THE LAST RIDE
Eva Hudson
First published 2011
Copyright © 2011 Eva Hudson
Version 1.01
Published at Smashwords
Eva Hudson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Contents
THE LAST RIDE
Dave Morrison stamped on the brakes. The front nearside wheel of the taxi reared up onto the low pavement. He thumped the steering wheel with both hands and carried on hitting it until the pain in his palms matched the one in his chest. A sob erupted from his mouth. Then another and another. He grappled for the door handle, fumbling with the lock when he found it. Finally the door swung wide and he fell out of the cab. He doubled over, leaning a hand against the open door.
After a minute of dry retching, he pulled himself upright and looked around. The railway arches at the southern end of Great Suffolk Street were quiet. Dark and deserted. He slammed shut the taxi door and peered at the black cabs parked at uneven intervals on both sides of the street. All of them were empty. He let out a relieved breath and stepped over a pool of dirty rainwater that had collected between the broken paving stones. Then he checked the street again, left and right. Fifty yards up the road, beyond the shelter of the vaulted arches, the rain was still coming down hard and fast, making it impossible to see further than the halogen glow of the first streetlamp.
Dave closed his eyes and tried to suck in a deep breath. Instead, his chest heaved out another uncontrollable sob. He clenched his fists, pounded them against his thighs.
From nowhere the diesel tick of another black cab echoed around the arches. He snapped open his eyes and watched as the taxi cruised to a halt twenty yards away on the other side of the road. Immediately he recognised the stooped figure climbing out of the driver’s door. Dave quickly scanned the street again and reached behind him for his own door. But it was too late to escape.
‘Thought it was you. You all right, mate?’ Charlie, a cabbie who’d done the Knowledge with Dave thirty years ago, waved from across the street.
Dave put a hand up to his face and smeared the tears from his eyes.
‘Haven’t seen you around in a while.’ Charlie started walking towards him. ‘You been under the weather?’
Dave wiped a damp hand across the seat of his trousers.
‘Bloody hell,’ Charlie said. ‘You look like shit. If you don’t mind me saying. New look is it – the beard?’ Charlie rubbed his own chin. ‘Trouble is, it comes out all white and wiry.’ He winked at Dave. ‘At our age.’
Dave swallowed and did his best to smile.
‘I was just on me way home. Only…’ Charlie planted a hand on Dave’s shoulder. ‘…you look like you could do with a pint. Come on, mate, my shout.’
Dave’s right cheek twitched. He shook his head.
‘It’s all right – I’m sure me steak and kidney pie can take an extra ten minutes in the oven. Pauline won’t mind if I’m a bit late. Come on – I’ll throw in a packet of salt’n’vinegar too.’
Dave sniffed hard and stared at the patch of oil-stained tarmac under Charlie’s feet. ‘Not tonight, mate.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around a mobile phone.
‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’ Charlie hooked an arm through Dave’s and tugged. ‘Just a half.’
Dave pulled his phone from his pocket and waved it in Charlie’s face. ‘Got an important phone call to make. Sorry, mate.’
‘Do that after. Come on, we can make it a swift one.’ He tugged again.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Dave yanked his arm away from Charlie’s grasp so hard that Charlie lost his balance and fell against the side of the cab.
‘What’s got into you?’ Charlie straightened his rumpled jacket and stuck his face right into Dave’s. ‘I was only trying to be a mate.’ His head started to tremble, as if he’d developed a sudden tremor. ‘Sod you!’ He hurried back to his own taxi without a backward glance, mumbling something to himself all the way there.
Dave let out a stuttering sigh and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. His hands shook as he lit the tip and sucked down a long drag. He fell back against the door and ground the heels of both hands into his eyes. He heard Charlie accelerate away.
All day Dave had struggled to keep thoughts of what was happening at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning from his mind. He’d tried to stay busy, starting early and taking on longer runs than he would have normally, just to have someone in the back of the cab he could strike up a conversation with. Someone to distract him. Some self-opinionated bastard who would rant and rave through the glass partition. Dave prided himself in being able to talk to anyone about anything. Today he’d been through the MPs’ expenses scandal, Tottenham’s chance in Europe, the economic meltdown and the best way to rescue thirty-seven copper miners from a very deep hole in northern Chile.
His strategy had pretty much been successful. Since 7am he’d managed to keep his emotions in check, pushing down the fear and the anger and the despair each time they threatened to surface and engulf him. He’d managed to breathe one breath after another and stay focused on the job for over fourteen hours. Right up until the moment he turned onto Tower Bridge and saw Brian McGilligan’s taxi sail past on the other side of the road, the hire light off, the back of the cab empty. The walls of the dam burst then, all his defences breached. And fifteen minutes later here he was, standing in the gloom underneath the arches, weeping like a small child, unable to stop those feelings overwhelming him.
He flicked away the cigarette and patted his chest, feeling for the envelope that had been burning a hole in his breast pocket since he’d put there this morning. Right now it felt like it was searing into the flesh beneath. He dipped in a trembling hand and pulled it out. He stared down at the smudged name and address. The swirls and flourishes of the thick black lines had bled into the fibre where the paper had got damp. He wasn’t at all sure he could bring himself to open it and look again at what was inside. Another involuntary sob burst out of him, this time down his nose. He dragged a sleeve across his face and slipped the envelope back into his jacket.
The mobile in his pocket started to vibrate against his leg. He slowly pulled it out, saw who was phoning, and hesitated. He took a deep breath and hit the answer key. He said nothing. What could he say?
‘Dave? Are you there?’
He couldn’t think of a single thing.
‘Dave? Hello? For God’s sake, stop playing silly buggers. Dave?’
He pressed the phone hard against his ear and pushed himself away from the cab.
‘Dave! I know you’re there – I can hear you breathing.’
‘Denise.’ Her name escaped from his mouth without him wanting it to. ‘I need to… I want… I mean, are you—’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Please Dennie—’
‘I’m only calling because Brian asked me to.’
Brian – it felt just like a slap across the face. Every time Denise mentioned that bastard’s name Dave felt a sudden urge to punch something.
‘I need to know about tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘You are—’
He hung up. He stood for a moment watching the tiny screen dim, clenching the phone tight in his fist.
He was still looking at it when they jumped him.
Something slammed into his stomach, harder than a fist, too blunt to be a knife. The phone fell from his hands. Another stinging blow struck him across the face, snapping his head sideways. A gloved fist appeared out of the gloom and hurtled towards him. He jerked his head away just in time. He blinked hard and glanced left and right. There were two of them, one taller than him, the other a few inches shorter, both masked. He couldn’t take them both on.
‘The door’s unlocked,’ he said, and spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘My wallet…’ He patted his back pocket – it was empty. ‘My wallet and all of today’s cash are in the box under the driver’s seat. Take it.’
He got a slap high across his right cheek in response. He heard something crack. His jawbone? His nose? He coughed up more blood and let it dribble out of his mouth.
‘Four or five hundred in there.’ He coughed again. ‘Please – just take it.’
The tall man grabbed a fistful of Dave’s jacket in each hand and dragged him onto his toes. ‘You think you can buy us off easy as that?’ A Scottish accent. ‘We’re no here for your pissing five hundred quid.’
Dave’s vision was blurring now, swarms of darting black dots crowded his peripheral vision. He blinked and tried to focus on the eyes of the man bearing down on him. He could just make them out through the holes in the knitted balaclava, the tiny pupils shining. Dave blinked again. Tiny pupils in the darkness? That didn’t fit… A moment later he worked it out. He closed his eyes.
‘Don’t go fainting on me now!’ The man shook him, banging his head against the roof of the cab.
Dave opened his eyes again and stared back into those shining black pinpricks. What was he on – crack? Speed? Some new chemical Dave had never even heard of?
In his experience druggies tended to be more unpredictable than piss-heads – he’d had enough of both in the back of the cab to know reasonable negotiation wasn’t going to be an option. Painfully, he turned his head to look at the other man. He seemed calmer than his friend. He was breathing steadily, his thick arms folded across his chest. His eyes didn’t have the wild look of his companion’s.
The loudmouth shook him again.
‘What you looking at him for? I’m the one talking to you. Are you listening?’
Dave nodded. ‘Take me to a bank and I can get you more cash.’
‘I’ve already said, haven’t I? We don’t want your pissing money.’
‘We want what you stole.’ The calm man spoke for the first time, in a soft West Country burr.
‘Stole? I don’t underst—’
‘Oh spare me the innocent crap.’ The loudmouth again. ‘Do I look like a man wi’ an endless supply of patience?’
He let go of Dave’s jacket and shoved him in the chest. Dave slammed into the taxi.
‘My employer, however, has been the absolute model of patience. Wouldn’t you say?’ He spat into Dave’s face as he spoke. ‘But he’s waited long enough.’
‘Long enough for what?’ Dave’s face was on fire. He could feel blood trickling from his nose and from the corner of his right eye.
‘Do you still have it?’
‘Have what?’
‘You’re un-fucking-believable – do you know that?’
‘If you could just tell me—’
‘I’m not playing this game any more.’
Dave didn’t see the blow coming until it connected with his chin. He dropped, first to his knees, then to his side. He hit the ground just as a boot struck him in the head.
*
Gravel pressed into his cheek. His right leg was twisted awkwardly beneath him, numb from the knee down. One by one his memories came swarming back. Like a film playing backwards. Blacking out. The smell of diesel on the road. The sole of a boot pressing down onto his face. A steel toecap to the head. Two thugs. Brian McGilligan on the bridge.
Then the thought he’d been trying to escape all day long rushed in on him.
Hayley. His sweet precious girl. The funeral. Tomorrow morning. He opened his eyes. How long had he been lying here? He tried to move. Every limb screamed in protest.
‘So good of you to join us.’ The Scottish thug with the sharp boots. ‘I’ll give you a wee moment to come round. Then maybes you might come to your senses as well.’
Dave spat out a mix of saliva and stale blood.
‘Manners!’
He put a hand in front of his chest and leaned against the ground, ignoring the pain shooting though his arm right up to the socket and across his shoulders. After an excruciating moment he was sitting upright. A single fluorescent strip illuminated a rectangle of cement floor with a bluish white light. In the gloom beyond the fifteen by twenty foot patch, Dave could only just make out the looming shadows of industrial machinery, dark loops of chains and pulleys hanging from girders, the invisible ceiling located somewhere much higher up. Rain pummelled the metal roof. He shifted his head a fraction and saw his two captors lounging on wooden chairs just a few feet away.
‘Now, where were we?’ The tall Scottish man rose to his feet. The balaclava was gone. He ran a hand through shoulder-length greasy hair then crouched down to Dave’s level. His tiny pupils were still shining, but for the first time Dave could see the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and dark grey bags hung beneath them. ‘Oh yes,’ the man said. ‘Mr Kelsey’s merchandise.’
‘Who’s Kelsey?’ Dave’s voice cracked.
‘Do you want another intimate moment wi’ one of my boots, or what?’
‘Please – I’ve got to get out of here. My daughter… it’s her… last week she—’
‘Och Mr Kelsey’s told us all about your wee princess.’
‘The fuck?’ Dave rocked forward onto his hands and knees, the palms of both hands landed on shards of metal and glass. He tucked his knees under his chest and started to lever himself to his feet. The Scottish thug shot out a fist and knocked him backwards. He fell awkwardly onto his back and lay helpless like an overturned beetle. He rocked again and managed to roll onto his side. This time when he tried to get up a boot stamped down on his hip. A fierce buzzing started up in his head, swiftly followed by a creeping blanket of black.
*
The second time he came to, Dave kept his eyes closed and didn’t twitch a muscle. He lay on his side and tried to muster some recollection of the name Kelsey. He tried to imagine how the employer of these two thugs could have anything to do with his Hayley. It wasn’t a name she’d ever mentioned to him. But then in the past few months she hadn’t really spoken much at all. The only time she’d visited was when she was asking him for money.
He used all his strength to stifle the heaving sob that was building in his chest. Stupid sod. If only he’d realised why she needed the cash… Dave remembered the wired expression in the Scottish thug’s eyes. Shit… drugs. Could Kelsey have been her dealer? He ground his teeth together and tried to control his breathing, keep it even and quiet. He lay listening for a few moments and heard no sign of life.
None at all. Had they gone?
He held his breath and strained to listen harder – still no sound above the drum of the rain on the roof. He waited another moment and very slowly opened his eyes. Only then did he realise they’d taken his jacket. The squeal of a chair scraping across the concrete floor raked his ears. What was he thinking?
Of course they hadn’t gone.
‘So, big man. Who’s Hayley Morrison? Girlfriend is it? What did you do, bore her to death?’
The gold-embossed card flashed in front of Dave’s face.
‘Give me that!’
‘Why don’t you come and get it?’
The sunken-cheeked thug whipped the card away. Dave looked up to see him waving the funeral service invitation above his head.
‘You’ve got no right to take that.’ His voice was weak and croaky, as if he hadn’t spoken for days. He tried to swallow.
‘Well, if you will leave things lying around in your pockets…’
Dave struggled to his feet and lunged towards him, reaching up a hand for the card. The thug snatched it away.
‘Ooh – looks like you’re really cut up about her. Maybes I can let you have it back if you tell me what happened to Mr Kelsey’s merchandise.’
Dave sucked in a breath. They were just going round in circles. Getting nowhere.
‘I want to speak to him,’ Dave said. ‘Personally.’ He could feel one of his teeth coming loose from the gum as he spoke. ‘Just me and your Mr Kelsey.’ He turned his head to one side and spat out a mouthful of congealed blood.
‘My boss has no intention of wasting his time wi’ you.’
‘Happy to send his monkeys, then is he?’
‘Oh I see – that’s it, is it? You wanna play the tough guy now? We haven’t even started wi’ you.’ He looked Dave up and down. ‘You think this is bad? Let’s see how tough you wanna be when I put some real effort in.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Do you hear this, Kenny?’
Dave spotted the other man sitting just outside the illuminated patch, his legs crossed, the tip of his cigarette moving around like a firefly in the dark.
‘Ask him how he feels about bringing his little princess here for visit,’ the West Country man said.
What kind of sick fucking joke was this? Dave blinked.
‘Now that’s a great idea.’ The Scottish man poked Dave in the chest with a sharp index finger. ‘Wish I’d thought of it myself. We could have a little fun wi’ her – keep her daddy entertained.’
Fucking sick bastards.
Dave grabbed the finger still prodding his chest and twisted it backwards, at the same time stamping as hard as he could on the thug’s ankle. In an instant the other man was on his feet and hurtling towards him. Dave swung an elbow into the Scot’s face, cracking his nose with the follow-through. The other one was almost on him. Dave turned sharply, pulled back his head then drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose while he was still running towards him. He went down like he’d been shot.
Dave leaned his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. It was a mistake. The Scot grabbed his hair and yanked back his head. A long blade pressed against his Adam’s apple.
‘Quite a live wire when you have to be, eh, big man?’
The knife pressed further into his flesh and drew blood.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to ignore that little outburst. I think you’re gonna have to pay for that.’
He tapped his friend’s arm with the tip of his boot. ‘Kenny? You still with us?’
Kenny groaned and held a hand up to his face.
‘I need you to make a phone call. Let’s get the wee princess down here, shall we? See how the big man behaves himself then.’ He tugged on Dave’s hair. ‘How about that, eh? You’d like to see your little princess one last time, wouldn’t you?’
Dave tried to speak but the pressure of the knife made it impossible.
‘What was that?’
The pressure lessened a fraction.
‘What are you going to do?’ Dave’s voice came out in a whisper. ‘Steal her body from the fucking funeral home?’
‘I think you’re getting delirious now, fella. Funeral home!’ The Scot laughed. ‘What? She’s dead now is she?’
‘Of course she’s fucking dead.’
He laughed again.
Kenny lifted a mobile phone to his ear, mumbled something and turned away.
‘Well, Kenny? Just how dead is she?’
Kenny turned back. ‘Princess Elizabeth is currently enjoying a meal in her local curry house.’
‘Who the fuck is Elizabeth?’ Dave said.
‘Oh nice try, big man.’
‘Hayley’s funeral is tomorrow morning. You’ve seen the invitation yourself.’
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, I really have.’
‘Hayley’s my only child.’
‘What do you want me to tell the lads?’ Kenny said, the phone still pressed to his ear.
The Scot pushed the knife against Dave’s throat and pulled Dave backwards, stopping when they’d reached a chair. He swung Dave round quickly and shoved him onto the hard wooden seat.
‘He’s waiting for an answer.’ For the first time Kenny sounded impatient.
‘Bring Elizabeth here – I couldn’t give a shit. She’s got nothing to do with me,’ Dave said.
‘Tell them to wait,’ the Scot said, eventually. ‘Tell them we’ll call back.’
Kenny mumbled the instructions into the phone then reappeared brandishing a knife of his own. He stood close to Dave, just beyond arm’s length. Dave looked at the Scot who was tentatively running his fingertips over his cheek. He opened and closed his jaw a couple of times and carefully prodded his nose.
‘If you’ve ruined my boyish good looks, it won’t just be your wee princess in trouble.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll hunt the entire fucking McGilligan clan down and wipe them out one by one.’
McGilligan? Dave’s whole body twitched.
‘That’s right, big man – the lot of them.’
Dave closed his eyes and shook his head, desperately trying to connect the dots. Dave had met McGilligan’s daughter, just once. But her name wasn’t Elizabeth. What was it?
Of course.
She was introduced to him as Beth. Kelsey’s men were watching Beth. So these two thought he was Brian McGilligan? He let out an uncontrollable snort.
‘Something funny, is it?’
That meant McGilligan must have Kelsey’s “merchandise”. Dave opened his eyes to see both thugs standing over him.
‘This merchandise of Kelsey’s,’ he said and looked from one to the other. ‘We’re talking drugs, right?’
‘Quite the comedian, aren’t you?’ the Scot said. ‘Of course we’re talking fucking drugs. What are you on?’
‘And McGilligan’s stolen drugs belonging to Kelsey?’
The Scot just shook his head and smiled. ‘Incredible.’
‘You’ve made a terrible mistake.’
‘Oh have I? You know, I was just thinking the same thing about you.’ The Scot prodded his nose again, bending it first one way then the other.
‘I’m not Brian McGilligan.’
‘Really?’ He shook his head again. ‘Like I say – incredible.’ He took a step closer.
Dave let out a breath and tried to put together the sequence of events. Brian McGilligan had moved in with Denise just over a year ago. Hayley started getting distant and withdrawn a couple of months after that. Kelsey wasn’t Hayley’s dealer, at least not directly. Kelsey was McGilligan’s supplier. Jesus Christ. McGilligan had been selling drugs to Hayley.
The Scot took another step towards Dave, the blade of his knife flashing under the light. ‘I do admire your inventiveness, big man. I really do. Desperate measures, eh?’ He made a quick move, plunging the knife towards Dave and pulling back quickly.
Dave looked down to see a slash in his sleeve, a line of red starting to seep through the material.
‘Make another phone call.’ Dave looked up at Kenny. ‘Get one of your lads to check the ID in my cab.’ He clamped his hand across the wound on his arm. ‘My name’s Dave Morrison. Hayley Morrison is my daughter.’
Kenny looked at the Scot.
‘Ask yourself – what have you got to lose?’ Dave persisted. ‘Look at the state of me. Do you think I’d put myself through this if I could make it stop? If I knew where your boss’s stuff was, don’t you think I would have told you by now?’
The Scot wiped the blade on a handkerchief.
‘I can’t tell you because I’m not McGilligan. Why not check it out?’
Kenny looked down at his phone.
‘You’ve got to believe me – I’m not Brian McGilligan. But I can help you find him.’
Kenny glanced at his companion, who nodded back at him. Kenny tapped in a number and walked away into the gloom.
Dave looked up and held the Scot’s gaze.
‘There’s something you can do for me,’ Dave said and shifted in his seat. His loose tooth finally broke away from its moorings. He spat a bloody mouthful onto the concrete floor, and looked down to see a bright white molar gleaming in a sea of red.
‘Is that right?’ The Scot shook his head. ‘I’m doing you favours now?’
‘When we find McGilligan…’ Dave sniffed, spat again.
The knife blade flashed in the fluorescent light as the Scot passed it from one hand to the other. ‘Well?’ he said.
Dave sat very straight in his chair, pressing his spine against the wood.
‘You’ve got to let me break every fucking bone in his body.’
THE LOYAL SERVANT
4 May 1979
A sweet burning smell hit him at the door. He peered into the gloom.
‘Are you in here?’ he said.
He moved slowly into the room, the wooden floorboards cool under his bare feet.
‘Hello?’
He stood very still and listened. He could hear someone breathing.
‘Who’s there?’ he said.
He held out a hand and edged forward.
‘Why’ve you closed all the shutters? What’s going on?’
The sweet smell thickened.
‘Is Stevie in here with you?’
No reply.
‘Stevie?’
His toes bumped against the edge of the thick Persian rug, he continued to move slowly, tracing the edge of the rug with his feet until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Two wing-back armchairs on the far side of the room had been moved from their normal position either side of the fireplace and turned so that the backs were facing the door. Above them a pall of smoke reached up to the ceiling.
‘Have you seen Stevie?’ he said.
He stopped, not wanting to get any closer to the cloying sweetness.
‘Are you still pissed?’ A voice drifted towards him from the other side of the room.
His head and stomach were heavy with a combination of brandy and champagne from the night before. ‘No.’ He blinked. ‘Have you seen Stevie?’
‘Stevie?’
‘You were with him out at the pool.’ Immediately he regretted mentioning it.
‘Have you been spying on us?’ A woman’s voice. ‘What did you see?’ Her tone was accusatory, anxious. Maybe she always sounded that way. He didn’t really know her. ‘Well?’ she said.
He clenched his fists and screwed up his face. ‘Nothing… I didn’t see anything. I just wondered if you—’
‘We don’t know where he is. Maybe he’s left already.’
‘I was going to share a cab back into town with him,’ he said.
‘Looks like he’s gone without you, then, doesn’t it?’
He started to back out of the room. ‘If you do see him, tell him I’ve—’
‘I wouldn’t bother. I don’t think he was that interested.’
He turned and retraced his steps, moving faster now than on the way in, and stumbled over a corner of the rug. He stretched out his arms, but there was nothing to grab. He slammed hard against the floor.
‘Are you still here?’ the woman said.
He scrambled to his feet and finally reached the door. He crossed the hall and ran into the long drawing room, tripping over the trailing ends of the dustsheets covering the furniture. He flung open the French doors leading onto the veranda and gulped as much air into his lungs as he could. The early morning mist clung to his bare skin. He turned, dragged a sheet from the nearest chair and wrapped it around his shoulders.
He walked slowly down the half dozen stone steps leading to the swimming pool and passed through the gap in the tall yew hedge, wrapping the dustsheet closer to his chest.
Twenty yards from the marble edge of the pool, he saw it.
A pale suspended mass. Perfectly still.
He threw off the sheet and ran across the strip of lawn, hurdling over upturned sun loungers. He launched himself from the poolside, floating in the air for a moment before crashing through the glassy surface of the water. He thrashed his arms and legs until he was close enough to reach out his hand and touch a pink-white shoulder.
The face was submerged, as if something had caught Stevie’s attention on the tiled floor beneath. He heaved at the bony back and managed to turn him over.
Blank eyes stared up at him, the mouth gaping.
He cupped a hand under Stevie’s chin and windmilled his free arm through the water, kicking his legs frantically until he’d dragged the body to the shallow end. He tried to call out, but there was no breath left in his lungs. He sucked in more air, gazing at Stevie’s long golden hair fanning out around his head.
‘Help!’ The sound came out as a whimper.
He tried again.
‘Help! Someone help me get him out of here!’
Today
1
Caroline Barber heard the distant warble of a phone just as she was soaping her hands. She grabbed a paper towel and rushed into the fourth floor lobby of the Department for Education.
Please don’t hang up.
She skidded across the marble tiles, neatly sidestepped the hat stand she’d left propping open a set double doors, and barrelled into the unlit office.
In the gloom she weaved expertly through an obstacle course of filing cabinets, finally reaching her desk just as her landline stopped ringing. Bloody bugger. She scooped up the handset, pressing it hard against her ear, in the forlorn hope the caller was somehow still connected. All she heard was a perforated dialling tone.
A voicemail message. Already?
She punched in the numbers to retrieve it and sank heavily onto her chair.
At 3.30pm that afternoon her opposite number in the Sheffield office had promised faithfully he would get back to her by the end of the day. She’d been waiting for his call ever since. She rubbed a thumb and forefinger across her eyebrows and closed her eyes. The automated voice at the other end of the line informed her that the message had been left at 6.47pm. She checked her watch: 8.15pm. How had she missed the earlier call?
‘Hello Caroline, it’s me.’
Not the voice she was expecting at all. Caroline braced herself, anticipating a long list of extra chores.
‘I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to say…’ Martin Fox’s voice wavered, uncertain. ‘That is, what I mean…’
There was a pause.
Caroline sat up a little straighter, curious to hear what was so important the schools minister couldn’t have left it until the morning. The line seemed to go dead. A crackle of static then nothing. She was just about to hang up when she heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘I want to explain. You deserve an explanation.’ Another pause. ‘I thought speaking to your answerphone would make it easier, and still I can’t seem to find the right words…’ He swallowed. ‘Things are likely to get a little… fraught in the department over the next few days. I just thought I should warn you.’
Caroline heard him inhale and exhale slowly.
‘I want you to know I have complete confidence in you and I know that even in the midst of all the… upheaval, you’ll do the right thing.’ He paused again. ‘You’re the only one here I feel I can trust.’
There was another pause, a short one, before the dialling tone returned, a steady continuous purr in her ear. Caroline blinked hard, and noticed for the first time her heart was pounding against the walls of her chest. She took a deep breath and tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. Explanation? He hadn’t explained anything.
An email alert pinged from her computer and made her jump. Automatically, she grabbed her mouse and clicked on the box that had appeared at the bottom of her monitor. She skimmed through half the message before realising it was identical to two she’d already received – an incoming email was being held overnight. Twenty-three years in the civil service and still everything came in triplicate.
She returned the handset to its cradle and replayed Martin Fox’s message in her head. She’d never heard the schools minister sound like that before. So strange. So… strained. What was it he’d said about the department? She snatched up the receiver and dialled for voicemail again. This time she listened more carefully, concentrating on every syllable, searching for meaning in the spaces between the words. At the long pause in the middle she was suddenly aware of heavier breathing than she’d heard the first time round. Then she felt a hot blast of air against her cheek. She jolted out of her seat.
‘For God’s sake!’
‘Anything interesting, was it?’ The face of Caroline’s least favourite security guard loomed into hers.
‘Why must you always creep up on me like that?’
‘The threat level is still substantial. We need to remain vigilant at all times. I’m just keeping you on your toes.’
Caroline replaced the receiver and let go of the breath she’d been holding.
‘Well?’ He pointed a nail-bitten finger at the phone.
‘Personal,’ she said, as abruptly as she could.
Go away, Ed.
‘Don’t mind me.’ He straightened to a round-shouldered stoop and tucked a loose corner of shirt into his trousers. Caroline couldn’t help noticing the button straining on his waistband. Automatically she pulled in her stomach and sat up straighter. Ed Wallis was probably the same age as Caroline, give or take a couple of years, certainly no more than 45, yet he always reminded her of someone her dad might have met in the Legion for a pint.
He sucked his teeth and glanced round the office. ‘Still working in the dark, I see. I don’t understand you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not as if it’s your electric.’
Please, just go away.
‘Ah – looks like you missed one.’ He nodded to the glassed-walled room at the other end of the office. An anglepoise lamp was burning a bright halo onto her boss’s desk. She was sure she’d turned it off.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ Ed peered into her face. ‘I’ve worked up a serious thirst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t get up – I can pop the kettle on.’
‘Bit busy actually.’ Caroline pointed at her watch. ‘Got to get on.’
‘Oh. Shame.’ He didn’t move. ‘What about a drink then, when I’ve finished my shift?’
‘And what would your wife say about that?’
He tapped the side of his cauliflower nose with a stubby finger and winked at her. ‘What the eye doesn’t see.’
Good grief.
‘It’s criminal – lovely looking woman like you…’ His gaze lingered on the scooped neckline of her jumper. ‘Spending your evenings cooped up in this place. You should be out somewhere enjoying yourself.’
Caroline grabbed the first folder that came to hand and stood up quickly. ‘Actually, I need to get this to the minister,’ she said.
‘Minister? You’ll be lucky – they won’t still be here. That lot’ll be propping up the House of Commons bar by now.’
‘Not all MPs are the same.’
He raised his eyebrows, his gaze anchored to the small amount of cleavage visible above the file she was clutching. ‘I can take that up to the seventh floor. Which minister is it for?’
He made a sudden lunge towards the file and Caroline reared backwards, desperate not to let his sweaty hands get anywhere near her, and sent her chair crashing into the desk behind.
‘All right!’ he said, palms aloft. ‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘I need to speak to Mr Fox anyway.’ She walked in a wide circle around Ed and hurried towards the exit.
‘So, maybe see you in The Feathers later for a quick one?’ he called after her.
In my nightmares.
Caroline stepped out of the lift on the seventh floor and walked slowly across the lobby, taking a moment to compose herself. She stopped and looked out at the central atrium beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass wall – a rainforest of palm trees and ferns. All the floors except this one and the one she’d just left were blazing in fluorescent light, even though the building was practically empty. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered switching off lights and powering down computers, no one else seemed to care.
Except Martin Fox. He still gave a damn.
She glanced at the folder she was clutching like a shield and loosened her grip, only then realising it was empty. Probably Ed had noticed. He never missed a trick. She shuddered at the thought of his lunging hands and turned sharply towards the double doors leading to the ministerial offices.
She edged forward in the dark, tracing a hand along tall cabinets as she went, all the while wondering what it was the minister had wanted to explain in his phone message.
Outside his office she hesitated. She looked down at the wrinkles in her jumper and tried to smooth them out. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, sucked in a deep breath and tapped lightly on the door.
No response.
She knocked again, more forcefully. ‘Minister?’
Still no reply.
Light leaked through the gap beneath the door. She knocked again and levered down the handle.
‘Martin?’
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The file fell from her hands. Her heart lurched into her throat.
Martin Fox was slumped over his desk, one arm hanging limp by his side. His head was turned towards her, glasses pressing painfully into his nose, his eyes closed. Caroline ran to him and reached out a hand. Then she froze. Inches away from his face, her hand started to tremble. All the colour had drained away from his flesh, his lips had turned a bluish pink.
She stepped closer and forced herself to place two fingers on his neck. She couldn’t feel a pulse, but his skin felt warm beneath her fingertips. She shifted her fingers, pressed deeper into his flesh.
There was no pulse.
She withdrew her hand and backed away. There was nothing she could do.
Martin Fox was dead.
2
‘And did you touch anything?’ The tall uniformed policeman towered over Caroline, a concerned look on his face.
Caroline shook her head. She was sitting on a hard plastic chair opposite the minister’s open door. She’d been answering questions for a while. She wasn’t sure how long. Long enough for the paramedics to come and go. Long enough for more officers to turn up, these ones wearing white paper suits with little hoods bulging from the back of their necks. They were in Martin’s office now. What were they doing with him all this time?
PC Mills had explained a detective would need to ask her more questions when he arrived later. So many questions already, Caroline’s head was spinning.
‘You’re sure?’ the PC said. He wrote something down in his notebook.
A female constable handed Caroline a glass of water, she took a sip and handed it back.
‘Sorry?’ Caroline said.
The policeman crouched down to her level and looked into her face, his gaze soft and sympathetic.
‘I know how difficult this is for you. But we really need to know if you touched any surfaces, picked anything up. We are looking at a potential crime scene.’
‘Crime scene?’
‘We can’t rule anything out at this stage.’
Caroline swallowed a rising wave of nausea and forced herself to remember the moments immediately after discovering Martin Fox’s body.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes I did. I’m sorry. I—’
She was cut short by the sight of two paramedics at the far end of the office wheeling a gurney towards her. PC Mills placed a hand on her arm and squeezed. His mouth twitched into a sad smile. She smiled back.
‘I touched Martin,’ she said quietly.
She watched as the gurney squeezed through the doorway into Martin Fox’s office. She closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly aware how heavy her arms and legs felt. She just wanted to go home. Pete and the kids would be worried sick. Her mobile was probably ringing non-stop on her desk three floors below.
‘Where did you touch him?’
She forced her eyes open and sniffed in a breath, determined not to cry. ‘His neck. But I couldn’t feel a pulse.’ She searched the PC’s face for reassurance. ‘He was warm.’
The police officer nodded, encouraging her to carry on.
‘I couldn’t remember what it is you’re supposed to do when someone… when they… I called for the ambulance.’ The inside of her nose was tingling, she sniffed again. ‘So I touched his phone too.’ She bit her lip and looked away. ‘Four nines.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I had to get an outside line,’ she said, distracted by the memory. She heard a clank of metal against wood and twisted her head towards the noise. The gurney was stuck in the doorway. Hemmed in between the metal rails on either side was a long narrow shape, covered in a red blanket. Caroline heard the constable say something to her, but his voice was muffled and distant. She couldn’t take her eyes off the gurney as the paramedics struggled to manoeuvre Martin Fox out of his room.
‘Mrs Barber?’
‘Sorry. I…’
She lifted a shaking hand to pull a strand of hair away from her face. She swallowed.
Finally the gurney was through the doorway, the paramedics hurried it along the office towards the exit.
‘Do you think you can carry on?’ PC Mills rested a reassuring hand on her arm.
Caroline nodded and forced her eyes open wide.
‘Do you remember touching anything on his desk? Did you move anything? Take anything away? A letter, a note? Anything like that?’
‘A note?’
‘Well, in these circumstances… it’s quite usual—’
‘These circumstances?’
He nodded.
It took her a moment to realise what he was getting at. ‘But you just said it was a crime scene.’
‘I said we’re not ruling anything out.’
Caroline shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see a note.’
A woman in a white paper suit waved what looked like a plastic freezer bag under the constable’s nose. Inside the bag Caroline could clearly see an envelope with her name and address written on it in fat, black marker pen. It was Martin Fox’s handwriting. She gasped.
‘My card!’ She reached towards the bag as it was snatched away and stared at the retreating envelope. ‘It’s my birthday.’ She watched the woman in the white suit stow the envelope in a large cardboard box. ‘Next Tuesday.’
PC Mills frowned at her.
‘Martin has a big calendar with everyone’s birthday on it, you see,’ she said, suddenly feeling the need to explain. ‘He never forgets.’ A sob burst out of her throat, catching her completely unawares.
‘We might be able to get it back to you – when we’ve finished with it.’ He watched his colleague as she slotted a lid on the cardboard box. ‘Not in time for your birthday though, obviously.’
Caroline stood up and tried to peer into Martin Fox’s office. ‘Did you find a CD in there too?’ She listed to one side, unsteady on her feet. Her legs gave at the knee and she thumped back down on the chair.
‘A CD?’
‘Martin said he’d make me a mix of his favourite tracks – for my birthday. It’s the same thing every birthday and Christmas.’ She sucked down a deep breath. ‘I told him not to bother – I can’t stand jazz.’
‘So you were quite close to the deceased?’
Caroline frowned up at him.
‘I mean the, erm… minister?’
‘What?’ Caroline was distracted by another white-suited officer carrying half a dozen padded envelopes from Martin’s room, each in its own freezer bag. He stashed them all in the large cardboard box.
‘Mrs Barber?’ The PC leaned his head closer to hers.
Caroline tried to focus on his face. He’d stopped smiling.
‘Can I go home now?’ she said. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes stinging. She tipped back her head to stem an approaching tidal wave of tears.
‘Just a few more questions, Mrs Barber. And then the DI, Inspector Leary, will want to speak to you. He’ll be here soon.’ He stood up and stretched his legs, shook a foot, circled it at the ankle.
‘Do you have a tissue?’ Caroline wiped the back of her hand across her nose.
The female officer handed her a man-sized square and Caroline blotted her cheeks. ‘He’s a lovely man,’ she said. ‘Everyone loves Martin.’ She blew her nose.
‘Mr Fox was your boss, is that right?’
‘My boss? No…’ She watched PC Mills cross something out in his notebook. ‘He’s an MP, the minister responsible for schools. I work in the academies division.’
The officer looked at her blankly, his pen poised. She let out a sigh. ‘An academy is a particular type of school – part of Martin’s remit. He’s very keen on promoting the academies programme. So we work closely together – the academies division and Martin’s team.’
‘So would you say you knew the minister quite well?’
Caroline nodded slowly.
PC Mills scribbled down more notes, filled a page then turned to a fresh one. ‘I’m really sorry to ask you this,’ he said, crouching again, his long legs folding awkwardly beneath him. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you noticed anything different about Mr Fox recently?’ He spoke quietly, not quite making eye contact. ‘Anything out of the ordinary? Out of character, maybe?’
Caroline shrugged. ‘Out of the ordinary?’
The constable nodded. His cheek twitched.
She didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t sure whether or not to mention the phone message. She couldn’t really remember it. She let out a ragged breath, sucked in another.
‘Was the minister at all…’ the PC hesitated, ‘…depressed?’
‘No! Martin doesn’t get depressed.’ The words flew out of her mouth with more force than she’d meant. ‘He’s just not the type.’ She stared at a spot on the doorframe where the gurney had gouged a jagged line in the paintwork.
‘Anything at all strike you as different about him?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s been stressed. It’s a very stressful job,’ she said. ‘But no way would he…’ She turned towards a low murmur of voices coming from the far end of the office.
‘Ah,’ PC Mills said. ‘That’s Inspector Leary.’
The constable gestured towards a short man in a flapping raincoat hurrying towards them. He was deep in conversation with another man who was dressed in a formal evening suit. It took Caroline a moment to recognise him.
‘That’s my boss,’ she said.
PC Mills wrote something else in his pad.
‘Jeremy Prior.’ Caroline looked at Prior, but he didn’t return her gaze.
‘Another minister?’
‘God, no. He’s acting head of the academies division.’
‘A civil servant.’ Mills was still writing.
‘Not exactly.’
The man in the raincoat glanced at the constable and tapped his watch as he made his way to Martin Fox’s office. PC Mills flipped back a page in his pad. ‘You were saying, just now, about the minister…’ He stared at his notes. ‘He was stressed.’
Caroline pinched her lip between her thumb and forefinger.
‘In what way?’ he said.
She glanced into Martin Fox’s room and tried hard to remember the exact words of the answerphone message. Trust was the only one that popped into her head and stuck. Through the open door and the buzz of men and women in white suits, she caught a glimpse of the half-empty bottle of Teacher’s and handful of small round pills that had spilled onto his desk. Inspector Leary was talking to one of the forensics people, his face set in a grim expression as he caught her gaze. She looked away quickly.
‘I realise what you’re trying to suggest.’ She turned to Mills. ‘But Martin’s not… he’s not…’ She searched for the right word. ‘A quitter,’ she said eventually. ‘Martin’s not a quitter. There’s absolutely no way he would take his own life.’
Enjoy this excerpt? Find out more at www.evahudson.com
Eva Hudson grew up in south, then north London and now lives on the south coast. In the past she has dipped a toe in the shark-infested waters of the music industry and embarked on a career as a dotcom entrepreneur just before the bubble burst. She spent eight years working as web manager in the Department for Education.
The Loyal Servant, Eva’s first novel, won the inaugural Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize from Cambridge University in 2011.
For more information, and to find out about Eva’s other books, visit her website at www.evahudson.com and follow her on Twitter: @eva_hudson.