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  He poured boiling water into his coffee mug, splashing it everywhere as his thoughts about Shelley cleared. It had been sex, simple as that. A bit of excitement with an older woman. God, he was pathetic.

  Taking the coffee back through to the lounge, he slumped into a chair, as he tried to unscramble his thoughts. Julia had to have gone somewhere. There were no other relatives on her side. Would she go to one of his? He doubted it, somehow. They were never very close. Steph was her closest ally. It was odd she hadn’t gone there. She was the most obvious person to pour all her troubles out to.

  Trying to think straight, he scrolled through the contacts in her mobile, looking to see if any other names sprang to mind. He rang one of her friends, one of the mums from school. He kept his voice light, making out there wasn’t a problem, just she’d said she was popping out to a friend’s, but hadn’t said who, and he needed to contact her, but she’d left her mobile at home. It was all very plausible.

  An hour later, he’d rang everyone the pair of them knew. No one had seen her. Or, if they had, they weren’t saying.

  His stomach rumbled. It had been hours since he’d eaten. Going through to the kitchen, he put a wedge of cheese between two slices of bread. When his house phone rang, he was through the kitchen door in a flash, banging it back so hard against the wall the patterned glass cracked from top to bottom.

  “Shit!”

  He stood on a piece of Lego in his stocking feet, and hopped to the phone. Lucy was a monkey, never putting her toys away, but right then, the scattered toys brought an ache to his heart. He snatched up the phone. “Hello!”

  “Well, you don’t sound too sick,” a male voice said.

  Disappointment washed over him like a tidal wave. “Tony.”

  “Sounds more like you’ve been out jogging. How are you feeling?”

  He rallied, trying to think what excuse he’d left for his boss that morning about not coming into work. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. “I wish I could go out jogging,” he answered, racking his brains.

  “Something you ate, do you reckon?”

  “What?”

  “The sickness and the runs. Something you ate? Has Julia come down with it, too?”

  “No, she’s… she’s fine,” he said, recalling now he’d said he’d got a stomach bug.

  “Well, make sure you’re okay before thinking of coming in tomorrow,” said Tony Wyndham.

  “I will,” Ian answered, wondering if Shelley was in work, and how she was fairing after he knocked her out flat. His eyes fluttered shut at the thought of doing that to a woman. God, he was such a sick bastard. For all he knew, she could be still lying unconscious on her bedroom floor.

  He told himself he was worrying unnecessarily. Her husband should have found her, although he didn’t know if he was working away; he often did, when he had to out-source materials. Ian cleared his throat. “Is everything okay at your end? No one else off sick with a bug?”

  “No,” came the answer, and then, “Well, Shelley hasn’t turned up, nor phoned in…”

  He didn’t hear any more, his ears began to buzz. Somehow, he got through the rest of the conversation, relieved when Tony hung up, wishing him a speedy recovery.

  He sat for an age, imagining Shelley in a coma, dead by the time her husband returned from his trip.

  “Get a bloody grip!” he said to himself. She’d be fine. But, he stared at his phone. He couldn’t leave it. He knew her number by heart, but keyed in the code to hide his number. He didn’t want to speak to Shelley. He needed to hear her voice, and know she was alive. It rang twice, before being answered. It was a man’s voice. Ian hung up quickly, feeling like a stalker.

  He guessed it was her husband. That was good. If he was around to answer her mobile, that meant he was there to look after her. Anyway, it was Julia and Lucy he had to worry about.

  He finished his sandwich, barely tasting it, a dull ache starting up behind his eyes. He wondered whether Julia had found out who it was he'd been seeing. A sickly thought struck him. She could have gone to see Shelly. Spent the night in a hotel, then, gone to call on her today. But, then, what would she do with Lucy?

  Of course! She’d be at school. He glanced at the wall clock. Two-thirty. A feeling of relief washed away the pain in his skull, and all his anxiety. He could meet up with Julia when she went to pick their daughter up.

  He felt as if a great weight had been miraculously lifted from him. His appetite returned, and with a much lighter heart, he made himself another sandwich.

  CHAPTER 15

  Their bodies lay entwined beneath the blanket, Julia shielding her daughter, their heads close together. Neither of them moved, nor uttered a sound. She didn’t need to tell her daughter that they had to lie still, play dead. She’d lost track of time; it could have been an hour or a few minutes ago since Vincent threw her daughter onto the floor, hit her in the face again, and yelled at Nash to kill them. He hadn’t stayed to watch. He’d slammed the door on them, leaving them at the mercy of Nash.

  She’d been ready to fight, as Nash had taken the length of metal from inside his jacket. But the second Vincent had left the room, Nash had mouthed two words, “Trust me.”

  There was something in his eyes both she and Lucy instantly saw. If she’d had more than a second to think about it, she probably wouldn’t have hesitated in trying to overpower him. Now, she thanked God she hadn't kicked and pummelled him; the outcome might have been very different. So, in that split second when he'd said trust me, they had.

  “Scream,” he slurred, the word a whisper. “Then, shut it. Play dead.”

  Lucy screamed first. She turned her eyes to Julia, as if telling her to scream as well. She did so, and there was no pretending when Nash raised the cosh above his head. But, rather than bringing it down on them, he slammed it down onto the rumpled bedclothes. A look in Lucy’s direction silenced her. He pointed the cosh at the floor. She slumped down.

  Julia screamed again. He hit the floorboards again, through the old clothing. She fell silent, and slumped to the floor, lying on top of her daughter. Then wide-eyed, she and Lucy had clung to one another, watching mesmerised as he hit the floor through the woollen material, again and again. Then, he threw the blanket over them. A second later the door had opened, and Vincent was back, checking Nash had done as he was told.

  Thank God he hadn’t looked under the blanket. She had no doubt Nash’s mercy would have condemned him to death, too, if Vincent had found out. He wouldn’t have had any hesitation in slicing all three of them to ribbons, had he discovered the truth.

  She didn’t know how long they would have to stay like this. She only prayed the pair would get her car working, and go. But, for now, they had to stay put, not moving, not speaking – playing dead.

  CHAPTER 16

  At three-fifteen, Ian drove the half-mile to St John’s Primary School. He parked a little way from the gates, not wanting Julia to see him the minute she arrived, in case she turned tail and disappeared. He switched off the engine, turned on the radio, and sat patiently.

  The quiet street gradually came alive with parents and grandparents, some with infants in pushchairs, some with toddlers. They gathered in small groups around the school gates, chatting.

  Ian sat upright, watching as every car turned the corner, expecting at any second to see Julia’s yellow Mini. At three-thirty, the children poured out of school. Realising he must have missed her, he got quickly out, and crossed the road to the school gates. He scanned the eager little faces that came running from across the playground, bags slung over the shoulders.

  “Did you find her, then?”

  He spun round to find one of Julia’s friends, whom he’d called earlier. She stood, patiently waiting for an answer. “Oh, er, no, she must have got waylaid in town. You know what the traffic is like this time of day. Thought I’d better come and collect Lucy, in case Julia didn’t get back in time.”

  The youn
g woman went to say something, but was jumped on by a curly haired boy who unloaded his bag, lunchbox, and violin onto her, before charging after his pal. She smiled instead. “Kids! See you!”

  “Yes, see you,” Ian answered, turning his attention back to the school entrance. The flow of children had thinned. Most now had been paired up with their parent or grandparent, and were being packed into cars, or led off down the street.

  Standing in the school doorway, Ian spotted Lucy’s teacher. She was telling someone still inside to hurry up. It had to be Lucy. He strode to meet her, ridiculously eager to see his daughter, but, at the same time, terrified, in case she knew how he’d hurt her mother. He stopped in his tracks as a skinny-legged boy, with carrot coloured hair, came running out, and a parent overtook him to meet the child.

  The teacher was about to close the door, when she spotted Ian standing in the playground. She smiled at him. “Hello, Mr. Logan. Thank goodness that horrible fog has lifted. How is Lucy? It’s such a shame she’s missed school today. We picked the children to be in the nativity play, and I know your Lucy wanted to be the Angel Gabriel. I hope she's not going to be too disappointed; only, we had to choose from those available. Tell her she’ll still be in the choir as an ordinary angel which is as important.”

  “Yes, yes, I will,” he uttered, feeling sick to the soul, and aware a nerve had started ticking in his cheek.

  “A cold, is it?” the teacher continued. “I’ve half a dozen off with coughs and sneezes.”

  “What, oh, yes,” he agreed, deciding there was no way on this Earth he could admit to his daughter’s teacher his wife and child had left him because of his adultery. Or, he hadn’t the faintest idea where they were or when he’d see them again.

  “Well, thank you for popping by and telling me,” the teacher said, flashing him a smile. “Let’s hope she’s feeling better tomorrow.”

  He returned her smile, even managed a cheery wave, before walking back across the deserted playground. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Where in God's name were they?

  He didn’t drive straight home, but took a detour around the places they might be. Friends of friends’ houses. Friends who he’d already rang but who might be lying at Julia’s request. He drove slowly, looking for her yellow Mini. But, as darkness fell, he finally gave up and went home.

  He was hungry. He opened a can of soup, and ate it straight from the saucepan, with a couple of slices of dry bread. Two more cups of coffee, and a lot more thought. Julia was an intelligent woman. It was more than possible she’d discovered who he was seeing. If so, she may have called on Shelley to find out the extent of the affair. Maybe even to tell Shelley’s husband what was going on. The more he thought about it, the more positive he was that she would have spoken to Shelley by now.

  He rang her again, not withholding his number this time. The same male voice answered. Why the devil wasn’t Shelley answering her own phone?

  He took a second to gather his wits. He kept his voice business-like. “Could I speak to Shelley de Main, please?”

  He heard the hesitation in the man’s voice. “Who is this?”

  “Ian Logan. I work with Shelley,” he said, trying to sound like his world wasn’t falling apart. “Sorry to bother you, only I wasn’t in work today, damn stomach bug, and it looks like I won’t be in tomorrow either, so I thought I’d better let Shelley know, as we were half through an important project.”

  “You weren’t in?” He sounded suspicious.

  “No, I…”

  “Neither was she. She…” he hesitated. “Something happened to Shelley last night. It’s shaken her up pretty badly.”

  “Something happened?” Ian repeated, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

  The husband sighed. “Well, I may as well tell you, seeing as you work together. She was attacked.”

  Ian stared blindly at the wall. She’d carried her threat through? Told him she was raped? Oh God! “Attacked?” he managed to utter.

  “Yes, some young swine snatched her bag, as she was coming out of the cinema, gave her a nasty punch on the jaw.”

  His eyes fluttered shut. She hadn’t screamed rape. Thank God, thank God. Somehow, he managed to say, “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear that. Can… can I speak to her?”

  De Main paused. “Hold on, she’s in bed. I’ll take the phone up to her.” He chatted. as he huffed and puffed up the stairs. “I thought I’d bring it downstairs so she could get some rest. Damn thing never stops ringing.”

  Ian heard the bedroom door open, and could imagine the cream carpet, the red silk sheets, Shelley propped up on pillows in one of her flimsy negligees. Guilt swamped him again.

  “Shelley, love. Someone on the phone for you,” Ian heard the husband say. “Someone you work with. Ian somebody.”

  There was a pause, a silence, and he realised then what a position he’d landed her in. She’d clearly had to lie about being slapped in the face. She hadn’t put him in the frame, and now, here he was, calling her up, expecting her to tell him if she’d had a visit from Julia – with the husband looking on.

  When she came on the line, her voice sounded clipped. “Hello?”

  He felt his nerves tighten. “Shelley… your husband has told me what happened. I’m so sorry to hear that. How are you feeling?”

  There was no hiding the bitterness, nor the fact her husband was right beside her. “I’m feeling furious, if you must know. If I get my hands on the bastard who hit me, I’ll make him pay.”

  The threat was levelled at him, but he replied the only way possible with a third party listening in. “Quite right. It’s not safe to walk the streets these days,” he said, hesitating. “Um, the reason I’m calling was to ask if you’d had a visitor today.”

  “Who?” she asked, her voice irritated and curt.

  He could hardly tell her with her husband eavesdropping. He hoped Shelley grasped the gist of what he was trying to say. “The Julia woman – but you haven’t been in the office, and she’d hardly call round to your home, would she?”

  “I’ve not been at the office, so I’ve no idea,” Shelley snapped. “I have to go, I’ve a wretched migraine.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, really sorry, Shelley.” He put the phone down, and slumped down into an armchair, head in his hands. In a way, he pitied Shelley, having to string a pack of lies to her husband to explain away the bruise he’d given her. He shouldn’t have hit her so hard. On the one hand, she was coming at him with scissors, but he could have gotten them off her, without hitting her. He felt sick. They didn’t come much worse than him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Vincent slammed the bonnet of the Mini down, and kicked viciously at the wing. “Fucking piece of shit!”

  He’d spent hours trying to get it working. Now, the battery was as dead as a dodo, and he was frozen to the marrow.

  Storming into the house, he found Nash slumped, head down on the table, the paraffin stove lit, and the kettle boiling. A half mug of coffee was next to his elbow. After the freezing cold of outside, it was warm in the kitchen. Vincent felt the rage building up inside. He’d been stuck out there, trying to get the car going, while Nash was warm and comfortable in here.

  He wanted to kick the chair from under the moron, and knock his head into next week. But, he wasn’t stupid. Somehow or other, Nash had hidden reserves of strength to call on when he needed them. No point now in getting into a fight with him. A crack on the head with that cosh of his, as well as a scalded dick, was the last thing he needed.

  He glared at the back of Nash’s head, despising the ugly sod more and more with every second he had to spend with him.

  This was all going wrong. They should have gotten rid of the stuff by now, and gone their separate ways. Fucking car! Now, they were stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting to London to offload what they’d nicked.

  Stupid fucking woman! She deserved to die for driving a
wreck that wouldn’t start.

  He made himself a coffee, warming his hands on the cup as he sipped it.

  Nash came groggily awake. He sat up, then started rocking back and forth. “Me arm kills, Vince.”

  Hatred bubbled under the surface; he kept it hidden, cracking a joke. “Never a truer word said, mate. Your arm certainly did kill. You did a good job up there earlier. I’m proud of you.”

  “I ain’t proud of nothin’,” Nash groaned. “Can we get going now?”

  Vincent ruffled the other man’s hair, but it was hard not to grab a handful, and twist his scrawny head backwards, until his neck snapped. “We have a bit of a problem, I’m afraid. Car’s dead as a fucking dodo.”

  Nash’s eyes rolled up into his head. “Ah, no!”

  “Ah, yes, unfortunately,” said Vincent, finding the radio station on his mobile phone again. He turned up the volume, as the four o’clock news came on. They both listened silently, expecting to hear something about the discovery of the old bloke. Still nothing. If only they’d got a vehicle, they’d have massive head start on the law – if they had a vehicle.

  “We’re going to have to nick another car, Nash. Reckon you could do it tonight?”

  “Where from?” he groaned. “Anyhow, how can I drive one-handed.”

  Vincent’s hands curled into fists, he relaxed them instantly. “Then, it looks like I’ll have to go and find us a vehicle then, doesn’t it?”

  “Sorry, Vince.”

  “And while I’m gone, get that mess upstairs cleared away.”

  Nash looked blankly at him.

  Vincent spoke calmly and slowly to him, so the moron would understand. “Nash, when they bulldoze this house, probably someone will take a look around first, to make sure there’s no one squatting.”

  “Okay, got it,” Nash slurred. “I’ll bury them. No one will find them.”

  “Do it,” Vincent snapped. “Have it done by the time I get back. Think you can manage that?”