See How They Run (8 page)

O
n Friday morning
Harry left the house with two questions uppermost in his mind. Would Ruth Monroe be following him again – and could he trust her?

The weather was unexpectedly glorious for November: mild and still, the sunlight diffused by a gauze of morning mist. Harry took a bus to Queens Road, then strolled down the hill to Middle Street. He saw no sign of anyone watching him.

He made the call as he walked. Ruth answered on the fourth ring, her voice thick with sleep.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Probably nothing, but I’d prefer to discuss it in person.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ A groan; the creak of bedsprings. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’

‘I’ve got to work this morning. How about lunchtime?’

‘Can it wait till then?’

‘Yes, I think so. Same place as before, at twelve o’clock?’

‘No. Let’s meet on the lower esplanade, near the Pump Room cafe. Make sure you use the same evasion techniques as yesterday.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ The scornful tone was deliberate. He figured that if Ruth was part of the gang, she’d be less inclined to persist with this rigmarole.

‘If you don’t do it, I won’t be there to meet you,’ she said, and rang off.

S
am was
at his desk when Harry got in, a half-empty jug of coffee on a hotplate beside him. He was wearing his Harman Kardon noise-cancelling headphones: a sure sign that he needed to work without being disturbed. A quick nod and a smile, then he was back to his screen. That was fine with Harry.

After clearing his emails and dealing with some of the usual administrative crap, he tried to focus on his storyboard project. During the night he’d thought up a couple of great sequences, but now he struggled to see what had made them so special.

He felt exhausted. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time, and by six a.m. he’d been back downstairs, roaming the house to check it was secure, then drifting and dozing on the sofa until he heard movement in the bedroom.

After making tea for Alice, he’d sat on the bed while she fed Evie. Alice hadn’t slept well, either, so they were both a bit grumpy and uncommunicative. Only when it was time for him to leave for work did the barriers come down. They shared a long embrace, and then a kiss that became a little more than a gesture of farewell.

‘Mmm,’ Alice had said. ‘This is a bad time to feel horny.’

‘So when’s a good time any more?’

‘Ah, come on.’ She gave him a playful swipe. ‘Tomorrow morning, if Evie permits?’

‘Evie never permits. She’s got a built-in nookie detector. A sibling preventer.’

Alice laughed. ‘Okay. Then we’ll see if one of the grannies will have her for a bit.’

Harry was sceptical: on the only occasion they’d tried it, his mother had phoned in a panic after less than an hour, his dad trying gamely to sing a lullaby in the background while Evie bawled her little lungs out.

‘It must eventually get easier.’ Alice ran her hand over his buttocks. ‘One way or another, we’re due for a bit of fun this weekend.’

‘Deal.’ Solemn again, he said, ‘I’m still not sure I should be leaving you …’

‘It’s
fine
.’ What followed was a rerun of yesterday’s debate about the wisdom and practicality of Harry neglecting his work to look after his family. Making light of what she called her ‘night terrors’, Alice insisted that she really didn’t need him cluttering up the house.

‘All right,’ he agreed ruefully. ‘But keep the doors locked and bolted. If anyone comes round, call the police.’

She looked amused. ‘And say what? “Hello, yes, our lives were threatened two days ago. We couldn’t be arsed to report it at the time, but we’d still like you to take it seriously, please.”’

‘It’s not like that—’

‘It
is
like that, Harry.’ She shrugged. ‘That was the choice we made. For better or worse, we’re on our own now.’

W
ell
, maybe they were and maybe they weren’t. Hopefully Harry would find out soon whether Ruth Monroe could be trusted. And then, tonight, he’d face the awkward task of explaining her involvement to Alice …

At ten o’clock he had a meeting with three of the animators to review progress on a commission from an ad agency on behalf of a major car manufacturer. It was a sign of how bad Harry looked that his team expressed sympathy for once, rather than just teasing him for his lack of sleep. He felt like a rat, going along with their assumption that Evie was to blame.

The brief called for a volcanic eruption, and Harry came up with some suggestions to improve the flow and thickness of the lava; some tweaking to the play of light which should make the stream appear hotter and more viscous. Other than that, it looked good to go.

Back at his desk, he thought about calling Alice but decided it might unnerve her if he showed too much concern. He settled for a quick text:
Everything ok? xx

She replied immediately:
Fine x

He could almost picture her irritation that he was fussing. That shouldn’t stop him from phoning later, though. After his meeting with Ruth.

It wouldn’t have made any difference if they
had
spoken. It wouldn’t have altered how things turned out. But Harry would come to despise himself for that decision all the same.

A
lice was beginning
to question whether she was losing her mind. Three times she found herself at the bedroom window, with no recollection of the thought processes that had led her there. Was this how she was cursed to spend her days? A curtain-twitcher, compelled to waste every free moment observing what had once been her lovely, ordinary street?

Evie certainly wasn’t impressed: she kicked and squealed in her mother’s arms, and fought against sleep. It left Alice feeling even more exhausted, and doubtful of her abilities as a mother.

She held the baby at eye level and spoke quietly but firmly, Evie gazing at her with a sense that she knew this was important.

‘Listen, my darling. If I was as tired as you are – which I am – and someone was offering me the chance to sleep, I would bite their bloody hand off. So why stay awake, baby? Why do you do this to me?’

Evie smacked her lips together, as if formulating a reply; then she made a cooing noise and solemnly expelled a bubble from her mouth. Alice burst out laughing.

‘You win me over. You always find a way to win me over.’

F
inally
, Evie slept. Alice tidied up, then made tea and was carrying it through to the living room when the phone rang. Not Harry, but Uncle Steve, wanting to make sure she was all right.

‘You’ve not seen any sign of the scrotes that did it?’

‘No. Harry didn’t get much sleep last night, listening out for them, but we’re good, thanks.’

By the time she rang off she was back at the window, but her view of number 43 was obscured by parked cars. It would be better upstairs …

She was thwarted by a cry from the Moses basket next to the sofa. Alice managed a few gulps of tea and a single chocolate digestive before the cries grew too heart-rending to ignore. She put a hand over her mouth, stifling the response that had popped into her head:
Give me five minutes, can’t you?

It was stress, of course, brought on by the events of the other night, as well as the wearying grind of coping with a new baby. And Evie was overjoyed to see her, kicking and waving with an enthusiasm that shamed Alice to her core.

Catching a familiar whiff, she checked Evie’s nappy and pulled a face. ‘Let’s clean you up, then maybe we’ll lie on the bed and play, shall we?’

Not just an excuse to go upstairs, she told herself. Besides, the Metanium ointment was in the bathroom.

First a quick look out of the bedroom window. Nothing different about number 43 today, although she was in time to see Lawrence Wright emerge from his home and make for a Toyota Yaris parked a little further along the road.

Her phone buzzed: a text from Harry. She replied, feeling slightly disappointed that he hadn’t bothered to call, even though she knew how engrossed he became.
You were the one who persuaded him to go to work in the first place, remember
.

Crouching by the bed, she removed Evie’s leggings, undid her bodysuit and opened the nappy. ‘Ugh, baby. You’ve put me off refried beans for life!’

Her tone prompted Evie to smile, as though accepting a fine compliment. Over the sound of her own voice, and some distant drilling that had been intermittently disturbing her all morning, Alice heard the familiar rattle of the letterbox, the soft thud of post hitting the mat.

She grabbed the wet wipes and started cleaning Evie at twice the normal speed. Her heart was thumping like mad; she realised she was steeling herself for a knock on the door.

Don’t be silly. Lightning doesn’t strike twice
.

With Evie in a clean nappy, Alice washed her hands and then checked the window again. A blue Peugeot estate drove past from left to right. The driver didn’t so much as glance in her direction, but she had a vague impression that she’d seen him before. Could he have been the man at the end of the street yesterday morning?

At number 39 the window cleaner was using a telescopic pole to reach the upper windows. He was a plump Latvian man who worked with his son, the pair of them gently bickering the whole time. From Port Hall Road she could hear builders at work: the boom and clang of rubble being tossed into a skip. Overhead the bloody seagulls were swooping and squawking, and there were distant screams of laughter from the playground at Stanford Infant school.

And cutting through all these distractions, a soft voice in her head:
Go and see what it is
…

E
vie was probably
safe enough on the bed, but Alice had heard too many horror stories about babies coming to grief when left for only a few seconds. She carried her downstairs, pausing at the bottom to scoop up the post.

Four items. She wasn’t able to examine them until she was sitting on the sofa with Evie propped up on her lap.

Two white A5 window envelopes, one addressed to her, the other to Harry: financial stuff. An insulting item of junk mail from their internet provider, offering new subscribers a far better deal than Alice and Harry were getting. Finally, a small padded envelope, which contained something tiny and rectangular, but fairly rigid. Plastic rather than metal, she thought.

She turned the package over. The address was handwritten, in shaky capital letters, and the sight of it made her cry out. Her heart raced as she stared at the words in front of her.

Mr E Grainger, 34 Lavinia Street, Brighton BN1 5PD.

H
arry felt even more
self-conscious than he had yesterday, weaving through the city streets on the way to his rendezvous with Ruth. Was she following him again?

As he’d got up to leave the office, Sam had slipped off his headphones and apologised for being so uncommunicative. Did Harry fancy a quick drink?

‘Can’t, sorry. Got some errands to run.’

‘Shame. You look dead on your feet, mate.’

That morbid phrase seemed about right, Harry thought. Still, it felt good to be outside. The morning mist had dissolved and the city was bathed in bright autumn sunshine. There was a bracing chill to the air that tasted sweet in his mouth.

Having taken a detour along Russell Road, behind the Brighton Centre, he crossed the seafront road at the lights by the Hilton Metropole hotel and took the east ramp to the lower esplanade. The west ramp was closed while construction work continued on the city’s new tourist attraction, the i360. The five-hundred-foot tower had been assembled during the summer and now loomed over the entire city; with its glass passenger pod not yet attached, Harry thought the sleek silver tube had a slightly malevolent presence. Dubbed the ‘iSore’ by critics, it had been likened to a gigantic chimney, or a missile, while Sam had joked it was only right that Brighton and Hove could boast of the tallest erection on the South Coast.

Harry was passing the volleyball court when he heard a whistle, and Ruth materialised alongside him. Today her hair was dark blonde, shoulder length, and she was wearing sunglasses and a black leather jacket.

‘New look?’ he commented.

‘I try to vary my appearance. You never know who might be watching.’

‘You honestly think that?’

‘Yes, I do. Why?’

‘This subterfuge; I can’t help wondering if it’s a bluff.’

She turned to study his face. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh? Because the tension’s coming off you like steam from a kettle.’

Unwilling to speak, he skirted around the volleyball court. There were too many people outside the Pump Room to have a conversation like this. He walked briskly, but Ruth had little difficulty in matching his pace.

‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘After giving it some thought, you’re not sure if you can trust me.’

‘Would you blame me if I don’t?’

‘Not really. Especially after I warned you that they might come back.’

Her words hung in the air. Before Harry was completely sure that he should confide in her, he found himself saying: ‘I think they
have
come back.’

H
arry headed
for the beach and Ruth followed without protest. The crunch of their feet on shingle sounded like the cascade of coins from a slot machine. Fifty yards to their right, a few tourists were taking photographs of the i360, as well as the sad, skeletal remains of the West Pier, but the rest of the beach was deserted.

Stopping on a ridge overlooking the shoreline, he said, ‘We had a visit last night. A man and a woman, claiming to be police officers.’

‘And you don’t think they were genuine?’

‘One of them held out what appeared to be a warrant card, but I was too shocked to look at it properly.’ He described the conversation they’d had; the possible slip-up over the point of entry. ‘We didn’t let on that we suspected them. It seemed safer not to say anything.’

‘Did they tell you which station they were from? Were you given a card or a reference number?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘Then I think you’re right to be worried, Harry.’ Her cool gaze skewered him with its perception. ‘And now you’re thinking that maybe I’m a phony, too?’

Harry didn’t flinch in his answer: ‘Well, are you?’

For a long moment there was no reaction. Then she shook her head. He caught a gleam of amusement in her eyes; perhaps even a little admiration.

‘No, Harry. This is not another ruse to get information from you. But since I can’t prove a negative, you’ll either have to trust me or walk away.’

With a sigh, Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and faced the sea. A few streaks of cloud drifted along the horizon like smoke from a distant war zone.

He heard Ruth moving, thought for a second she was abandoning him, but after inspecting the ridge for damp, she chose a patch of dryish stones and sat down.

‘Were there any discrepancies between what you said during the break-in and what you told these visitors last night?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘And you didn’t mention me?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘What about your wife? Did she give anything away?’

‘No, she—’ Harry stopped, but it was too late. ‘Alice doesn’t know about you yet. I held off because I wanted to meet up today and …’ He opened his hands and let them slap against his sides.

‘Makes sense,’ Ruth agreed. ‘It would be one hell of a deception to send me in like this, but not impossible. Except they didn’t, okay? I don’t work for them.’

‘So I trust you or walk away?’ he said.

‘That’s about it. Your call, Harry.’

H
e couldn’t walk away
; not with that nagging voice saying it was a mistake to go it alone. If there was any chance at all that Ruth could help, Harry had to take the risk. Besides, he could also play it cagey: he didn’t have to tell her about Alice receiving the parcel.

He sat down, and Ruth produced a small notebook and pen.

‘Give me the names of those cops. I can get them checked out.’

‘So you
are
a police officer? Or you were?’

All he got was a shrug. ‘Names?’

‘Uh, DI Warley. Dean. And the woman was … Sian. Sian Cassell.’

Ruth seemed to react to the name
Sian
. She asked him to describe them both.

‘He was in his mid-thirties, about five ten, not fat but solid. Dark curly hair. Bad skin, with a lot of acne scars.’

‘Accent?’

‘South East. A deeper voice than the man on Wednesday. The woman was thirtyish, painfully thin with a narrow face, and sort of pinched features. Long red hair, pulled back in a Croydon facelift.’ He cracked a smile but Ruth ignored the reference. ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘I think so. There’s a Sian who’s part of this organisation.’

Harry deflated at the news. He realised he’d been clinging to the hope that they were genuine detectives.

‘And what kind of organisation is it, exactly? I know they’re criminals, but what do they do?’

Ruth let out a long sigh, which seemed to signal that she had made a decision.

‘It starts with an old-time villain called Kenny Vaughan. A serious face in his day. Armed robberies in the 1970s, then drugs in the eighties and nineties. A gang like Vaughan’s is hard to bring down. The main men keep a safe distance from any incriminating activity. But one day Kenny let his temper get the better of him. He suspected one of his subordinates of cheating him, and beat the man to death with a crowbar, in a warehouse containing a shipment of heroin with a street value of forty million pounds. Unfortunately for him, the police had the warehouse under surveillance at the time.’

Harry whistled. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this.’

‘It was a while back. 2002. The first trial collapsed amid allegations of jury tampering, but Vaughan was finally sentenced to thirty years. Most of his key people went down with him. The gang collapsed, and rival operators moved in to carve up the territory for themselves.’

Harry was puzzled. ‘So how does this relate to us?’

‘Three men were absent when the police raid took place. A violent enforcer, Niall Foster, his sidekick, Darrell Bridge, and a young man called Nathan Laird. Nathan was just beginning a partnership with Vaughan, part of a plan to diversify, steering the business away from the high-risk area of drugs into something nearly as lucrative, but a lot safer.’

‘Like what?’

Ruth shook her head: he was interrupting her flow. ‘Once Vaughan was in custody, the other three melted away. Laird’s whereabouts are still unknown, but Foster and Bridge re-surfaced a while back, along with another man, Mark Vickery. Vickery’s also white-collar, a crooked accountant. He wasn’t involved in the original set-up with Vaughan, but he does have a close connection to Nathan Laird. The two of them were childhood buddies.’

‘So you think Laird is involved with these other three?’

‘I’m certain of it. Foster and Bridge are a couple of Rottweilers, and Vickery doesn’t have the power or charisma to keep them in check. More likely he’s fronting for Laird.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’m still trying to get to the bottom of that. There seem to be plenty of legitimate – or semi-legitimate – businesses. Bars, nightclubs, a hotel. Along with that, I think it’s probably the same operation that Nathan embarked on back when he first started working with Kenny Vaughan. Prostitution. The flesh trade.’

T
here was a brief
, sombre silence. Harry still wasn’t sure whether to mention the parcel. First he wanted to know how this connected to him.

Ruth explained: ‘The men I tracked to Brighton on Wednesday night were Foster and Bridge, along with a driver, who I didn’t recognise.’

‘And the fake cops?’

‘I’m not sure about this guy Warley, but the woman is probably Sian Vickery, Mark’s sister.’

‘Okay, so why is this so important to you? That’s what I can’t work out. Why are you taking all these risks to follow them?’

He wasn’t expecting a candid response to such a personal question, but this time Ruth replied without hesitation.

‘They murdered my husband.’