‘Yes,’ he says, almost regretfully. ‘I wish it were somebody other than you. I have no interest in causing you harm, or ruining a career you have worked hard for. Nor do I pass moral judgement on the act committed against a serial rapist when you were a vulnerable child. But the walls are getting tighter around me. The idea of freedom has sustained me, but there are those who would do anything in their power to deny me. And so I must use what leverage I have.’
‘I can’t,’ hisses Annabeth. ‘I became a prison officer to help people …’
‘Then help me.’
‘You’re a killer,’ she says, then tries to snatch back the words when she realizes what she has said.
‘Two peas in a pod,’ grins Cox, then slips down into his chair, eyes brimming afresh, as Hussain comes back through the door.
‘I can’t …’
‘John. 8:32.’
She stares at him, face bone white, confusion and sorrow in her eyes.
Cox looks up, wearing the tear-streaked face of the man he has spent these past years pretending to be.
‘“The truth will set you free”.’
THIRTY-ONE
It’s a ghastly day. Although the fog has not taken this part of the east coast in its fist, the sky is a great smear of grey: the entire panorama made of damp pelts and dead rabbits. The chill air is speckled with a misty rain; a billion tiny raindrops hovering like flies in an atmosphere that reeks of spoiled crops and spilled diesel.
Rufus winces as the car grinds and bumps its way down the pitted farm track that leads to Chappell’s Farm. He’s not entirely sure which village he has just passed through, but he had to pause at a level crossing and call a bored-looking guard to open the gates for him. He thinks he’s somewhere between Barnetby-le-Wold and Melton Ross but he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. There’s a lot of green, beneath the grey, but not many people. None of the houses match and the fields don’t appear to have any crops in them. He’s already passed two abandoned outbuildings and the rusting guts of a combine harvester.
He strikes a pothole. Pitches to the left. He curses and lets out a groan of true pain. He woke with a hangover and all-over achiness that made him feel as though he had slept in a suit of armour, two sizes too small. His first instinct had been to secure some fizzy drink and as many Ibuprofen as he was permitted, then drive home in a state of near-terminal self-pity. Then it came flooding back. Cox. Annabeth. Defreitas and Fellowes. The journalist. The copper in the pub. Each recollection hit him like a fist. The sun was only just rising – the sky streaked with thumb prints of purple and pink, casting a metallic sheen to the waters of the estuary. He’d wound the window down, taken as many deep, cleansing breaths as he could without vomiting, and driven away from Paull as if he were a cowboy riding towards the line of the horizon. He got three miles before he had to pull over and throw up. Managed another five, then saw the glorious golden arches of a McDonald’s, gleaming radiantly against a backdrop of offices and retail parks. Two McMuffins and a coffee and he felt as though there was a chance he would be able to move his eyes from left to right without one or both of his ears falling off. By the time the place started filling up with other customers, he was borderline human. Was able to charm a staff member into letting him charge his phone. Checked his messages, and felt his heart sink as he realized Annabeth hadn’t reached out. He had a sudden stabbing pang of empathy: a knowledge of what she has endured, and what she still may have to face. And he had made a decision, even without realizing it. He wasn’t going home. Wasn’t drifting back to a life that didn’t need him. He was going to help Annabeth. And perhaps – the thought slinking furtively around the periphery of his conscience – perhaps he might help himself too.
There’s an old folks’ home up ahead on his left and a small woman with long, straw-coloured hair is standing with her hands in her pockets beside a white Fiat 500. Rufus slows down. Reaches across and winds the window down.
‘Ruth?’
‘No, I’m your Tinder hook-up. Take your trousers off, I haven’t long.’ She grins as she says it, her West Yorkshire accent making it sound as though he is being propositioned by a lascivious coal miner.
‘Are you jumping in, then?’
‘Too right.’
She brings the ugliness of the day into the car with her: the wind scattering papers and her floral perfume doing little to disguise the stink of churned-up farmland. She clatters back into the seat, untangling her hair and rummaging in the pockets of her black coat. Retrieves notebook, betting-shop pen, a packet of cigarettes and a bag of mints. Dumps them all on the dashboard. She’s a ball of energy, her movements feverish. As the sleeves of her jacket rides up he spots a semi-colon tattooed on her left wrist. He fancies she’s probably more interesting than most of the subjects she writes about.
‘Farm’s yonder,’ she says, lighting a cigarette with a cheap lighter and popping a mint into her mouth at the same time. Rufus looks at her, curious. ‘They didn’t have any menthols,’ she says, as if this explains everything.
Rufus eases them forward, feeling uncomfortable. He’s aware of himself, suddenly. Bruised. Dishevelled. Unwashed. He’s never been overly concerned about his appearance but he’s aware he’s made the transition from looking like a novelist, to simply looking novel.
‘Quiet,’ says Rufus, looking out through the grimy glass. ‘Thought there would be a load of police cars and a forensics van or something.’
‘Nah,’ says Ruth, winding the window down and blowing her smoke out. ‘The way most police forces are staffed
