘Jesus.’
‘Just take me somewhere safe. Then you can go back to your quiet life and forget about me.’
He laughed. Disbelief, not amusement. ‘How about the 71st Signal Regiment?’ They’d passed a sign for the barracks a minute earlier.
And then she started to cry. He thought about putting an arm on her shoulder, just for comfort, then thought better of it. If he tried to console every lost soul in London, he’d have to give up work and drink a lot more caffeine. He wasn’t Florence Nightingale. He’d rescued her on a dark road, so it wasn’t as if he was being unkind.
He pulled out his mobile phone and started to type, but she snatched it from him and tossed it down by her feet. Without a word. And that was when he knew: she had a problem with going to the police. And he thought he knew why.
‘You know these people. That’s why no police, isn’t it? I see your wedding ring. Is it your husband? Is he a wife beater? Were you running from him? Him and his pals? Did they get too drunk or something? Started trouble?’
She didn’t answer. He took a sharp left, and they drove west with the A2 running parallel on the right. She stared out of the side window, forehead on the cold glass. No answer from her, which was answer enough.
‘Did he hurt you? What happened?’ No response. ‘Hey, just because this guy’s your husband, it doesn’t mean he’s allowed to smack you around.’
No answer. He’d read about beaten wives before. About their desire to believe their violent partners were good men. He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. He would take her to the police station and that would be his part over. If she chose to pretend to the boys in blue that nothing had happened, that she had walked into a door or fallen down the stairs, well, that was her choice. His good deed for today would be done.
But her continued silenced gnawed at him. He imagined a big man making this little woman cower in a corner. Hitting her. Begging for forgiveness afterwards, and getting it. Again and again. And that made him angry.
‘You’ve got to tell the cops about him, before he bloody kills you next ti—’
‘I don’t know who they were,’ she cut in. ‘It’s not my husband. It was my husband they came for. They came to hurt him. He…’
She fell silent. He looked at her for so long that the van drifted, and he had to jerk the wheel to retain the road. She had been about to admit something, he figured. Something she suddenly decided she didn’t want him to know. Something that would explain why her husband had the sort of enemies who’d crash a party to get at him, who’d hurt his wife to hurt him. But that just made it stranger that she wouldn’t go to the cops. She wasn’t think— ‘—ing straight,’ he said out loud. ‘We should go to the police right now. Your husband might be hurt. He might need help.’
‘I just need somewhere safe. I will go back to the cottage tomorrow.’
He laughed. Disbelief. ‘This is stupid. You can’t just hide away. Is there someone you know? We could call the cottage. Maybe he’ll answer, and all will be fine.’