Watching You, Chapters Forty-One and Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-One

McCain seethed, but through his heightened temper, like a cloud dissolving, he’d realised the bitch couldn’t have met Withers. That was impossible, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been trying to find him, why she’d been out when she should have been in bed. Fuck her, deceitful bitch. But what call had she received at a moment’s notice, heading for her car with a turn of speed that caught him out, and did it tie up with the time gap he couldn’t account for?

So, he’d followed, not caring whether she’d noticed or not. If it hadn’t been rush hour, he’d have picked a quiet spot, cut her up, and the rest, well – that would have been his satisfaction. But he hadn’t had the chance, and surprise, surprise, she was taking a well-trodden route. The bitch should have been in bed asleep, not going back to her workplace so soon.

He now knew the source of the call.

But why had it been made?

He saw the answer, of course, as soon as he arrived at the multi-storey. Car park closed, patrol cars positioned at both entrance and exit. So, she’d been summoned there. That was okay by him; local police didn’t have a clue, but the same didn’t go for the big farts in London.

Luckily, he had an ally amongst them. He considered that for a moment, face creased into a smile that evaporated far quicker than it took the bitch to return down the ramp. In fact, she didn’t show. He’d planned to wait for her as she drove out and then follow behind in hot pursuit, as the fat cop in the old Burt Reynolds movie used to say. And that would be ‘problem accounted for’, leaving him free to demand his escape upon release of Withers.

But something was wrong. She hadn’t shown. Why the hell not?

He called his ally in the corridors of power but received no reply. Then he tried his mobile, called his cronies.

And found the reason why.

***

Kelly sat in the back of the large black saloon. The more imposing establishment cars were always black; she’d come to notice that.

Preston had said little. He’d thanked her for her cooperation, but she’d no doubt he thought this was clutching at straws. For her own part, the silence gave her time to consider.

So, some kind of sixth sense had told her the place might be connected with Withers. There! What a stupid thing to have said – that sort of crap might have come straight from his mouth. But now she knew he was genuine; no matter what crazy notion he bore, he’d been there for her. She had to help, as alien as it seemed to her now.

But it had been McCain who’d been in the dilapidated old pub, McCain who’d suggested the place. By her action, she might be involving him in some way when he was totally innocent. But why had McCain come to the control room last night? What had brought him there?

Why was he so edgy?

She took in the scenery outside as it flashed by. Flat fields bordered by the occasional willow, typical fenland, and not enough to disrupt her chain of thought.

And her nightmares had been so real. She had seen Black, or Withers, as she knew now as plainly as anything. How ironic that Withers was now claiming he’d seen her being murdered by McCain.

She didn’t know what to believe.

But she didn’t believe McCain was a murderer.

Chapter Forty-Two

‘What the fuck’s going on, Cooper?’ Johnson’s pupils widened; his voice rose. Cooper slapped a hand over his mobile, held it away from his face for a second, then turned his back. ‘Where? Now? Yeah, I get it.’ He flipped the phone into his pocket. Johnson clawed his shoulder. ‘I said what …’

‘I heard what you said, Johnson, just cool it.’ He pointed at Withers. ‘Just get him up.’

‘What …’

‘Just get him up, the pair of you, we’ve gotta move quick. I’ll get the engine running.’ The speaker made for the door, pounded down the bare steps, and into the yard. If Withers had been in a fit state, he’d have seized his chance as his captors hastily untied him, but his joints had seized, he’d a premature notion of what it must feel like at eighty, his head ached, and there wasn’t an ounce of resistance in him. He was dragged to the door, knees only inches from the ground. The stairs loomed up at him, stark and steep, and he was turned forcibly as if to be thrown headlong. But as one thug moved in front of him and the other took up position behind, he was tugged and pushed until they reached the bottom stair.

Withers felt the air from the open door fill his stuffy lungs, but it was only a fleeting refreshment. His legs were lifted from under him, as he was carried and then flung into the back seat of a car that roared away as soon as the door slammed shut.

He was strewn across the back seat, aching head racked against the armrest, his legs wedged painfully against the hard back of the driver’s seat, while Johnson sat in what remaining space there was, his hand pressed deep into his stomach. Withers groaned as his head rocked with every bump on the uneven road. ‘It’s either that or the boot, fella,’ he heard Cooper say, ‘and I prefer yer where I can see yer.’

From where Withers lay straddled, he had a good side view of Johnson’s face. It was tense and rigid. He sat perched on the edge of the seat, close on Cooper’s shoulder. ‘Now are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?’

‘We were told to move fast – we’re heading for a place called Pondsey, apparently, some abandoned monastery,’ Cooper said tersely.

‘That don’t mean fuck all to me – what the fuck’s Main Man up to?’

Cooper glanced in the mirror; there was a patrol car in the distance, moving up fast. ‘No idea, but this ain’t come from Main Man; there are blokes in loftier places …’

There was a twitch in Johnson’s taut cheek. ‘Like the guy with the Jag …’

‘Yeah, right. The guy with the Jag.’ Cooper watched the patrol car close up, blues flashing, kept his speed steady. Withers heard the siren, felt his spirits lift, so somehow, they’d twigged; local cops weren’t so dumb after all; he prepared to muster what little energy he had. He held his breath, but whoever the chase was after, it hadn’t been them – the police car flashed past, was away, and gone. Cooper gave a tight smile, but in the mirror, he saw Johnson’s face crease with anxiety. ‘Relax can’t yer, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Yeah, like we should be relaxing right now.’ Johnson smacked his hand on the driver’s headrest.’ Just why are we heading for this place.’

Cooper coughed. ‘It seems we’ve been rumbled, don’t know how,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t let it bother yer.’

‘I’m bothered, pal, believe me.’

One thing was certain, Withers believed him. Johnson seemed like a volcano about to erupt. ‘Where is this monastery,’ he demanded, ‘and how do we know this isn’t a set-up – a trap, eh?’

There was a long pause; the fact was they didn’t know. Right now, they were agitated and frightened, especially Johnson, and as Withers knew, that just made them more unpredictable, dangerous.