Where the Bodies are Buried (18 page)

He took note of her turning, aware that she had picked up on his vigilance.

‘This guy’s been following me for about four miles, through three crossroads and two roundabouts. Is he with you? He needs
to work on his technique if he is. Not exactly inconspicuous.’

‘No, he’s not with me. Just looks to me like someone who’s not
been able to get a clear stretch to overtake you. Are you always this paranoid?’

‘I am when private investigators front up asking questions about dead people I’ve never met. More so when it happens twice,
despite it being obvious the first time that your colleague was barking up the wrong tree.’

Jasmine didn’t respond for a few seconds, letting him think he’d made his point. In truth he had only made her all the more
sure that he was hiding something, and she was going to show him why.

‘Have you had a bad morning, Mr Ingrams? Get out the wrong side of bed? Football team lose last night?’

‘No, but my pet goldfish snuffed it and my application for ballet school got turned down. On top of that, my shredder packed
in, but I’d have to say that all of the above pale into insignificance compared to the irritation of being asked questions
I’ve already answered, especially when the subject is something I know nothing about. It’s bordering on Kafkaesque.’

‘Hardly, Mr Ingrams. In fact, the reason I asked is that you strike me as acting disproportionately grumpy, and I’m inclined
to ask myself why. Being asked questions by someone who mistakenly thinks you’re informed is not the biggest imposition in
the world. I think you’re protesting too much.’

Ingrams gave an exasperated laugh.

‘So if I’m pissed off at being asked questions I can’t answer, that proves I
can
answer them? “Only the true messiah would deny it.” Like I said: Kafkaesque. And why did the other guy send you anyway? Is
it Bring Your Daughter To Work Day?’

Jasmine felt her cheeks burn and experienced a horrible combination of embarrassment and defeat. He had seen right through
her.

There was a little ember of indignation burning in there too, though. For all she disliked working as a PI, she was surprised
to discover that she hated someone who knew nothing about her implying that she was rubbish at it. There was a voice inside
her saying, ‘Just wait, I’ll show him,’ but unfortunately it was a tiny little squeaky voice with absolutely nothing else
to say. Under the circumstances, she felt that the truth was her only way forward.

‘My boss has disappeared. He’s been missing almost a week now, and I’m trying to find out what’s happened to him.’

Ingrams took his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second, long enough to turn and give her a very curious look: partly
incredulous,
partly suspicious, partly guarded, but wholly surprised. Wherever he thought their little interview was going, this wasn’t
it.

‘I’m trying to look deeper into the jobs he was working on. The Glen Fallan file was open on his desk, one of the last things
he must have been looking at.’

Ingrams gave a small sigh: frustrated rather than petulant.

‘At the risk of invoking your “only the true messiah” principle, what was there in that file that would make you come looking
for me? I’d have thought I would be listed as a dead end.’

‘Because your name and the refuge’s address were just about the only things
in
that file. Which, and forgive me for getting all Kafkaesque, does make me wonder why my boss would possibly be looking through
it if you were a dead end who had told him nothing. Did he come and see you again?’

‘Yeah. That’s whose body I was dismembering when the shredder packed in.’

‘Listen, I’m just trying to work out where he might have gone, establish a timeline. He’s been missing since possibly Thursday.
If he was here on Friday, for instance, that would be a start.’

‘Well, he wasn’t. I haven’t heard from him since he came down here last year, and I don’t know how he got my details that
time or what led him to think I could help.’

Ingrams glanced in the rear-view again. Jasmine didn’t bother looking round. She hadn’t seen the Audi overtake, so it was
presumably still there. Perhaps the road had been too winding and hilly even for a boy-racer to risk it. Maybe he’d forgotten
to wind down his windows and turn up the dance music.

‘Here’s the funny thing,’ she said. ‘Normally I’d be able to tell you all that: how the trail led to you, what source supplied
your name, where it fitted into the wider investigation. I’d have had questions based on why Jim … my boss was interested
in you. But all of the background information is missing from the records. My boss is normally meticulous beyond the point
of pedantic about those things, yet on this one file, all such details were missing. So either somebody removed all the other
documents from the folder, or you, Mr Dead End, were the alpha and omega of a completely fruitless investigation. Which would
bring us back to the question of why … my boss would be digging out the folder.’

Jasmine winced, hoping Ingrams had missed the significance of
her last stumble, then hoped he hadn’t noticed her resultant expression. She had felt it inexplicably important not to reveal
that Jim was her uncle, as opposed to merely her employer. It may have been a natural caution against giving anything of herself
away before she had succeeded in learning something about Ingrams; but just as likely she feared it would further underline
that it was only because of nepotism that she was doing this job. However, it belatedly struck her that there was no reason
to be quite so coy, and by trying to avoid mentioning Jim’s name altogether, she may have tipped her hand.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ingrams replied. ‘And on the subject of your guess, if this folder was so uncommonly light
on information, what drives you to the conclusion that it’s that particular case that is connected to your boss’s disappearance?’

Jasmine feared for a horrible moment that she was going to fill up. It felt like Ingrams was not in fact obstructing her progress
so much as merely pointing out the brick wall she was up against.

‘Nothing in particular,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just looking for clues, exploring the possibilities. I’m worried …’

She was going to add ‘for him’, but pulled up short, once again concerned at divulging the nature of their relationship. Conveniently,
she had an alternative motive she could plausibly offer.

‘My salary is due at the end of this week. If I don’t find him, I don’t get any wages.’

She sounded desperate and pathetic, she knew.

‘Jesus,’ Ingrams said. ‘Talk about performance-related pay. At least that explains why someone like you is doing this.’

‘What do you mean, someone like me? A woman?’

‘I mean someone your age. No offence, but you’re not exactly what they call “hard-boiled”. What do you normally do for your
boss: are you the secretary?’

They slowed to a near-stop at another junction as he spoke, Ingrams turning his head to scan left and right, his eyes looking
past her and out of the side window as he checked for oncoming traffic. From his expression she could tell he wasn’t being
cheeky or patronising. He was asking honest questions, a hint of sincerity and even concern visible in his face. In a way,
that made it worse.

She felt her cheeks burn again, that sting of shame at being found out mixed with a knot of anger. In her cringing self-consciousness
she
went to fold her arms yet again and once more stopped herself, as she knew it would look all the more girlie and pathetic.

She dearly wanted something to throw back and suddenly realised that she had it.

‘No, I’m not the secretary,’ she said, with a measured degree of distaste stopping well short of huffy indignation. ‘I’m an
investigator. I’m not the standard ex-cop model but I do this for a living. And I’m better at reading people than you would
imagine. You’ve a daughter around my age, haven’t you? Maybe a little younger.’

She spotted a twitch of a reaction, but it was too neutral to infer anything from, especially with his eyes flitting between
his rear-view and the road. Nor was his response indicating either way.

‘How do you work that out?’ he asked.

‘Is it true?’

‘Tell me why you think so and I’ll tell you if you’re right.’

Ingrams accelerated the Land Rover steadily but unhurriedly away from the junction, aware of another sharp bend coming up
ahead.

‘It would explain why you might more comfortably think of me as a secretary than an investigator. You would find it difficult
to accept the idea of someone your daughter’s age doing a job you associate with older people, older
males
at that; particularly a job you might consider unpalatable for a young woman.’

This sounded reasonable enough, but was only a more polite manifestation of the principle underlining Jasmine’s deduction.
The primary rationale behind her assertion, which she was not about to share, was that she had been shoogled around in this
contraption for about twenty minutes and hadn’t once caught him sneaking a look at her tits.

Ingrams said nothing, just drove on, hugging the bend, his eyes still flitting back and forth to the rear-view mirror.

‘Well?’ she eventually asked.

‘Hm?’ he responded, as though he’d bloody forgotten. ‘Oh, I see. No. I don’t have a daughter,’ he told her, matter-of-fact
to the point of distracted.

Christ, she thought. You go, girl. That showed him.

‘Look, this guy in the Audi, is he with you?’ Ingrams asked, like their previous exchange had never happened. ‘I need you
to be honest here. It’s no big deal if he is.’

Jasmine glanced in the wing mirror. The Audi had rounded the
bend and was gaining on them at pace. The road ahead was clear and straight, though: no dips, no climbs, no oncoming traffic.

‘No, he absolutely, honestly isn’t. He’s overtaking now anyway. See?’

Ingrams eased off on the accelerator to let the Audi pass while the road ahead was straight and clear. He turned his head
slightly as the Land Rover slowed, his eyes directed south of Jasmine’s neck for the first time; or at least the first time
she had noticed. With the coast clear and the road straight for a stretch, he was finally taking the chance to grab an eyeful.
She twisted to face him, thinking of something acerbic to embarrass him with, which was when she observed that he was actually
gazing intently in the passenger-side wing-mirror.

Jasmine was about to turn and inspect what it was when Ingrams jolted the gearstick forward into third and slammed down his
right foot, pinning her against the seat and throwing her head back. In almost the same moment, so close to simultaneous as
to sound like the sudden ferocious gunning of the engine had caused it, both of the rear side-windows exploded.

Jasmine felt fragments of glass spray and ping around the interior, like she was inside a violently shaken snow globe.

She looked left through her window and saw the Audi accelerate to come alongside again. The driver’s window was open and there
was a passenger leaning across him, pointing a shotgun towards the Land Rover. She hadn’t noticed a passenger before. He must
have been bent down, out of sight, then leaned across and taken aim as the vehicle overtook. If Ingrams’ sudden acceleration
hadn’t jerked them forward a couple of seconds ago, her head would have been blown apart.

She felt an almost convulsive panic, a primal terror mixed with the coldest dread. Not disbelief, not confusion. She knew
the man with the shotgun was real, the threat was real, that everything was exactly as it seemed. Once, she would have constructed
a hundred alternative explanations in her head that avoided accepting that something like this was happening to her. Mum’s
illness and death had completely changed her perspective. She knew that your worst fears could come true, and she knew that
just because something awful happened to you, it didn’t mean you would be spared something worse.

The Audi was faster and more agile over short distances than the bumpy old Land Rover. Ingrams couldn’t possibly outrun it.
She could feel shock turning very quickly to a helpless fear, the whimper of a lost little girl escaping from her mouth.

She was transfixed by the sight of the Audi pulling alongside, gaining excruciatingly incremental degrees of angle for the
kill shot in what felt like slow motion. Then Ingrams jerked the handbrake, changed down again and turned hard on the wheel.

The Audi seemed to shoot forward out of sight like the Land Rover had opened a parachute. The world spun sickeningly before
Jasmine’s eyes and she was tugged roughly towards Ingrams as their vehicle lurched and skidded across the narrow two-lane
road. Ingrams wrestled the steering wheel and elicited pained screams from both the engine and the tyres as he pitted them
both vainly against the laws of motion. The Land Rover continued its sideways skid across the tarmac and on to a narrow stretch
of coarse grass before slamming to a halt against a tall hedgerow.

The impact smacked Jasmine’s head against the door frame, shaking loose glass fragments from her hair. There was blood smeared
on her fingers. She was bleeding but she didn’t know from where, the adrenalin surge preventing her from feeling the pain
quite yet. It was worth it, though: the Land Rover was facing back the way they had come.

She looked frantically into the rear-view mirror. About seventy or eighty metres along the road, the Audi had stopped and
was starting to reverse towards them. That was when she became aware that despite the roaring of the engine, the Land Rover
wasn’t moving forward.

‘Drive,’ she urged Ingrams, bouncing in her seat like an impatient toddler. ‘Go. Why won’t it move?’

‘If we’re unlucky, it’s because the front wheel arch is jammed in the hedge. And if we’re really unlucky, it’s because the
axle’s broken. Either way we’re not going anywhere. Shit.’

With that, Ingrams undid his seat belt and opened the door. Jasmine gripped the handle on her side, but the door was wedged
up hard against the hedgerow.