Terror's Reach (3 page)

Valentin Nasenko’s house sat on a large plot: some two-thirds of an
acre. The frontage was a hundred feet wide and eighty deep, enclosed
within a rendered brick wall. Most of the space was paved driveway,
with decorative shrubbery along the borders. A month ago Valentin
had decided that the greenery served no useful purpose and should
be paved over.

Joe thought this was a shame, especially as it involved ripping out
plants and trees that had been planted at great expense just two years
before. But rather than bring the landscaping firm back, Joe had
offered to do the work himself in his spare time. It kept him busy,
and it kept him fit.
And sometimes it served as a kind of penance.
He’d completed one side of the driveway, and the other side was
coming on well. He’d excavated the land to the correct depth, laid
weed fabric and hardcore. The next task was to add a layer of sharp
sand and compact it to form a bed for the block paving.
Earlier in the week ten tonnes of sand had been delivered in bulk
bags and stored just inside the gates. Now, fetching a wheelbarrow and
a shovel from the garage, Joe began to transport the sand across the
drive and spread it over the hardcore. The ninety-degrees temperature
made it punishing work, but that was good. That was what he wanted.
Within a few minutes he’d settled into a pleasing rhythm. What
he found most satisfying was the simplicity of the task and the
immediacy of the results. He liked the solitude and the fresh air,
and the fact that he could go anywhere in his mind while he worked – or he could just let his mind go blank. Forget everything.
More than once Joe had reflected on the path his life might
have taken had he opted for a trade like this: a life of good honest
labour. If he’d chosen that route he might now be enjoying a happy,
uncomplicated existence with his wife and daughters; instead he
was marooned here, in a seductive illusion of paradise.

He was running the wheelbarrow back for another load when he
caught movement beyond the gates. Angela Weaver was walking
past, pushing her sturdy mountain bike. With her wide-brimmed
hat and floral summer dress she resembled a character from Miss Marple, but her legs were as slim and toned as an athlete’s, and she
had the kind of deep natural tan that came from years of outdoor
living.
She was a familiar and treasured sight, sailing past with her long
grey-blonde hair whipping out behind her and Brel, her elderly yellow
Labrador, hustling in her wake. But Joe wasn’t accustomed to seeing
her like this, trudging by on foot, head down and face hidden.
'Angela?’
She didn’t respond. Joe left the wheelbarrow and walked across the
drive. He saw she was hobbling slightly, and the bike’s front tyre was
flat. Her Labrador looked every bit as tired and dispirited as she did.
'Angela? Are you all right?’
Now she glanced round, her face creased with pain. 'I’m fine.’ She
gave an unconvincing smile. 'I just took a tumble.’
'Let me see.’ Joe hit the button on the post that opened the wrought
iron gates. 'Come in for a minute.’
She angled the bike towards him, the flat tyre splaying on the
ground. For all her stoicism, Joe had the feeling she was actually quite
glad to see him. Brel escorted her through the gates, accepted a quick
rub around the jowls in greeting, then trotted off to investigate the
pile of sand.
'Donald’s always cautioned against my “reckless” cycling, and
now he has irrefutable proof,’ Angela said. She had a clear, well
modulated Home Counties voice; the sort that Joe’s parents would
have teasingly summed up with the word frightfully. But it fitted her
age and appearance so aptly, Joe couldn’t imagine how else she might
sound.

'Did you hit something?’ he asked.
-She shook her head, slightly ashamed. 'I’d just come over the bridge
when I heard an engine. I looked up and found a motorcycle haring
towards me in the middle of the road. Taking the racing line, I suppose.’
She sighed. Joe felt a twinge in his jaw and realised he was gritting
his teeth.

'Goodness knows what speed he was doing,’ Angela went on.
'Anyway, in my panic I swerved towards the verge, while also looking
round for Brel. I hit a fallen branch, burst the tyre and went flying.’
'What about the motorbike? Did it stop?’
'Sadly, no. And I didn’t recognise him. One of Oliver Felton’s friends,
perhaps. I shall have words with that young man.’
Joe held her gaze for a moment. Her eyes were cornflower blue
and very clear, with a vitality that made her look thirty-something
rather than in her sixties. Of all the island’s residents, Angela was
the only one Joe really trusted, the only one he’d come close to
confiding in.
'It’s nothing to do with Oliver,’ he told her. 'In fact, it’s probably

my fault.’

He ran through his brief conversation with the fisherman and
concluded by spreading his hands in an expression of guilt. 'If I hadn’t
been playing the eco-warrior, this wouldn’t have happened.’
'Nonsense. For all you know the man always rides like a maniac.
Besides, you’re quite right to challenge litter louts.’ She gave a
mischievous wink. 'If I had my way, I’d kneecap the halfwits who
throw cigarette butts from their cars. Polluting beaches should be a
capital offence.’
He grinned. 'Well, I’m still sorry it happened. Are you hurt?’
'Not really.’ With no hint of bashfulness, she hoisted the hem of
her dress to mid-thigh. There were grass stains on her shins and a
large graze oozing blood on her right knee. Joe was surprised to hear
a cheerful laugh.
'A schoolboy wound. I look like something out of Just William.’
She refused his offer to fetch the first-aid kit. “I’ll clean it up when I
get home. And then try to get this damn machine roadworthy again.’
I can help you there,’ Joe said. He raised a hand even before she
spoke. 'No arguments. I’m doing it.’
'Very well. But you don’t have to.’
She stood back as he turned the bike upside down, resting it on
the handlebars and saddle, then fetched a box of patches from the
garage. He’d used one a few days ago for an emergency repair on a
big inflatable crocodile that Jaden had burst while playing in the pool.
There were no tyre levers, but he had a Leatherman multi-tool. The
f’l “e, wrapped in a handkerchief to stop it scratching the rim, would
do the job just as well.
Joe rolled the tyre off the rim on one side and the inner tube
flopped out like a dead black eel. He used the bike’s hand pump to
inflate it and locate the puncture: a single tiny hole.
'There we go. Shouldn’t take long to fix.’
'Actually, I’m not sure if I do have a repair kit at home,’ Angela
said. 'I’m very grateful to you.’
'It’s nothing. As a kid I spent half my life messing around with
bikes.’ Joe grew wistful. 'When I was promoted to detective sergeant
I treated myself to a Marin. First brand new bike I’d ever had. I did
the whole South Downs Way a couple of times, before the girls were
born.’
You should get one now.’
'Hmm.’
Angela smiled at his non-committal response. She knew he wouldn’t
buy a bike because that would feel too much like putting down roots;
and Terror’s Reach wasn’t his home, not really.
Although retired, Angela did voluntary work as a counsellor for a
charity in Portsmouth, helping young people with a range of issues
including drug and alcohol dependencies. Consequently she was a
good listener: one who knew when to intervene and when to say
nothing.
Hunched over the bike, Joe found the truth easier to tell. 'Even if
it didn’t cause your accident, I overreacted. It was bloody stupid, risking
a fight over a discarded water bottle.’
'But there wasn’t a fight. You might have felt aggression, and that’s
perfectly natural. All the more so in your circumstances. The crucial
thing is that you controlled it.’
'Only because he backed down. I didn’t even think about Jaden in
that moment. And I’m there to protect him.’
'I can’t imagine Cassie’s children being safer with anyone else.
Don’t forget, a healthy dose of aggression is what the family are paying
you for. It’s part of the job description – as long as it’s channelled
correctly.’

'Maybe that’s the thing. It’s so peaceful here, there’s nowhere to
channel it.’ He waved towards the wheelbarrow. 'Except for work like

this.’
'From what you’ve told me, the crux of your problem is practically
irresolvable. There’s really no alternative to what you’re already doing.

Getting through it, one day at a time.’
Joe pushed his hand through his hair. 'I suppose so. I just thought
I’d gone beyond wanting to settle disputes with my fists. Now it seems
like the impulse was just lying dormant.’
Angela considered for a moment. 'Well, then perhaps you have to
accept that it’s part of who you are. That means coming to terms with
it. Living with it when it’s dormant, and when it’s awake.’
He looked up at her. Her face was solemn, even vaguely sad.
'At the risk of sounding terribly mystical,’ she added, 'I’d suggest it
might be there for a purpose.’

After patching the hole in the inner tube, Joe checked for other punctures,
then ran his hand round the rim to make sure there were no
thorns or grit left inside. He replaced the inner tube, worked the tyre
back into place and finished inflating it.
Angela beamed at him. 'Thank you, Joe. I was dreading what a
drama Donald would have made of this.’
Least I can do.’ He spun the wheel and heard it rub against one
of the brake blocks. 'It’s a bit buckled. Might need straightening.’
Oh, I’m sure it was like that before. It’s an ancient, creaking old
wreck.’ She laughed. 'Just like its owner.’
Joe shook his head, unsure what to say. He could see Angela
reddening slightly. He turned the bike the right way up and rolled it
forward, testing the brakes. They squealed a little, but worked fine.
Angela climbed on and adjusted her sunhat. She called to Brel,
who trotted over, happier for having had a rest. Joe accompanied them
to the gates. There was a car approaching from the north, a sleekooking
Renault with a man at the wheel. He was doing about forty:
not a crazy speed, but still too fast for the island.
'Rather than tempt fate, I’ll wait for him to pass,’ Angela said.
'That’s the guy who’s trying to sell Felton’s place, isn’t it?’
'The estate agent. Yes.’ There was a wry note in her voice, for which
she offered no explanation. Not in the mood for gossip right now, Joe
surmised.
The Renault slowed for a left-hand bend just beyond the Nasenko
property and disappeared from view. Angela pushed down on her right
pedal and wobbled out onto the road.
'Thanks again, Joe. I owe you a favour.’
'No, you gave me some good advice. We’re quits.’
He watched her pick up speed as she cycled towards home. Already
he could feel the negativity returning, seeping through his mind like
a stain. For no matter what Angela had said, he did bear responsibility
for her accident.
It was a salutary reminder to Joe that it wasn’t only good deeds that
were paid forward, but bad ones as well. Another tiny measure of guilt; another bitter taste in his gullet.

Five

Liam Devlin couldn’t bear inactivity. After meeting the others at the
staging post on an industrial estate south of Havant, there had been
a couple of hours with little to do but check over their equipment
and wait. The whole time he was aware of a manic energy surging
through his body. He felt like an overcharged battery, leaking heat
from his pores like acid.
Then came the bad news from Gough. Liam had had concerns
about surveillance from the beginning. Although the beach wasn’t an
ideal vantage point, it was the safest place they could find. The trees
opposite the homes would have been perfect, but all it took was
someone’s dog sniffing them out. . .
On the plus side, Gough’s early retreat gave Liam good reason to
bring the operation forward. Only the first stage, and only by an hour
or so, but at least he’d be moving. There was plenty of waiting still
to come, once they were in place, but that would be easier to handle.
For one thing, he’d have a distraction.
Priya had arrived late for the rendezvous. She was polite but
aloof. She kept to herself during the afternoon, ignoring the repetitive
small talk and jittery gallows humour. A frosty little bitch: that
was the consensus Liam picked up from the others. They were
knuckle draggers, mostly; the type of men who hated authority in
any form. The idea of a woman as second-in-command wasn’t just
alien, but repugnant. The colour of her skin didn’t sit well with
some of them, either.
For Liam, it was different. He was top dog on this mission and he
made sure everyone knew it. Also, his background was white-collar,
so he was used to dealing with snotty bitches in all shapes and shades.
Priya’s typically female air of superiority didn’t threaten him in the
slightest. On the contrary: it gave him a thrill.
From the moment he first set eyes on her, he knew he had to have
her. With a bit of luck and a lot of willpower, he might be able to
keep that desire under control till the job was done. But if not. . .
If not, he’d do it whenever he got the chance.

Liam looked like a bandit in an old-fashioned western. He’d grown his
dark hair to shoulder length. He had a long, drooping moustache,
modelled on the one sometimes sported by the singer Nick Cave, and
he’d gone without shaving for a couple of days. The combination of
the moustache, the stubble and the granite-grey eyes gave him exactly
the right persona: he was one mean sonofabitch. Not to be messed with.
The new look worked equally well as a disguise. He was dressed
like a builder, in heavy boots, jeans and a tight black singlet. When
the job was done he’d shave and cut his hair short. With a good suit
and a neat side-parting, no one would connect him to the grubby
desperado who’d raided the homes of some of the wealthiest men in
Britain.
If there was a drawback, it was that 'grubby desperado’ didn’t seem
to do it for Priya. So far she’d hardly spared him a glance.
That was okay, Liam decided. He liked a challenge. It made the
eventual conquest all the more satisfying.