‘I didn’t think about it. All my calendars are in a drawer in the kitchen.’ Maurice shook his head as if realising for the first time how misguided he had been. ‘They went to Mauritius, you know.’
Mick was stunned. ‘Mauritius. You sure?’
‘Anwen told Lucas. She saw the tickets while she was cleaning.
Micks eyes were hard. ‘Well, if you wanted to stop Kitty, you should have done it properly. She’s still alive, and Paul’s devastated. If he finds out it was down to you, he’ll shop us both.’ He stared over Maurice’s shoulder at the quaint little kitchen area and muttered, ‘I thought we’d got away with it.’
‘Yeah.’ Maurice pulled at his fingers. ‘Me too.’
70 POULTON
A joint team of police officers from Lymeshire and Kent forces, edged along Tankerton promenade.
In a car, on the coast road above, DI Poulton sat in the passenger seat beside DI Humphreys of Kent Police, directing operations.
A short distance ahead of them, a car was huddled against the curb in the shadow of an ice cream parlour and to their right, pale holiday homes slumbered in the darkness. On the left-hand side of the police car, a grassy slope dropped away to the promenade below. And beyond the promenade: groynes, beach, and the black, flashing sea.
Poulton spoke into the radio. ‘This is Beach Buddy, report your positions.’
‘All in place.’
Poulton grinned. ‘That’s Sir to you, Roberts.’
‘Sorry Sir.’
‘Everyone ready?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Poulton glanced at Humphreys, who nodded. Gripping his handset Poulton roared, ‘Go go go!’
71 MAURICE
Fee inherited this beach hut near Whitstable from her mother, but after her death, once her affairs were in order, because of the memories associated with it, Kitty had given the key to Paul. Paul hid it in the dark recess below the hut so that any of the three men could make use of it. Maurice had not availed himself of its charms, but he knew that Mick had taken the occasional lady friend for a romantic liaison.
Many years before, the children enjoyed summer days here with their mums - days from which their fathers were excluded. Maurice would hear, second hand, of picnics, ice creams and paddling. This had reinforced his feelings of inadequacy because he could not provide the same level of entertainment. Now, sitting in the gloomy interior, facing Mick, he imagined the laughs and cries of those long-ago mothers and children.
A red plastic bucket with a yellow handle lay on its side on the floor, shells tumbling from it into the dust. Who, he wondered, had collected those? Had it been his Sam or Josh?
A sound outside brought him to tense watchfulness, but nothing followed. The night was growing wild, the sunshine of the day a memory.
Mick stood up. ‘It’s time. I’ll get going.’
Their differences forgotten, they hugged, and the wind whined round the little wooden building, sneaking through cracks, stirring up dust and making joints creak.
‘I’ll go first then you follow in ten minutes.’ Mick punched Maurice’s arm and turned to the door.
Maurice nodded. ‘Good luck, mate.’
Mick’s ebony face disappeared into the gloom of the night, and Maurice sat, staring at his watch, following the second hand with his eyes, tracing the minute hand’s jerky progress. When ten minutes had elapsed, he picked up his bag - it was so light. At the open door he breathed in the salty air, his eyes half closed to protect them from flying grit.
An arm flew from the darkness and slammed into his chest, sending him onto the floor. More hands yanked him upright and threw him into his seat. Then the tiny space was full of bodies. A shout from outside, and heavy boots pummelled the promenade.
Run Mick, run.
72 POULTON
Above, on the road, DI Poulton listened to the gasping voice of Roberts. ‘One detained, Sir. In pursuit of one other.’
‘Which direction?’ Poulton strained his eyes through the dusk, then Humphreys nudged him and pointed.
‘There.’
A bulky figure carrying some kind of bag was powering across the grass, passing them several yards away and heading, it seemed, for the parked car by the ice cream parlour. Poulton narrowed his eyes, weighing up his options. If he pursued this perpetrator on foot and failed to catch him, he would be left behind when Humphreys took off in pursuit. Still, he had to give it a go. He pulled on the door handle, cursing himself for not organising flood lights.
‘Wait,’ Humphreys barked. ‘The uniforms’ll get him if they’re quick.’ He turned the key to start the car, and Poulton settled back.
Four officers dashed over the rise and pelted past the control car, but the silhouetted figure flung the bag aside and with a final surge of speed, threw itself at the car ahead. In seconds, the vehicle was snaking away. The frustrated officers jogged to a halt, their chests heaving, and Humphreys pumped the accelerator, making the engine rev loudly, and shouted, ‘OK. Let’s catch this bastard. Hang on.’
Poulton fumbled for the handle above his left ear and caught it as the V8 Mustang lurched past the panting policemen, blues and twos piercing the quiet night.
With his feet braced on the floor, Poulton seized the radio with his free hand, and while Humphreys propelled the powerful car along Marine Parade, bellowed, ‘DI Poulton and DI Humphreys in pursuit of Mercedes, can’t see the model.’ He squinted at the car ahead, ‘Registration, er… put your foot down, Humphreys.’ Their vehicle spurted forwards, and Humphreys closed the gap.
‘Model C Class, Coupé. Registration HP63 DLJ.’
The Inspector was a competent driver, and they stuck to the other vehicle like a Scalextric car in a groove. ‘Not sure where he’s going,’ Humphreys muttered through gritted teeth. ‘He’ll get to a dead end if he’s not careful.’ But at the next junction the Merc. veered
