‘Yes here.’ He frowned at Reid. ‘Thought you were watching him.’
Reid didn’t think he could draw attention to the illogic of this statement. I’m here, he thought, getting you your frigging paper and your groceries and your fags. How can I be watching Marcus if you want me here?
Instead, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled back down the stairs and across the yard. He could feel Kinnear’s gaze burning into his back as he ran towards his car.
I could run, Reid thought. Get in the car and drive and not stop until he’d put the miles between himself and Sam. He pushed the idea aside almost as soon as it formed in his head. He had witnessed what happened to the last person who had run from Kinnear and she, so far as Reid could see, had only mildly pissed him off. Sam would find him if he ran. As a matter of principle, Sam would hunt him down and Reid, superstitious fear taking place of anything resembling common sense, was sure that there would never be enough places in which to hide.
The sight of Kinnear’s face stopped him dead. Marcus stared at the rack, hand hovering over his usual choice of daily paper but his eyes fixed on the local rag he rarely bought. He bought it now though, clutching it in his hand so hard that his sweat leeched print on to his palm even before he was halfway back to the shop.
A thought struck him and he stopped dead in the middle of the pavement.
‘Watch it, won’t you,’ someone said as they crashed into him with their pushchair.
‘Sorry.’ The apology so automatic he didn’t even think what he might be apologizing for.
He read the text beneath, the words leering at him. ‘Vicious attack. Dangerous man. Do not approach.’
‘Do not approach,’ Marcus said. ‘How very funny. Do not approach.’ He realized that he had spoken out loud and that a woman turned to look his way. He heard too the hysterical edge to his voice.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ Marcus told no one in particular. ‘This just can’t go on.’
He slipped into the shop by the back way, relocked the door and let himself into his little office. The shop was open, his part-time girl setting out new stock. Marcus positioned himself so he could see the front shop door and then dialled. Alec answered the phone.
‘I’ve got to talk,’ he said. ‘Alec, I’m in big trouble and I have to talk to you.’
‘Where are you? The shop? I’ll—’
‘No,’ Marcus almost shouted down the phone. ‘I think they’re watching me, Alec. I’m coming out there. I can’t stay here, I …’
He dropped the phone back on to the desk as Alec’s voice continued to call his name. Staring out through the glass door of his office he saw that other man come into his shop, the small, dark-haired creature he had spotted with Kinnear.
A second later and the man had seen him too.
Marcus leapt round the desk and turned the key in the office door, then let himself back out through the rear of the shop. He ran to his car and slid the key into the ignition with hands that shook so much they flapped around the hole before managing to slot it in.
‘Please start?’ His car was temperamental, sometimes taking a second or so to catch. This morning it felt like an eternity.
He turned out of the yard and into the busy street beyond. Where would the man have gone? Did he have a car? Would he guess where Marcus could be going? Marcus glanced sideways at the shop front as he pulled into the main road but saw no one there that resembled the dark-haired man. He sank down in his seat, trying to make himself as small as possible as if that would help. No, the man was not in the shop either. He must have seen Marcus escaping and run back outside.
Marcus turned left at the end of the road and then right, cutting through side roads only a local might use. He reached the junction with the main road and peered out both ways. Clear. Marcus pulled out on to the main road. He put his foot down and accelerated away, relief coursing through his body.
He would drive to Fallowfields, tell them everything. They would call the police, Marcus supposed, but he didn’t care about that any more. He just knew he had to get away from Kinnear and from the man who had come to the shop.
Glancing in his rear-view mirror he saw a small red car accelerating fast. His first thought was that kids always drove too fast on these narrow winding roads. He inched across, keeping close to the verge, assuming that they would pass him by if he gave them room and then, as the car pulled closer still Marcus’s heart came close to stopping.
It was him. The man who had been with Kinnear.
‘Dear God!’ Marcus put his foot down and his car surged forward. The small red hatchback behind kept pace and then gained. It was so close now that Marcus could see the man clearly in his rear-view mirror. Foot flat to the floor now, Marcus knew he could not escape.
He felt the bump as the red hatchback hit his rear bumper. It was so gentle, so cautious that at first Marcus wasn’t sure it had been deliberate, then he realized that the driver of the red car was just testing out his own skill and nerve. He rammed him then, red car crunching into Marcus, pushing him faster than the accelerator would go. Marcus tried to twist away, wrenching the steering wheel and momentarily freeing himself from his pursuer.
Marcus screamed. A car in the oncoming lane sounded its horn. He glimpsed a pale and terrified face as he wrenched the wheel the other way, could feel the rear tyres stepping out of line before he steered back into the embryonic skid and straightened his line.
How far was Fallowfields. How far?
Marcus realized that it was closer than he’d thought. He could see that wide, sweeping bend coming up and after that would come the sudden left turn into Fallowfields’ drive. He had to make it there. He had to make that turn.
Pure willpower seemed to propel his car forward so that it inched away from his pursuer. Marcus found that he was praying. He took the bend wide, pleading that nothing would be coming the other way, then swung across, and dived into the opening in the hedge that spelt safety. Sheer momentum carried the red car forward and Marcus was convinced he would be broadsided. Instead, the unexpectedness of his actions had gained him just enough time. He slithered messily into the gravel drive, the red hatchback clipping his back end and sending him even further out of shape. Dragging on the wheel he straightened out of a second potential skid, the drag of the gravel helping to slow down his sideways slide. Then foot down and spraying small stones skyward he made it to the house, braking just in time.
For what seemed like an eternity he sat quite still, engine still running, front wheel wedged against the ornate porch. He clutched the steering wheel so hard Alec had to prize his fingers free.
Twenty-Nine
The flat that Rupert still owned up until the time he died was on the top floor of an Edwardian house. The area had been on the rise for the past few years and, although this street was still shabby, the neighbouring area had already benefited from the redevelopment grants and the spreading out of people from the more fashionable areas a couple of miles down the road.
Small cafes and restaurants had sprung up and, although the bars had not entirely overtaken the more traditional pubs in popularity, there were signs of gradual encroachment about which Billy Pierce had mixed feelings.
Pierce had spent the morning doing his research. The land registry told him that Rupert Friedman owned the flat. 23c Oban Road. A chat to the neighbours told him that it was rented out and had been for years. To the same woman.
Billy Pierce had examined the mail laid out in open pigeon holes in the ground floor lobby and that confirmed what he already knew.
‘Well, well, Rupert Friedman,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you the sly fox.’
There was no one home when he knocked, so he crossed the road again and went into a small café he’d spotted earlier. Sitting in the window, he could watch the length of the road and had the house in view. He had a good idea who he’d be looking for. It was just a case of playing the waiting game.