wasn’t your sister. Someone who looked a lot like her, yes, but definitely not the same woman. So the chase was on again. And it’s been a chase that’s been going on some time.
‘As for the false documents the police found at the flat, those belonged to Erica; she’d been gathering it, preparing an entirely new identity for you. She knew Doradus was getting close to discovering who you really were, and figured you’d be next on their hit list. She felt she had to protect you, to save you. It was no accident that you ran into her that night in the lane. She’d been squatting in an old house nearby, but had been traced there by Camael and his lackeys. She narrowly escaped being caught by them and was on her way to warn you when she encountered you in the lane, must have slipped in her haste and you accidentally knocked her over.’
‘And the symbol painted on my cottage wall?’ he asked. ‘How’d that get there?’
‘My guess is Camael and co traced Erica as far as they could, finally coming upon your cottage as the most likely place she’d find shelter for miles. They discovered the place unlocked and empty.’
Gareth thought back to that night, which seemed an age ago. ‘I remember taking Erica’s coat off because it was so wet. I took it with me to the cottage, threw it over the back of the sofa. Maybe they saw it, thought she’d been there, or expected her back at any time.’
‘It’s the only reason I can see that they set about preparing for the ritualised killing,’ she said. ‘Like I told you, it’s impossible to know the exact secrets of their rituals — timings, places, things like that — but the time and the place had obviously been in alignment that night at your cottage.’
‘Except we were in the Land Rover and they never knew.’
‘That was a close run thing,’ she said.’ Had you taken Erica indoors you would have both been murdered.’ Caroline once again moved to the window. Stared hard outside. ‘The arrival of the ambulance obviously disturbed them and they either took flight or hung around to see Erica being taken to hospital. Muller’s appearance at the hospital scared her into flight again. So that’s how we are where we are,’ she said. She took the gun out of her jeans belt and checked it over. ‘Doradus wants you dead because he deems you evil; Lambert-Chide wants you alive because of your immense value. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, huh?’ She beckoned for him to rise. ‘We have to go now.’
‘You’ve been conspicuously vague on the real reasons I’m being hunted, I notice.’
‘That will all become clear later,’ she said. ‘Come on, Davies, we haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get you somewhere safe.’
‘Like hell,’ he replied defiantly. ‘The way I see it, nowhere is safe. I’m still not convinced. How do I know you’re not doing what Muller did? Are you using me?’
‘It’s no skin off my nose if you end up in pieces,’ she said, taking out a piece of gum and ramming it into her mouth.
‘You’ve risked an awful lot to say you don’t care what happens to me.’
‘I have my reasons, and don’t flatter yourself to think it’s all about you. Either come with me or hang around here and wait for Tremain or Camael to find you. I’ll just tell Pipistrelle that I did my best.’
She went over to the door, eased it open and checked outside, the gun poised in her hand. Reluctantly he left his seat. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they went out into the farmyard. Rusted machinery lurked like prehistoric beasts in the long grass.
‘I have a car ready. No, not that way,’ she warned as he headed instinctively down the main driveway. ‘We have to go across the fields and into those woods over there. The main way is too obvious.’
She leapt through a line of bushes onto a bare field beyond, bright green shoots of some plant or other poking tentatively through the soil. The mud began to stick to the soles of his shoes. His feet still hurt like blazes but he wasn’t about to let her see he was in any way distressed. He hoped the puncture wounds wouldn’t go septic. They clambered up a steep incline, reaching the small wood on its summit that they’d seen from across the field. Caroline indicated with the gun to a thin thread of a path that ran through it. He was tempted to make a bolt for it, to get himself away from this strange woman, find some kind of help. Real help. But he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was, and if there was the remotest chance she had been telling the truth then he was in big trouble and perhaps she was the only one who could get him through it. With options thin on the ground he trudged blindly after her, drawn as much to her brimming confidence as much as anything. That and her cool determination, which he found reassuring and disturbing in equal amounts.
They emerged from the wood onto a narrow, track-like country road, little used, a strip of dirt and weeds running through its centre along its entire length. Ahead, pulled tight into a bank was a large black Ford, opaque windows reflecting a stormy grey sky.
‘Muller didn’t see me follow because I’ve been waiting here all along for him,’ Caroline revealed, turning to Gareth. ‘He fell like a fly onto a web.’ She nodded. ‘After me,’ she said, pointing to the car.
Gareth went in front, and as he did so the passenger door swung open. A man dressed in a dark suit emerged. Rose to his full height. It was Randall Tremain.
Shocked, Gareth faced Caroline. She had the gun aimed squarely at his chest. ‘You bitch!’ he said. ‘You mean you’ve been working for Tremain all along?’
In his anger he threw a punch at her. She didn’t flinch. His fist missed her jaw by an inch or so, his head dragged back by Tremain who delivered a swift punch into his kidneys. Another man leapt from the car and came over to hold Gareth in a painful arm-lock.
‘Where’s Muller?’ said Tremain, his voice as hard and as cold as granite.
‘You’ll find him locked in the cellar,’ said Caroline, sliding the gun into the belt of her jeans.
‘Get him in the car!’ Tremain ordered, watching as Gareth was hauled gasping to the vehicle. ‘I need to take care of a little unfinished business before we go,’ he said, sliding his hands into a pair of leather gloves.
37
‘Can I get you a drink?’
David Lambert-Chide regarded him from under his heavy, waxen lids, but Gareth merely scowled in reply. There were burly, black-suited men stood on either side of him, faces impassive, eyes unblinking, like grotesque bookends. Randall Tremain stood against a wall, one arm behind his back, another clutching what looked like a large leather-bound book. Gareth’s arms still throbbed from the mauling he’d received as they’d dragged him out of the car, through doors, down corridors, and finally into this room where they sat him down on a hard wooden chair. The room was a dreary, stone-walled affair, plaster peeling away, a solitary bare light bulb in the ceiling’s centre, not a single window. There were two ancient-looking oak doors, one behind him, another in front. Three chairs, put there for the occasion as far as Gareth could tell, were the only pieces of furniture. The room looked like an old scullery, laid with worn stone flags, and he could see old lead pipes snaking out of the floor near the wall and going nowhere; holes in the plaster where fixtures and fittings had once been set.
‘You can’t get away with any of this,’ Gareth growled.
Lambert-Chide waved away the two security guards and they backed off, going to stand a distance behind Gareth. He could sense their mica-cold presence at his back.
Lambert-Chide held up a glass, the amber liquid inside catching the cold light of the bulb. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one? This will be your last chance.’ He put it to his lips, never once taking his eyes off Gareth, took a gulp. ‘And I do mean your last chance. Pretty soon you’ll be on your way to the States. Not first class, I’m afraid. Sadly it will have to be by crate, but you won’t notice as you’ll be asleep the entire way.’ He raised a brow. ‘No? Your choice.’ He took his time walking over to one of the chairs, his aged, thin figure sitting carefully down, and his hand toyed with the silver head of the cane he carried. He scrutinized Gareth. ‘The likeness is the giveaway, of course,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Don’t you agree?’ he asked of Tremain who came to stand on Lambert-Chide’s right. There wasn’t a glimmer of response from Tremain.
‘Where am I?’ asked Gareth.
‘Back at Gattenby House, though that matters little to you,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘The oldest part of the building, as it happens, and never used.’ He flicked a bony finger and Caroline came from behind Gareth, her hands stuffed inside her leather jacket pockets and her mouth still chewing on gum. ‘Well done, Caroline,’ he said. ‘Very
