—whatever happened.
Jane couldn’t blame Eirion for being cautious; he was in enough trouble, domestically. And anyway she wasn’t in any mood to blame him for anything tonight. Right now, stocky, solid Eirion was very OK; Jane still carried that warm glow, warmer than the fleece, and her body felt different, felt stronger; felt like a complete unit – though maybe the unit now was her and Eirion: an item, official. Yeah, OK, cool. It felt like the start of a journey. Scott Eagles and Sigourney Jones? Had it come to this?
‘STOP THAT NOW!’
This guy was inside the gates, on the edge of the area floodlit by the headlamps – big guy in a leather jacket and jeans.
The horn stopped, though Jane could still hear it in her head, so the silence was kind of shattering. Mr Shelbone got out and stood next to the Renault, staying behind the headlights, a long silhouette.
‘I want to speak to Allan Henry.’ His voice sounded harsh and fractured, the way cardboardy voices did when they were raised.
‘We’ve got an office,’ the guy in the leather jacket said. ‘You can phone in the morning and ask for an appointment like anyone else. Now go away.’
‘You tell Allan Henry I want to see him now. Tell him it’s Shelbone.’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Tell him if he doesn’t come out, I shall stay here all night, blowing my horn.’
‘You won’t, you know. Because if you aren’t away from here in two minutes, I’m calling the police.’
‘And you are?’
‘The gardener. Don’t you even know it’s illegal to sound a car horn after dusk? Now get back in your car and get out of here, before I get annoyed.’
Oh yeah, he really looked like a gardener. The kind of gardener who planted people.
Mr Shelbone got back into his car, like he’d been told – and just leaned on the horn again. It filled the night like a wild siren. Jane felt a little scared. If this was a bunch of kids, like drunk or stoned, it wouldn’t mean a lot, but these were quiet, suburban, middle-aged, extremely Christian people, and they believed this man and his stepdaughter had somehow taken away their precious child.
And Jane was now inclined to believe this, too, though it didn’t make any proper sense. It was one thing for Layla Riddock to be very turned-on by the idea of real communication with the spirit of Amy’s murdered mother, something else entirely to kidnap the kid. And bring her here, thus connecting Allan Henry to it?
An arm around her waist. She screamed.
‘Ssssh.’
‘Irene!’
‘Not so loud, cariad.’ He pulled her down into the rhododendrons.
‘Cariad?’
‘Welsh term of endearment. What’s happening?’
‘I know that. They’re demanding to talk to Allan Henry. That guy claims to be the gardener, would you believe? Where’ve you left the car?’
‘There’s a little clearing about thirty yards back. I turned it round and tucked it under some trees.’ She had the feeling that now he was sure Gwennan’s car was safely off the road he was almost enjoying this. ‘He’s breaking the law, making that noise. He drove here like he was on his driving test, and now—’
‘He knows. The gardener guy’s threatened to call the police. Shelbone’s just ignored him.’
‘Maybe he wants them to call the police. Maybe he realizes that if he went to the police himself and asked them to start questioning this Allan Henry’s daughter about the disappearance of his kid, it would be quite a long time before they even took him seriously.’
‘Yeah,’ Jane said. ‘That’s good thinking, Welshman.’
‘But if Henry does know where that kid is, getting the police up here’s going to be the last thing he’ll want.’
The gardener guy was no longer visible. Maybe he was taking instructions on the phone. Shelbone was still blasting away on his horn.
‘He’s even beginning to annoy me,’ Eirion said.
Jane became aware of a small gate, set into one of the big gates – became aware of it because it opened, and the guy in the leather jacket came through and walked around to the driver’s door of the Renault.
‘Open the window!’
No reaction. The horn went on blaring. You could just make out the Shelbones – heads and shoulders front-facing, neither of them moving. You felt they ought to have placards in the windscreen: Save our Child. They were a little crazy.
‘Open it!’
No movement inside the car. The guy in the leather jacket swung an arm and stepped back. There was a faintly sickening snapping sound.
‘Jesus,’ Jane whispered.
‘He’s smashed the wing mirror.’ Eirion’s arm tightened round her waist. ‘I can’t believe he did that.’
‘Open the window,’ the guy said, almost conversationally, like he was into his stride now.
Shelbone revved the engine a little but stayed on the horn. The guy’s arm went back again; there was a glint of moonlit metal.
‘Bloody hell, Jane, he’s got some kind of big wrench.’
The arm came down fast and there was this massive crunch.
‘Oh my God, Irene, he can’t—!’
The gardener had begun smashing in the driver’s door and the side panels, his arm pumping with a deliberate, workman-like savagery, which reminded Jane of those disgusting clips of the bastards beating baby seals to death. The whole car was rocking with each blow, the horn intermittent now, fractured beeps, Mrs Shelbone screaming, the woods echoing to a scrap-yard symphony of violence.
Eirion let go of Jane. ‘We can’t just stand and watch this.’ He pulled out his phone, thrust it at her. ‘Call the cops.’ He stepped out of the bushes.
‘No!’ Jane grabbed his arm. She’d seen lights coming on, some way behind the gates. ‘Wait.’
The guy in the leather jacket backed away from the car as both metal gates started to swing back.
Then this man in a check shirt and jeans strolled coolly out, making these casual but authoritative side-to-side wiping movements with his hands until the gardener guy and his wrecking tool went back into the shadows.
And the man just stood there, waiting – until the horn stopped, and Mr Shelbone’s door began to open with this really horrible rending noise. The man didn’t move, didn’t wince. Mr Shelbone got out, unsteadily – kind of top-heavy like a wall-flower that had come unstaked.
‘It’s David Shelbone, isn’t it?’ The man was talking like this was a cocktail party. ‘From the Planning Department.’
Mrs Shelbone shouted, ‘David, don’t go near—’ But the rest was muffled by Mr Shelbone slamming the car door and taking a step towards the casual guy, who just stood between the headlight beams, his arms by his sides.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was going to say I’d be surprised if this were an official visit, Mr Shelbone, at one in the morning. But then, on reflection, I suppose I wouldn’t be surprised at anything you did.’
Shelbone was breathing hard, ‘Where is she, Henry?’
‘What? Who? What are you talking about? This your idea of a night out, is it, Shelbone? Taking a tour of historic buildings in the moonlight to make sure nobody’s replaced any slates with the wrong colour—’
‘Tell me where she is.’