Her Last Tomorrow (9 page)

These thoughts seem fantastical because they’re so far removed from what we’re used to, but when you sit down and work it out on paper you realise just what simple things you’d have to do to change your life completely. If you want to, that is. Up until Ellie went missing I’d probably have done the same as most other people and just carried on as I was. The easy option, I guess. But now there’s absolutely no question. I’m in no position to let things carry on as they are. Now, things
have
to change. I need Ellie back.

Mark once told me about a local guy who befriended him in prison who claimed he could ‘do him a favour’ if ever he needed it. My fingers grip tightly around my phone in my jeans pocket as I walk, knowing that as soon as I take it out and dial the number, I’ll have made a serious move. Right now, though, to me, it doesn’t seem serious. What seems serious is the fact that my young daughter is missing and in the arms of some crazed psychopath. To get her back, all I need to do is make a phone call and have my sham of a marriage ended, leaving me free to live life as I want to with my daughter back with me. Where’s the decision?

Before I realise it, I’m scrolling through my phonebook to M and tapping Mark’s name. I bring the phone to my ear and wait for the familiar tone of the call to start buzzing. Mark picks up after four rings.

‘Nick! How’s it going mate?’

‘Yeah, good,’ I lie. ‘Well, not great actually. Listen, are you in town? I can’t really talk on the phone.’

‘Christ, mate. I don’t think you’ve phoned me for about six years, and now you phone to say you can’t talk on the phone?’ He laughs.

‘I know. I’ll explain it all in person. It’s just easier,’ I lie. Fact is, there’s a decent chance my phone’s being tapped in to, especially if the police see me as a suspect in Ellie’s disappearance. It’ll be bad enough trying to explain why I’m phoning a convicted criminal for the first time in six years just after my daughter goes missing, but I’ve got an — admittedly weak — excuse for that. ‘I’m having a shit of a time at the moment and my head’s all over the place, so I’m trying to write as much as I can to keep myself sane. I need to pick your brains for some research. I’m writing something set in a prison, and, y'know...'

‘Hah, yeah, I know. No worries. I’m just heading back from the station at the mo. Can meet you in Jubilee Park in five if you like.’

I smile. This is where we’d always go after school to feed the ducks in the pond.

‘Sure, see you then,’ I reply.

Mark was already sitting on the bench overlooking the pond when I rounded the corner into Jubilee Park. He was slouched against the slatted wooden back, eyes closed, face pointing up towards the warm sun.

‘Sorry sir, we don’t allow vagrants to sleep here,’ I said as I walked up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder. He chuckled, immediately recognising my voice.

‘How’s it going mate?’ he said, extending his hand as I sit down beside him.

‘Been better,’ I replied.

‘Yeah, saw all the stuff on Facebook. Grim. Can’t imagine what you must be going through.’

‘Neither can I,’ I said.

‘Rozzers got any idea where she might be?’ Mark asked.

‘Not a bloody clue. Unsurprisingly.’

‘Some things never change. Your head must be all over the place.’

I try to stop myself laughing. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

‘So what’s this research you’re doing?’ he asked, sensing that I wanted him to change the subject. I didn’t.

‘To be honest, mate, I’m not doing any research. I kind of had to say that on the phone as I reckon the police might be tracing my calls.’

‘Shit, why? The Ellie thing?’

‘Yeah. They’ve been asking me weird questions. I suppose the family are automatically the first suspects, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel much better.’

‘What kind of weird questions?’ Mark asked.

‘I don’t think they really believe what I’ve told them. Trouble is, the old bloke who lives across the road seems to have some sort of issue with me. He clearly saw me put Ellie in the car but he told the police he saw nothing. So it’s basically my word against his. And he’s some sort of pillar of the community it seems, while I... Well...’

‘The Angela thing?’ Mark asked.

‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘Don’t worry about it, mate. They always try that route. If you’ve so much as had a copper knock on your door in your entire life they’ll try and hold it against you. Just rise above it.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ I reply, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. ‘Listen, mate, I know we haven’t really spoken for years but I can still trust you, right?’ I notice a look on Mark’s face. ‘Christ. Fuck, no. Nothing like that. Jesus. I can promise you now I had nothing to do with Ellie’s disappearance. But I received an email. A ransom note.’

I show Mark the email on my phone.

‘Fuck,’ he replies.

‘Yeah, exactly.’

‘You reckon it’s genuine?’ he asks.

‘Put it this way. The person who sent it was outside my house. They made some comment about the policeman stood on my driveway. They sent a picture.’

‘Wow,’ Mark says, looking out at the pond. A mallard duck bobs under the water for a couple of seconds, as if shielding his ears from our private conversation.

‘Yeah. Listen, I don’t need the lecture or the matey advice. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. If I have to choose between Tasha and Ellie, there’s no choice to make. Only... Well, you mentioned something a long time ago about a bloke you know who could do favours,’ I say, immediately regretting the daft gangster-movie language.

Mark, quite rightly, laughs. ‘Wait, so you don’t speak to me for six years, you pop up hours after your daughter goes missing and you’re suspect number one, and now you want me to put you in touch with a hit man so you can pop off your missus? You been smoking something, mate?’

I swallow hard. ‘I know it sounds mad. But I know deep down that whoever has Ellie won’t get her back to me unless I do this. The police haven’t got a hope in hell of finding her. The only evidence is the email and if I give them that, whoever’s got Ellie will harm her. I can’t risk that.’

‘But bumping off your wife is a better option?’

‘Yeah, it is,’ I say flatly.

‘Jesus.’ Mark looks out across the pond, his eyebrows raised slightly as he leans forward, rubbing his hands as if rinsing them under an imaginary tap. ‘I dunno. I mean, this isn’t the sort of shit I want to get mixed up in, you know?’

‘He’s a friend of yours isn’t he?’ I ask.

‘Depends what you mean by friend. I know him, yeah. But I wouldn’t invite him over for chicken chasseur and a game of Trivial Pursuit.’ Mark shakes his head. ‘Look, I’m a white collar man, yeah? I don’t get involved in any of this stuff. I’m not a violent man.’

‘Neither am I,’ I say, turning my head to face him. He just raises one eyebrow. ‘That was a long time ago, Mark. You know that.’

‘Yeah I know, sorry. Just a bit shocked, y’know?’

‘I thought you were unshakeable?’ I say, with a wry grin on my face. Mark always prided himself on being a man of the world — an honourable criminal, as some might have said.

‘Well it’s not every day you have a conversation like this, is it? Listen, I’m not going to get involved, alright? I ain’t organising anything. If you want to get in touch with a bloke and do a business deal, that’s your problem. But it’s nothing to do with me. Got that?’

I swallow and nod quickly. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Mark.’

‘Guy’s name is Warren MacKenzie. Drinks in the Talbot Arms. He’s got a couple of Serbian lads who work for him, have done for years. Reliable, like. No-one knows who they are except him, and that’s the way it’s got to be.’

This all seems so surreal. The fact that it’s just like a scene out of a gangster film almost makes me chuckle. Part of me wonders whether Mark’s fucking with me and trying to sound like Don Corleone because he’s on the wind-up. But I’ve known Mark for a long time and I can see in his eyes that he isn’t. For the first time, I think I see fear.

The Talbot Arms is a pub I’ve never been in before. I’ve lived in this town all my life and the pub’s always been here, but I don’t think I know anyone who’s ever been in. Put simply, it’s the roughest of rough estate pubs; a concrete monstrosity covered in St George’s crosses and Sky Sports banners. There’s always at least one window boarded up and you can smell the cigarettes and stale piss from a passing car.

The car-park is strewn with dog ends and lager cans, but there’s a distinct lack of cars. I’m only inches from the door when I suddenly wonder what the hell I’m doing. This is a massive step to take. How do I know I’m not being set up? It’s definitely possible, but the chances are slim compared to the likelihood of me never seeing Ellie again unless I go through with it. Anyway, what harm can a little chat in a pub do?

I push open the door and walk inside. My feet immediately stick to the carpet and I feel eyes on me. This isn’t the sort of place that gets much passing trade and I must stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve got hair, for a start.

I walk up to the bar as casually and confidently as I can and order a lager. The landlord looks at me a second more than would be comfortable and starts pouring. ‘Just moved in,’ I say. Christ knows why. I get my pint of lager and pay for it. The landlord sits on a barstool a few feet away from me, glancing over at a group of four bald men playing pool.

‘I’m actually looking for someone,’ I say. ‘A friend of a friend. Warren MacKenzie, his name is. Does he drink here?’

‘Who’s asking?’ the landlord says, not taking his eyes off the pool table.

‘I am,’ I reply.

He slowly rises and walks over to me, leaning across the bar between two hand-pulls. ‘And who are you?’

‘I’m Nick,’ I say, for some reason extending my hand as if inviting him to shake it. To my surprise, he does. ‘I just need to speak to him. A friend mentioned he might be able to help me with something.’

A wry smile rises up on the landlord’s face and his shoulders rise and fall as he makes a noise that sounds like a deep-sea diver clearing his snorkel. ‘Warren. Bloke over here wants to see you,’ he calls to the guys at the pool table.

One of them stands and walks over to me, not once breaking eye contact as he makes his way across the pub.

‘Yeah?’ he says as he reaches me. He’s a big guy, and he’s wearing a short-sleeved chequered shirt that makes it difficult for me to work out if it’s muscle or fat. There’s a tattoo protruding under the sleeve of his right forearm but I can’t quite make out what it is.

‘Hi. I’m Nick,’ I say, extending my hand like I did with the landlord. Warren’s not quite so accommodating, though, and ignores it, still not breaking eye contact. ‘A friend said you do a bit of work and might be able to help me out, I say.’

‘Yeah, you need an extension building then?’ he replies. I can hear a quiet murmur of chuckles from his friends at the pool table.

I squint at him, unsure as to whether he’s messing with me or if this is meant to be some sort of code. What should I be saying?

‘I need help with a favour,’ I say. It’s all I can think of.

‘Sorry, mate. Don’t do favours. Paid work only. Price of bricks has gone up recently, you see.’ The ripple of laughter from his mates increases.

‘Look, can we talk outside?’ I say. ‘A friend sent me. Said you were reliable. It’s probably best if we talk in private.’

‘Oh is it?’ he replies, edging a couple of inches closer to me. ‘Well I don’t agree. If you want to say something, you can say it here. Who’s your friend?’

‘I can’t say. He asked me not to.’

He responds by making the same snorkel-clearing noise as the landlord did earlier. ‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Out,’ he says, pointing at the door.
 

I can see the menace in his eyes and I’m not going to argue. I fucked that right up.

I open the door and head out into the car park, the soles of my shoes dragging against the tarmac. I sit on a low wall and close my eyes, feeling the sun beat down on the back of my head.

A few moments later, I can hear a metallic scraping noise. I turn and see the landlord repositioning an empty beer keg against the outside wall of the pub. He turns and looks at me before walking over.

‘Don’t worry about Warren,’ he says. ‘He’s just being careful. It’s his way.’

I force a smile and carry on watching the passing traffic.

‘Why did you say you’d just moved in?’ he says, perching on the wall beside me.

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno. Didn’t want to seem odd just walking in randomly.’

‘Warren’s had a few run-ins with the police. As you can imagine, he’s suspicious of people he doesn’t know. I’ve seen your face in the paper, though. I know who you are. Wait there a sec.’

Before I can really process what he means, he’s gone. Less than a minute later he’s back, followed by Warren. I stand and walk towards them as we meet in the middle of the car park.

‘Richard tells me you’re alright,’ Warren says.

‘Yeah. Sorry we didn’t get off to a good start. Not exactly something I’m used to, all this,’ I reply.