Having tucked the wooden crutch beneath the bench, Vincent controlled his breathing; he needed to look composed not to arouse suspicion as the police invaded the area. The problem was, he looked like an illegal. Like he had swum ashore, which he had.
In the dimming light, he watched as the orange jackets were rounded up before being guided into the back of a police van. Most without a fight, perhaps grateful the end of their journey had come.
Vincent became aware someone had sat beside him. A man with his dog running around as it chased a ball. Good, he looked like a local fitting in. He stooped to pet the animal as it ran to its owner with the ball in its mouth, striking up a conversation. The man was keen to comment on the current police action around them. Several officers strode past, glancing their way. Vincent gave what he hoped was a relaxed wave to the uniforms; they nodded back.
‘Are you okay?’ asked the man, losing interest as the clean-up appeared completed. Vincent nodded with a glance to the man beside him. His eyes returning to the group of officers, walking away from them. The muscles in his stomach relaxing. He turned back to the man, knowing he must look a sight. But the dog walker was more interested in two illegal men huddled behind one of the beach huts—the streetlight from the road revealing their hiding place.
‘I wonder what makes them do it,’ said the man. Vincent didn’t answer; he was watching the officers. One had slowed, turning his head in his direction. His heartbeat jumped; his jaws tightened. The man beside him was still talking.
The officer called something to the others which Vincent couldn’t catch; he then veered back in Vincent’s direction. Vincent was trapped. He couldn’t run, and though he wasn’t illegal, he didn’t want to be in a position to prove it. They would ask him for identification, which he had in the form of a driving licence. Put that together with the description that woman would have provided of him to the police, and he might as well put a bullet in his head. Could things get any worse?
As the officer drew closer, Vincent jabbed a finger at the hiding men. The officer turned, and on seeing them, he shouted and waved to the others to give chase as the men broke cover.
Vincent blew out a breath, aware of the man next to him was still muttering.
‘Poor sods. But suppose it’s for the best.’ Taking the ball from the dog’s mouth, the man threw it again.
‘You got caught in the rain?’ continued the man next to him, giving Vincent a long look. He had watched the police van pull away, and now they were alone.
‘Yeah, got soaked, hurt my leg slipping on the grass so resting before moving on. I lost my mobile somewhere,’ said Vincent, faking a check of his pockets and flicking a look to the police van now in the distance. ‘Would it be possible to make a call on yours?’ he prayed the old boy carried a phone. He needed to get help. Organise a safe house. He wouldn’t be going back to his home.
The man eyed him, Vincent recognising that shot of fear crossing his eyes. He went to rise. Vincent couldn’t allow that.
Two minutes later, Vincent was slipping the man’s coat on and breathing relief. The phone, a cheap, generic thing, wasn’t password protected. And the wallet had twenty pounds plus some change. Not a lot, but it would do.
‘Easy boy, you’ll find another meal ticket,’ he murmured to the whimpering terrier at its dead master’s feet. Vincent shifted the body into a sitting position. Allowing the head to fall to his chest. It had been a long time since he had broken a neck. It was good to know he hadn’t lost the skill.
With luck, the body wouldn’t be discovered until the morning.
9
I arrived home at five-thirty. It was warm; we were now in the middle of a heatwave. My body was clammy, my face, even with protection, showed signs of sunburn. And the easiest way to deal with my hair was to tie it back, not cut it short as dad suggested, mocking me with his scissor fingers.
Once indoors, I kicked off my shoes, stretching out my toes. I needed a shower. I had been to see yet another flat. This one smelled damp, and as I walked up the stairs to this third-floor accommodation, I could not only hear the neighbours but also smell their cooking and smoking habits. I was getting high, just walking past their doors. So, I blew that one off. I couldn’t afford a high-rise apartment, and I was getting disheartened about finding a place. I would’ve liked a flat with an entrance intercom. Where you buzzed visitors in? Though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I still felt insecure. I had even suggested to dad to get a dog, something like a German Shepherd. His comeback was, ‘And are you going to walk the bloody thing? Pick the dog crap up?’
As I stood in front of the hall mirror, staring at my hair tied back in a ponytail, I knew I’d let myself go. My fringe had a frizz, and I didn’t care. My face, almost bare of makeup, showing a multitude of freckles over my nose. I was only glad the girls couldn’t see me; they’d think I was having a breakdown. Of course, I tried for work. Couldn’t be styling my client’s hair with mine, looking like a wet dishcloth hanging around my neck. But the effort was getting tiresome.
As I stood in the hall, I got a funny feeling something was wrong; spider senses.
I was about to waltz into the kitchen, and the front door opened and closed behind me. I
