The Catch (3 page)

Nobody spoke as they watched Hank O’Brien depart. A deeply unpleasant man, for sure, and now a deeply unhappy one. Dan had no doubt that O’Brien would make good on his threat.

‘Thank you for helping,’ Cate said, pointedly ignoring Robbie.

‘Are you okay?’ Dan asked, seeing that she was fighting back tears.

‘Actually, no. I’m in a stinking temper, which is why I’m going to get out of here before I say something I might regret.’

She picked up her bag. Dan said, ‘Shall I walk you to your car, in case he’s still out there?’

‘If he is, I’m going to bloody kill him.’ From the look on her face Dan wouldn’t have bet against it. She gave her brother a similarly ferocious glare, then marched out.

Robbie waited till she’d gone before he met Dan’s eye. ‘
Gary
? Do I look like a
Gary
?’

‘It was the first name that came into my head.’

‘Mm. Quick thinking, I’ll give you that.’

Dan grunted. ‘We may as well get off now.’

‘Just a second.’

Leaving Dan to pick up the overturned chair, Robbie sauntered over to the bar, choosing a spot about six or seven feet from where the barmaid was standing. Dan knew it was one of Robbie’s golden rules:
Always make them come to you
.

And the girl took the bait. She was around twenty, with jet-black hair, pale doughy skin and piercings in her nose, lips and eyebrows. Far too stocky and unkempt for Robbie’s taste, Dan would have said, but it was clear what he intended to do. He was already leaning on the bar, his head tilted at an angle that oozed sincerity.

In little more than a whisper, he said something that elicited a yelp of laughter. Within seconds she was gazing deep into Robbie’s eyes, the stud in her lower lip bobbing gently as she recited something to him: probably her phone number.

Robbie nodded, then deftly planted a kiss on her cheek: too quick for the girl to react, but afterwards she looked thrilled.

Turning away, Robbie caught Dan’s eye and winked. ‘Okay. We’re done here.’

****

The car park was just as crammed as before, save for a space where Cate’s Audi TT had been parked. Dan relaxed at the knowledge that she had left without further incident.

They crunched over the gravel, avoiding puddles from a recent shower. The night air was damp and fresh and fragrant, and Dan felt his spirits lift at the thought that they were heading home.

He climbed into the Fiesta, nearly bumping his head as Robbie simultaneously dropped into the passenger seat, causing the car to rock on its suspension like an ancient pram.

‘How about we grab a nightcap in Brighton?’ Robbie said.

‘It’s too late.’

‘Should take around twenty minutes if you floor it. We’ll cruise West Street, see who’s available.’

‘If you’re on the pull, what about that barmaid?’

‘Leave it out. I wouldn’t do her with yours. I was just making sure she was cool with what happened.’

‘And you got her phone number?’

‘In one ear, out the other.’ Robbie tutted. ‘Ah, come on. Dump the car at my place and we’ll go somewhere in Hove. Get a few shots inside us.’

‘Yeah. You’re two minutes from home, but I’ll have to get a cab.’

A snort from Robbie, as though he’d hoped Dan wouldn’t spot the flaw in his plan. He waited a second or two, then said, ‘You were telling me about these cafes. The bank gave you the cold shoulder, yeah?’

‘Pretty much. I was thinking ...’ Dan checked the road was clear, pulled out of the car park and accelerated. ‘Either we have to raise the money from somewhere else, or maybe find someone who can lease the premises at a really good rate—’

Robbie’s laughter was loud and coarse. ‘No chance. And believe me, you wouldn’t wanna do it. My mum’s a slave driver.’

‘So you keep saying. But I’ve always got on well with her.’

‘Yeah, in a civilian relationship. Going into business with her is a different ball game.’

‘But isn’t it worth having the conversation, at least?’

‘Not when she’s watching every frigging penny like a hawk.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘How am I gonna stop her from hearing about Hank the Wank?’

‘You’re not. You’re better off coming clean.’

‘Bollocks, am I. Any excuse to cut my wages and she’ll do it.’

Now it was Dan’s turn to sigh. With the banks so risk-averse, he’d hit on the idea that Robbie’s mother could be his potential saviour.

‘Surely her core business is sound enough? I mean, with the property portfolio?’

‘Oh, she’s sitting on a fortune. But nobody’s gonna prise her hands off that till she’s dead and cold. I bet the old witch’ll live to a hundred just to spite me ...’

His voice dwindled to silence. Dan’s parents had been killed in an accident when he was fourteen.

Robbie shifted in his seat. ‘Sorry, mate. You know what I mean, though?’

‘Mm. Seems we’re both out of luck.’

‘Yep. Life’s a bitch and then you die.’ But this was followed by another change of mood; a jubilant cry: ‘Hey hey, well, look who it is!’

It all happened so quickly
.

Dan knew it was a dreadful cliché, even as the thought passed through his mind.

The road was narrow and dark, hemmed in by overhanging trees on the left and a dense hedgerow on the right. There was no other traffic. No street lighting, no moon or stars.

At first Robbie’s shout made no sense. Perhaps his night vision was superior to Dan’s, or perhaps he’d caught an earlier glimpse of the pedestrian as the car’s headlights swept round a bend in the road.

It was Hank O’Brien. He was on the left-hand side, walking on the uneven grass verge along the edge of the tree line. Stomping home, no doubt plotting his revenge.

He should have been on the other side, Dan thought, dredging up a memory of the Highway Code. At night you’re supposed to walk
towards
the traffic.

Dan automatically lifted his foot from the accelerator. By now the lights had picked up O’Brien’s unsteady gait. There was room for him to shift another foot or so away from the road, but with typical arrogance he made no concession to their approach. Maybe he was too preoccupied – or too drunk – to react.

Fortunately there was no oncoming traffic, so it was perfectly safe for Dan to encroach on the opposite lane. That was exactly what he set out to do.

He was conscious of glancing at the mirror, noting the darkness of the landscape behind him; he felt the subtle shift of the muscles in his arms as he eased the steering wheel to the right—

Then Robbie said, ‘Let’s scare the shit out of him,’ and he leaned over and yanked on the wheel.

The Fiesta, in the process of drifting right, made an abrupt lurch to the left. Dan felt the loss of traction as the front tyre slithered on to wet grass and mud. Then an impact, grotesquely loud and somehow unexpected, a voice in his head shrieking:
How the hell did that happen?

There was a startled cry from Robbie as a fist-sized spider web of cracks materialised in the top left-hand corner of the windscreen. A heavy form thumped against the passenger-side window and was gone.

Dan was already correcting the steering, the Fiesta slipping obediently back on to the road, Robbie also straightening up, his arms flopping demurely into his lap as if nothing had happened – and even if it had it was nothing to do with him. Dan hit the brakes, remembering too late that he ought to check his speed. It would be important to know exactly how fast he’d been going.

For the investigation.

For the trial.

By the time he looked, the needle was juddering towards zero. No use to anyone, but it couldn’t have been more than forty to begin with, and the limit for the road was, what, sixty? Fifty, at the very least.

Well within
, he thought, and the phrase became a nonsensical litany repeating in his head. He might not be very confident, but that didn’t make him a bad driver. He was safe, sensible, cautious. He was
well within
.

Then it registered that the car was stationary, and Robbie was staring at him with a look of horror and disbelief that must have mirrored his own expression.

‘I just wanted to scare him,’ Robbie said. ‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’

‘We knocked him down.’

‘He’ll be okay. Let’s just go.’

It took Dan a few seconds to digest the idea, so terrible and so attractive, before he managed to respond.

‘No.’

****

He heard himself say it, and was perplexed that a sound could emerge so calmly from a body where every cell felt weak and flaccid, sloshing around like water in a bag.

Robbie twisted in his seat, looking over his shoulder. ‘It’s still clear. Come on.’

Ignoring him, Dan checked the mirror, then kangaroo-hopped the car forward like some hapless novice driver, parking with the nearside wheels up on the verge. He activated the hazard lights, turned off the ignition and took the keys with him as he got out of the Fiesta. Deep in his mind the possibility must have lurked that Robbie might commandeer the car and abandon him to his fate.

And it was a fate Dan saw clearly, as he stepped into the vanilla-scented air of a spring evening. It dropped into his vision like an elaborate stage set, gliding down on silent ropes and pulleys.

He saw newspaper reports and TV footage. Grainy photos of a thin, haunted man attempting to shield his identity from the cameras as he was marched into court. He saw the shame etched indelibly on the face of his aunt – Dan’s surrogate parent these past fifteen years – as she contemplated the process by which his disgrace would contaminate and quite possibly destroy her life.

He started to move to the rear of the car. In the darkness he could barely see where the road ended and the verge began. The poor visibility offered itself as an excuse to give up, to tell himself he’d imagined it.

Then he heard the passenger door open, Robbie climbing out, and he knew there was no question of driving away. They had to do the right thing.

****

‘Can you see him?’ Robbie asked.

Dan didn’t respond. He crouched down and examined the verge. Maybe he
had
imagined it. Maybe Hank had slipped through a gap in the trees and continued on his way home across the fields. What they’d hit was merely a rabbit or a badger, something that would lie unnoticed, unmourned, quietly decomposing by the roadside.

Then he saw the shape: twisted, unnatural, far too large to be an animal. It was further away than he’d expected, lying partly in a shallow ditch at the base of a tree.

Dan made it to within six or seven feet and then stopped as emphatically as if a force field had come down around the body. Later he would question whether it was purely fear, or revulsion – or whether a sense of self-preservation had been kicking in, even then.

Don’t leave any evidence at the scene
.

‘Oh, shit,’ Robbie whispered. ‘We hit him. We really did.’

Dan fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it. He looked at the display. ‘No signal.’

‘What?’ Robbie saw the phone and gave a tiny shudder. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, mate. Right now.’

‘What if he’s still alive?’

Robbie said nothing for a moment. Then he swore again, softly. ‘Oh, fuck. He could identify us.’

He brushed past Dan, who was about to explain that he didn’t mean it like that. If O’Brien was badly injured then they had to help him. Raise the alarm, somehow. Even transport him to hospital themselves, if need be.

But Robbie was right, too. As dreadful as it was, it might actually be better if Hank was dead ...

The thought produced a tingling in Dan’s temples. A cold sweat broke out on his back and suddenly he was fourteen again, coming home from school to find not his mum but his aunt waiting for him, a police car parked outside and two officers in uniform standing in the kitchen. One of them, a young woman, had greeted Dan with the most hideously false smile he’d ever witnessed—

‘I’m going to throw up.’

‘Not here.’ Robbie made an urgent flapping gesture to shoo Dan away from the body. Dumbly comprehending, Dan staggered back to the Fiesta and then beyond it, to the opposite verge. Along with the roiling nausea in his gut came an even more sickening realisation.

He was a coward.

If anyone should have been chucking up, Robbie thought, it was him. All that lager and a couple of lines of coke – and now this.

Instead, somehow, he felt fine. Clear-headed and stone-cold sober.

Robbie had always considered himself good in a crisis. The trick was never to look too far ahead, never
over
-worry, as his dad used to put it, before he buggered off and stopped worrying about anyone.

Now Robbie assessed the situation with a cool, clinical logic. The first stage was acceptance. He had done something really dumb. Despite what Dan might think – despite what
anyone
might think – there hadn’t been any malicious intent. But it was done, and it couldn’t be reversed, so there was no point dwelling on it. The consequences were all that mattered now. The consequences – and how to avoid them.

He took a few steps towards the body. His foot touched something solid and there was a faint sucking sound as he lifted it away.

It was the envelope. The frigging envelope full of cash. He picked it up, saw it was coated in blood. Part of his footprint was visible on the outer edge. For that reason alone, he couldn’t leave it here.

‘Mine, I think,’ he murmured. He shoved it into his pocket, glancing round to make sure Dan wasn’t watching. Then he moved closer to the body.

O’Brien had been thrown about ten or fifteen feet. It might have been further if a tree hadn’t got in the way. He lay slumped and twisted, his head half buried in the ditch, his chubby limbs flung out at crazy angles, as though he’d been frozen in the act of an ill-advised star jump.