He leaned over and touched her hair, wanting to pull it hard, and she stirred.
‘Is that you, Alastair?’ she whispered without moving or opening her eyes.
He ran a hand over her naked shoulder, stroking it. ‘It is. Sorry I’m late.’
‘Come to bed, we’ve got to be up early,’ she grunted testily.
God, he wanted to hurt her then. To leap on top of her and beat her into submission so she was choking on her own blood and begging for mercy.
One day, he thought. One day I’ll do you too.
He turned away to avoid temptation and masturbated quickly in the en suite bathroom to rid himself of the mood, knowing that it would just get worse if left unchecked. Then he cleaned his teeth, got undressed, and slipped into bed, where he fell quickly into the warm, dreamless sleep of those who have no conscience.
40
Going on the run can be done. I’d proved that. I’d been free for over two weeks now, with the police, the NCA and most of the British underworld after me. But in a digital age, where your every transaction, your every footstep even, is recorded somewhere, and if there are enough resources against you, the whole thing becomes an increasingly precarious balancing act. One wrong move and it’s all over.
So far, though, I was still ahead of the game. Steve Brennan and I had caught the Portsmouth ferry to St Malo with me hidden in the boot of the Audi estate under a blanket with empty suitcases piled on top, and screened from the outside world by a couple of boxes filled with the kind of bits and pieces you take with you when you’re travelling to your house in France. Security is a lot looser going out of the UK on ferries than coming in, because the illegal immigrant stowaways customs officers are looking for are usually coming the other way. It had been an uncomfortable journey down in the hold where the movements of the sea are far more pronounced, but a small price to pay to escape the UK.
At the other end Brennan’s car had been stopped at passport control, but after a brief conversation with the passport officer he’d been let through and, a few minutes later, when we were safely clear of the terminal, I’d joined him in the front. It had been that easy.
However, the next step was always going to be the hard part. I was going to need transport so, after some discussion, we’d stopped at a car rental place in the town of Fougères and, while I waited in the Audi, Brennan had rented a Renault Megane for two weeks in his own name. As soon as he was done, I’d followed him in the Megane to the holiday home they’d bought some years before, after their surviving daughter had left home.
And now, on Sunday night, here we were, Steve Brennan and me, sitting in armchairs in the cottage’s olde worlde living room, having consumed a huge chicken and vegetable stew, washed down with a bottle each of Fleurie. We’d talked all evening and the thing was, it hadn’t been maudlin. Brennan had spoken happily about the first half of his life: a childhood growing up by the sea in Dorset, meeting Karen, having two wonderful daughters, the family holidays. The fun, the laughter. Memories someone like Alastair Sheridan could never erase. And I’d told Brennan about my life, about my experiences in the police and military, as well as the failures. The pain of losing friends, the pain of prison, but the good things too. The camaraderie I’d had in the army; the one happy relationship before Tina which I still remembered with fondness years later. And the fact that I’d brought people to justice whose crimes would otherwise have gone undetected.
‘And you said there’s one more man responsible for Dana’s murder,’ said Brennan, his words slightly slurred from the wine. ‘Someone who’s going to get away with it.’ He looked incredulous. ‘And the police still aren’t interested in charging him?’
I sighed, wondering whether it had been such a good idea emphasizing the fact that there was still someone out there. But I opted for the truth. ‘The problem is, Dana died nearly thirty years ago, and the evidence against this third man is sketchy and circumstantial, which means no police officer would even think about charging him, and the CPS would throw it out way before it ever came to court. But I know for an absolute fact it’s him.’
‘And you can’t tell me who it is?’
‘I don’t want to. It won’t help. But let me tell you this. If an opportunity shows itself, I will get him. I promise.’
Brennan looked at me sadly. ‘I don’t want you to do any more on our account, Ray. Let it go. You’ve got a chance to build a new life now. Do it.’
I took a generous sip of the Fleurie, savouring the taste. It was the first time I’d relaxed in more than a year. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The possibility of change. Of reinventing myself. Of finally finding a measure of peace after a lifetime of violent upheavals.
But I could also see Alastair Sheridan’s smug, laughing face. A man who revelled in killing. Who knew he’d got away with it time and time again. A man who could be Prime Minister.
And I
