See How They Run (33 page)

A
fter speaking to Harry
, Ruth stopped briefly to check her map. Laird had instructed her to go to Ross-on-Wye. Guessing that someone would be posted on the A40 to watch for her approach, she took a succession of minor roads instead.

She felt remarkably calm about the prospect of finally meeting Nathan – perhaps because deep down she suspected it wouldn’t happen. The fact that he’d made the phone call didn’t guarantee his presence.

On the other hand, if Harry was right about it being a trap – and she thought he was – it seemed likely that Nathan would be there to revel in his victory.

It was almost four p.m. when she spotted the turning for the house. She drove past, noting that the landscape around her was densely wooded, with only a handful of properties dotted over the hillside. A bit further on she found the track Harry had mentioned and parked out of sight of the road.

This morning, after Vickery had made a deal and given her car back, Ruth had fully expected it to have been searched. But if it had, they’d missed the compartment for the spare wheel where she had concealed her little box of tricks, which included a length of nylon yacht rope and a folding sheath knife with a four-inch blade.

Retrieving them now, she set off through the trees towards the holiday home. It was cold and dark up here, although the sky overhead held perhaps another thirty minutes of twilight. Once she broke from the cover of the trees she would be fairly easy to spot. Which meant taking things slowly.

That would be fine, if this was only about confronting Laird. But there was also Evie to consider.

She reflected on that pledge to Harry. Hadn’t she known from the start that it was a promise she would struggle to keep?

F
or Nerys
, it felt like a lot of time passed very quickly. Or maybe it was a short time that passed very slowly.

Or it was both. Or neither. Nothing made sense any more.

She was trying so hard to hold it together, when really she ought to just let go. That was the answer. Let go.

She could deal with the pain, just about, but not the fury. The fury that everything had gone so very wrong – and it wasn’t over yet. There was more to come.

Some of her fingers had been broken, and now they were on fire: burning, yet cold. She was shivering, even while the sweat burst out on her forehead and rolled down her temples.

She was in the dining room with Niall Foster and Darrell Bridge. They had placed her on the table, stacking the chairs in the corner to give them more space. The way they worked, quietly industrious, reminded her of tradesmen she’d employed over the years. Plumbers, electricians, joiners. At one point Darrell had actually whistled, though that might have been to block out the shrieking from their victim.

Eventually the door opened. Vickery was back.

‘Still nothing?’

From Foster’s grunt, you might have thought his expertise was being called into question.

Vickery came as close to Nerys as he dared. ‘Tough old bird,’ he said.

‘Too right I am,’ she gasped, almost choking on the blood in her throat. ‘And you … don’t even have the guts to watch, do you?’

‘Tell us where it is, Nerys. Then you can rest.’

‘Wanker! Wish they’d let me take you on.’ She caught Foster smirking and addressed him: ‘Pay good money to see, to see that, eh? Me against this … this little prick.’

Foster didn’t react but Nerys laughed anyway, and coughed up a lot of blood. Bristling at the insult, Vickery went away.

So did Nerys, in a manner of speaking, and when she came back someone else had joined them.

S
he wasn’t completely
certain it was Nathan Laird. But the voice sounded familiar, and the expensive aftershave was true to form.

He crouched very close and whispered in her ear, apologising for what she’d been through, expressing such tender concern for her wellbeing that tears trickled down her cheeks.

‘I st-stayed loyal,’ she told him, more than once. It was vital that he understood. ‘Could’ve sold you out, but I never … never did.’

‘I know.’

‘Some of those little ’uns were … were heading off to good homes, parents who’d love them. But some weren’t. And I—’ A spasm of pain. ‘I kept my mouth shut, either way.’

‘That’s true. You did.’

Her body jerked as he touched her. He started stroking his hand through her hair; gently finger-combing. It felt so extraordinary that she managed to relax; for a moment the agony was forgotten, set aside. This could have been her son, tending to her wounds.

‘L-like that girl, as well. Marisha, was it? I did … all I could to save her. Even in hospital she probably wouldn’t … wouldn’t have made it.’

‘That’s a fair point.’

‘Still, I guessed you’d keep something … to hold over me. Wouldn’t blame you, Mr Laird. But when all this happened, Renshaw turning up … I saw a chance to get things clear. That’s all … all I want, you see. A clean slate.’

‘Don’t worry, Nerys. The slate is almost clean.’

‘And the baby – I mean … that’s an extra. From me to you. G-goodwill.’

‘It’s much appreciated. But now you must tell me where you were hiding Renshaw, so we don’t have to punish your grandchildren.’

‘My … ?’ Her eyes opened briefly.

‘Michael and Robyn’s children. I expect it was Michael who lent a hand? We have his address now. We can go there instead, if you’d prefer? Talk to Michael, and Robyn. And the children.’

‘No.’

After she’d given up her own address, she heard him issuing instructions to Foster and Bridge. Nerys wanted to interrupt, to say how important it was that no harm came to Michael or the children, but speech had become impossible.

There was a feeling of pressure on her throat that wouldn’t clear. She opened her eyes again and found Laird’s upper body looming over her. His forearm was resting on her throat and he was pushing down, harder and harder until black stars exploded in her eyes, and the world with Michael and her beloved grandchildren and everyone else in it began to slip away.

R
uth moved cautiously
through the trees, grateful that the earlier rainfall had softened the leaves and made them quieter underfoot. After ascending a steep ridge she came to a perimeter fence comprised of posts and railings, topped with barbed wire. She used a fallen branch to press the barbed wire low enough to climb over, then slowly advanced.

As the trees thinned out, she could see the edge of a lawn, about sixty yards away. Then the house came into view. It was a substantial white stucco and grey-slate building, with a garage on the side nearest to Ruth and some kind of annexe behind the garage. A Range Rover was parked between the two buildings.

The main gardens lay beyond the annexe, and ran right out to the edge of the gorge itself. More trees enveloped the steep slopes, which dropped to the river valley hundreds of feet below.

She moved on a little further, then stopped. Now she could see the outline of another structure, possibly a summer house, screened by shrubbery on the far side of the lawn. She thought she spotted a silhouetted figure moving out of sight at the front of the structure. It was gone before her eyes could register what they had seen, leaving Ruth to wonder if she had imagined it.

S
he paused
, taking a moment to steady herself while she assessed her options. She could hear leaves rustling gently around her, as well as the distant, almost subliminal rush of the river. An owl hooted suddenly, not too far away, and it seemed to Ruth like a call to arms.

There were plenty of lights on in the house, but all the windows were covered by curtains and blinds. From this position Ruth couldn’t see how many vehicles were parked out front, so she edged away to her right, tracking parallel to the side of the house. Here the trees gave way to a small area of cultivated plants and bushes. Beyond that was another thin section of grass, and then a wide driveway that opened out to a parking area directly in front of the house.

There were two cars here: identical E-class Mercedes, probably rented from wherever they’d flown in. Ruth felt a little frisson.

She crept out of the trees and crouched down behind a large hydrangea. There was still too much light in the sky for her liking: another half hour and it would be much easier to move without being seen. But it was a bit too long to wait, unless she was willing to disregard her commitment to Harry.

Noises at the house caught her attention. The clunk of a door opening; low muttering voices. Two men hurried out and made for one of the Mercedes. She recognised them both: Niall Foster and Darrell Bridge. Bridge had what looked like a port wine birthmark on his face, which puzzled Ruth until she remembered the booby trap in Renshaw’s kitchen.

She smiled grimly. Bridge was a man who deserved to suffer.

T
heir urgent departure was a puzzle
, but one Ruth welcomed. The odds against her had just improved a little.

She waited till the car’s engine had faded completely, studying the house the whole time. Half a dozen windows, four of them with faint illumination behind the curtains. No movement anywhere.

A glance upwards. The sky was the rich blue shade of the ink she’d used in her fountain pen at school. For a second she was transported back to that era: for a second she could remember what it was to be wholly innocent and innocently brave, untainted by life and experience.

This moment, she understood, was the last point at which she could change her mind, turn away, retreat.

She thought about what – or who – might await her, inside the house. Vickery, and at least one or two others. She thought about Evie, too, and the responsibility she had assumed on Harry’s behalf.

But mostly she thought about Benjamin, and the way that losing her son had hollowed her out, leaving a great black hole in her consciousness.

She rose slowly, took one last look around, then sprinted to the entrance, stepping lightly from grass to the stone paving that led up to a small open porch. An old pair of boots and a broken umbrella had been left to the mercy of the elements.

The front door was as sturdy and well-protected as Ruth would expect of a holiday home in a remote location. There was no way she could break in without making a lot of noise.

She put her head to the door and listened carefully, but heard nothing inside. Keeping low, ducking beneath a couple of windows, she crept to the far side and listened again, then risked a quick look round the corner. A path ran beside the house, bordered by bushes and a few thin trees. There were soil and water pipes fixed to the wall, suggesting that the bathroom and kitchen were on this side.

Better still, about halfway along she could see a doorway, and a vertical sliver of timber that might be the edge of a door, suggesting it was open.

Ruth was about to investigate it when her senses picked up a threat from somewhere. She moved back out of sight. Moments later she heard the soft thud of footsteps on grass. Someone was approaching the house, possibly from the summer house in the garden.

A louder tapping sound as the shoes hit the path for several paces, and then stopped. She waited to hear a door open or close, but nothing happened.

She counted off five seconds, then decided to take a look.

I
t was Mark Vickery
. Fortunately he had his back to her. He was wearing the same shirt and trousers as this morning, with the addition of a grey silk waistcoat. He seemed perfectly relaxed, anticipating no danger as he loitered on the path.

She watched him take a small box from his pocket and consider it for a moment: cigarettes. With a gentle sigh, he flipped it open and upended the box, tapping a cigarette into his palm.

‘Can’t quite kick the habit?’

Vickery jumped, the box falling from his hand as he spun, completely unprepared, and Ruth landed a savage punch to the side of his neck, just below his left ear. She followed up with a kick to the groin, and then a blow to the temple as he was falling. Vickery went down like a sack of cement.

Wasting no time, she grabbed his feet and dragged him into the bushes. Cut a length of the rope and used it to tie his hands and feet. He was already coming round, trying to speak, so she sliced through his waistcoat, removing a long strip of material to use as a gag.

He stared at her, wide-eyed and struggling to focus. Even with the gag, he was making a lot of noise, whining in his throat.

‘Bad idea.’ Ruth jabbed the knife at his forehead, opening a small but nasty cut. ‘One more squeak and I’ll come back and kill you.’

Vickery flinched, squinting at her as if he was only now registering who she was. Evidently he took her threat seriously, for he shut up.

A
s she’d guessed
, the back door was standing open. Ruth scooped up the cigarettes and tossed them into the bushes, then stepped into the house.

The kitchen was a good size, a bit dated, and hadn’t seen much use lately – other than today’s visitors helping themselves to tea and coffee. A couple of dirty mugs sat on the unit, and there was a sprinkling of sugar on the counter next to a recently boiled kettle.

The kitchen door was open, showing a gloomy hallway. As she moved towards it, the floor creaked beneath her foot. She almost stopped, but knew that would make it worse.

‘Mark?’ It was a woman’s voice: Sian Vickery, Mark’s sister.

Knife at the ready, Ruth hurried along the hall and saw four rooms leading off it. Two doors were open and two were shut.

The first doorway revealed a dining room. The body of a plump, dark-haired woman was lying on the table. This must be Renshaw’s former colleague, Nerys. Both the table and the floor below it were splattered with blood, but Ruth wasted no time checking to see if the woman was alive.

T
he other open
door led to a lounge at the front of the house. There was a TV playing quietly – a property show – and another sound which Ruth couldn’t place at first. Then she realised it was a baby, grizzling in a sort of low-level way, as if too weary to make a proper fuss.

More of the room came into view, but she couldn’t see Sian Vickery. She could, however, see the baby, lying on a hard wooden floor in front of a stone hearth. The fire wasn’t lit, but still it shocked Ruth: the image it evoked was that of an offering, a gift to placate a higher power.

What she did next was foolish in the extreme. Obeying some long-dormant maternal impulse not to leave an infant where it could come to harm, she strode into the room and had fully cleared the doorway before her other, more primitive instinct reasserted itself.

Trap
.

Sian had hidden behind the door. A neat move on her part, but she probably hadn’t had time to find a weapon: she would have to hit or claw at Ruth, maybe try to wrestle her to the ground.

With yesterday’s humiliating ambush sharp in her mind, Ruth darted to her left and turned side on, raising her right arm across her chest. As Sian blundered towards her, Ruth planted her feet and jabbed her elbow with maximum force, catching Sian on the temple. It was a clean, hard strike that felled the woman like a rotten tree in a storm.

Ruth used more of her rope to bind Sian’s hands and feet. The woman remained deeply unconscious, so Ruth put her in the recovery position, in spite of a conviction that such care was more than Sian warranted.

T
he room had been recently colonised
, by the look of it: there were nappies and wet wipes and a bottle of white wine, half empty. It must have got boring, watching the baby while the others tortured their victim in the dining room.

Evie had gone quiet. She was lying still, as if concentrating, alert to the change of circumstances. Ruth smiled. Smart cookie, this little girl. Harry and his wife should be proud.

She knelt at the baby’s side, moving slowly so as not to startle her. Whispered a greeting, and then gently eased her hands beneath the tiny body before lifting her and holding her against her chest. It felt alien yet completely natural, a long-neglected but never forgotten ability, like swimming. Like riding a bike.

Mother love.

She carried Evie into the hall and stopped, listening hard. She didn’t think there was anyone else in the house. She could leave now, she realised.

She
should
leave now, because she had what she came for. The promise to Harry: she’d find his daughter, and keep her safe.

But.

Ruth remembered that glimpse of a figure by the summer house.

She wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.