wrong turn in trying to find his way back to the beach in the darkness and had found himself caught up in a warren of residential streets. He’d wasted precious minutes retracing his route, before finally following them down the correct road to the sea.
When he had arrived in the car park, it had taken him a further few anxious minutes to locate Marie and Joe on the beach. He’d finally spotted Joe’s flickering flashlight along the shoreline and realized immediately that things weren’t right. Up to that point, he said, he hadn’t been quite sure what game was being played and by whom. At that moment it has become clear that, whatever the game might be, Marie was definitely losing.
He’d grabbed the piece of concrete – part of a decaying wall along the edge of the car park – in the absence of any other weapon. Even in the last few seconds as he approached the struggling pair, his crunching footsteps drowned by the roar of the wind and the sea, he hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. As he drew closer, he’d seen that, whatever it was, he had to do it quickly.
He’d tried not to hit Joe too hard, intending only to stun him. In the event, Joe had collapsed forwards, unconscious or worse. Salter had grasped Joe’s shoulder, dragged him back from Marie, turned him over on to his back. Still breathing, thank Christ. Spark out, though. No blood, as far as Salter could see, but he’d have the mother of all headaches in the morning.
Marie had scrambled to her feet, face white with shock. Salter left Joe and went to help her, letting her lean on his shoulder as she recovered her breath.
‘Come on,’ he’d said. ‘We’re out of here.’
She’d looked at him blankly. She was still dazed, but she’d assumed that this was it. That Salter would call the police and an ambulance, and she’d have to wait to face the music. In a way, it would have been a relief.
Instead, Salter had left Joe lying unconscious on the sand, and helped Marie stumble back towards his car. He’d hesitated momentarily, wondering what to do about Joe’s gun, but then had left it on the beach by Joe’s head.
‘What about Joe?’ she’d said, as they reached Salter’s car. ‘We can’t just leave him there.’
‘You care?’ Salter had asked, then shrugged. ‘I’ll put a few miles behind us, then we can call him an ambulance.’
‘He’ll shop me,’ she said. ‘He’ll say I brought him out here and tried to kill him. He’ll tell the police I was here.’
‘I doubt it. Because then he’d have to explain why you didn’t kill him. Also, I don’t think Mr Morrissey will want to spend any more time with the police than he has to. If he wakes up before the ambulance comes, he’ll make himself scarce. If he doesn’t, he’ll concoct some story. Mugged while out dogging or something. Did you know this place used to be the dogging centre of the north-west?’
‘So I understand,’ she said, wondering quite why it was that everyone seemed to want to share that titbit of information with her.
He waited till they were back on the bypass, then dialled 999. He used a secure phone, untraceable, and gave a false name. Just a tip-off about an unconscious man on the beach. He didn’t even bother using the hands-free, Marie noted. Not the usual cautious Hugh Salter.
She’d expected him to head back towards the city, but instead he’d turned north. She was baffled now, wondering what he was up to. For the moment, he didn’t seem inclined to enlighten her. They sped on through the night in silence. In spite of everything, Marie found herself beginning to doze, overcome by sheer exhaustion.
She came awake as they turned off the main road. She’d missed the sign and had no idea where they were.
‘You must be knackered,’ Salter said, in a tone that sounded almost kindly. ‘Not far now.’
‘Where are we?’
‘At the seaside. Edge of Southport. One of your better resorts. What passes for upmarket up here.’
‘Can’t wait.’ She looked at the clock on the dashboard. She’d been asleep half an hour or so.
She could see what Salter meant about the town. Most British seaside resorts were long past their best, but this still retained a Victorian elegance. Wide streets, open spaces. It looked as if there was probably some money about. She could imagine that it would be bustling and attractive in the summer. At this time of year, at this time of the night, though, for all its natural charms, the town still looked a little bleak and drab, with rows of shuttered shopfronts, closed bed and breakfasts, everything waiting to be spruced up for the summer. Salter drove through the town centre, then headed north along the main street. The Irish Sea was off to their left, invisible behind rows of Edwardian buildings.
They left the main town behind and entered a residential area. Salter turned left and then immediately right, and Marie saw that they were in a small estate of neatly serried bungalows. They looked as if they’d been built in the 1960s or 1970s to house aspirational young couples. They’d passed through some more modern, more upmarket-looking housing. These looked slightly more down at heel, though hardly neglected. Marie tried to imagine who might choose to live there. Older couples perhaps, retiring to the coast, or maybe still the youngsters trying to get a foot on the housing ladder. One or two of the houses were boarded up, perhaps awaiting renovation or new owners, but the majority seemed well cared for. There were lights burning inside most of the bungalows.
Salter pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Home from home.’ He climbed out into the windy night.
Marie hesitated for a moment, then followed him. ‘Any chance of you telling me what the bloody hell’s going on, Hugh?’
‘Just a few minutes more,’ he said. ‘This way.’ He gestured towards a narrow alleyway between two of the bungalows.
‘If you think I’m going into any dark alleys after what’s happened tonight, you’ve got another think coming.’
Salter smiled as if she’d made a joke. ‘We’re going via the back entrance,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to leave the car too obviously parked outside the place we’re staying. Just in case.’
‘Staying?’ she said. ‘Who said anything about staying?’
‘Don’t think you’ve a lot of choice, sis. We need to keep you out of circulation for a little while.’
He was already striding away down the alley. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed. The alley led to a further passage between the rear gardens of the two parallel rows of bungalows, providing access to their back doors. Salter turned left down this passage then, three or four houses down, unbolted a garden gate and made his way inside.
By the time she’d caught up, he was already at the back door of the bungalow, fumbling with a bunch of keys. In the darkness, the bungalow looked much like all the rest. The garden had apparently been tended, though only in a functional manner – a neat lawn, mowed, some concrete slabs, a few pots currently devoid of plants.
Salter finally succeeded in opening the door and stepped inside, turning on the light as he did so. She followed him into a clean but basic-looking kitchen. Salter stood looking around the room as if it were new to him also.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘All home comforts. Cup of tea?’ Without waiting for a response, he picked up an electric kettle which was standing by the sink.
‘What is this, Hugh?’ she said. ‘A safe house?’
‘Something like that,’ he said, his back turned to her.
She left Salter at the sink, knowing that she’d get nothing more from him till he was ready, and went to explore the rest of the house. It took her no more than a few minutes to check out the remaining rooms, and what she saw largely confirmed her external impressions. Beyond the narrow hallway, there was a small sitting room, a poky bathroom, two double bedrooms. All apparently maintained, newly decorated, but bare and functional. The only gesture towards ornament was a scattering of anonymous pictures on the walls – framed prints of the kind that adorn the walls in budget business hotels. The furniture looked like a job lot from some discount chain store. Nothing offensive, but nothing memorable either.
Salter entered the sitting room bearing a tray laden with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two mugs. Even a plate of sodding biscuits.
‘Very domesticated,’ she commented.
‘All mod cons,’ he said. ‘You must be hungry. Shall I get something for us?’
‘Jesus. This I’ve got to see. Hugh Salter, domestic goddess.’
‘There’s a freezer full of ready meals and a microwave. That’s as close as you get to the culinary arts.’
