Watching You, Chapters Thirty-Three & Thirty-Four

 

Chapter Thirty-Three

 

Patterson had watched Kelly head quickly for the door; she’d seemed testy and edgy of late, not at all like her normal self. Then the phone rang. McCain’s voice came through loud and clear, ‘Clive, I’m after Kelly. Surely she hasn’t gone already?’

‘As a matter of fact, she has. She looked worn out. I let her go early. Anyway, what do you want with her this time of night?’

‘Mind your own business,’ McCain’s voice, unusually loud and sharp, barked back.

‘No offence,’ Patterson hastened. ‘I can call her back; she’s only just this moment left – hold on there …’

‘What’s up?’ Patterson’s tone had changed. McCain sensed trouble.

‘There’s something happening outside; it’s Kelly and a fella …’

‘A fella you say – what the hell’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure from the monitor. I’m going to check she’s okay … hold the line if you want.’

Of course I want.

McCain’s night was turning worse. Neither he nor his men had managed to locate Withers, even though the cop must have been right under their noses. Kelly was accountable for that; it was she who had refused to invite him in.

The delectable Kelly Stafford.

His pulse rate increased as he downed a whisky. He’d drunk a half bottle, but it wasn’t doing its job; he needed more. He refilled and stared into the first murky light of dawn. A fella, Patterson had said, it just better not be …

He heard a rustle. Patterson had the phone again. ‘McCain, there’s a lout on the roof,’ he heard him say, ‘he looked like he was giving Kelly a hard time, but she can look after herself, no doubt about that. She’s safely away. I’ll call headquarters …’

‘Did you recognize this guy?’ McCain slammed his glass down, his hand tightening around it.

There was a pause before Patterson came back, ‘Hold on, I’m trying to put a name to the face …’

‘Why, didn’t you get a good look at him?’

‘Yes, I did. Ah, that’s it, Carl Black. Like I say I’ll …’

McCain slammed down the phone. He raised the glass and sent it splintering into the wall, watched its fragments hit the floor, saw the contents splatter down the flaking paintwork, his mind a whirlwind of rage.

So now, not just the delectable Kelly, she of the shining yellow hair and warm body he’d felt beneath him just a dozen and a half short hours ago, the one he’d walked hand in hand with in pastures green.

But the treacherous Kelly.

Somehow, she was in collusion with the cop. Possibly always had been. All ready to stitch him up.

He stood up, paced the room, went over to the bare upstairs window, and saw the mist rise from the fens. If he was going down, then so was she. Though not in the soft, accommodating way she’d lain for him the previous night.

The thought of that now made him sick.

He wondered how long it had been going on, this deceit. He pictured her lying on her back for him the way she had for …

It happened to him before, and he’d killed for it …

He wondered what they’d talked about afterwards; imagined them, arms around each other, cosily plotting his downfall, smiling in anticipation of it. Comparing evidence, assessing it. He scowled, felt his fury rising to new heights.

Ripping the band from his ponytail, he let his hair tumble full length across his shoulders. It was the sign of strength. It felt good to be fired up this way.

It made her downfall more enjoyable.

She might even have coerced others. Wasn’t it odd that Clive Patterson had crossed under the arches more than once recently? Within shouting distance, head pointedly arced in his direction?

Clive was a train-spotter, yeah, but that wasn’t the only route to the steam railway.

It was the least used.

Hardly anybody went that way.

And Withers had possessed a radio, another link between them. So while Withers maintained his undercover surveillance, Kelly, unbeknownst to him, had been tracking his movements on the camera, and where the cameras couldn’t reach, they’d used the seemingly harmless Clive Patterson to track him.

And wasn’t it Clive Patterson who’d witnessed the pair of them just now?

What a coincidence.

And hadn’t Clive Patterson delayed his answer when he’d asked for the name of the guy outside?

Yeah, just long enough to collect his thoughts.

But his wrath was reserved for Kelly Stafford. A full boiling pot of it. For nobody deserved it more than her.

McCain smiled in bitterness and turned away.

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

‘I’m a police officer, Whitehall-based.’ Withers met the glare of the young sergeant who seemed to have crept up behind him.

‘Oh yeah, and I’m the queen’s cousin.’ The sergeant exchanged a smirk with his colleagues. ‘Where’s your ID?

Pinned in by three hefty police constables, Withers sighed. ‘I’m not carrying any.’

‘You’re a local lout; you’re trespassing, and you’re heading for the nick.’ Withers was unceremoniously bundled into the back of the car and penned in.

What a mess – now he’d have to explain things not only to local CID but Preston as well. His foot ached; Withers could move it, so it wasn’t broken, but he was certain there’d be a hell of a bruise. He sat back and thought about her as the car sped down the ramp. Being that close to her, he’d been overwhelmed by her beauty but devastated he hadn’t managed to get the message across, hard as he’d tried. He could well believe her reluctance to accept that he ‘saw things.’ He’d always been disinclined to press upon people his dubious gift; from an early age, he’d found it tended either to spook people or end in derision.

But in her case, he’d had no choice.

What shocked and anguished him was the look of utter panic on her face, the animosity she exuded. It was as if his very presence scared the hell out of her. Yet he hadn’t threatened her – he’d taken pains to keep his distance, to respect her own private space. He sensed that somehow her reaction was personal, reserved for, and directed solely at him.

They came to a junction on the west side of town, waited for the lights to change – the sergeant keeping the vehicle at high revs – then shooting away when they changed.

This wasn’t the way to the police station – they were heading away. The three men accompanying him all wore navy, commando-type pullovers, and none seemed talkative. He glanced at the heads of the pair in the front seats; both wore their caps. The sergeant lit a cigarette as he drove, then tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel.

‘All your squad cars tied up, are they?’ Withers directed his question at the man alongside him, but it was the sergeant who answered.

‘Yeah.’

Yeah. Getting on towards five in the morning, hardly a damned thing on the road, hardly a living thing visible. Yeah, sure.

His disquiet was mounting by the second. He leaned forward, felt the gaze of the guy alongside locked on him. There was a CD player in the front, but no police radio. He saw no logbook, though the police collar numbers looked authentic enough, as did the sergeant’s stripes.

‘Where are we headed?’ Withers held his voice steady.

‘Headquarters,’ the sergeant said.

He said nothing; it wasn’t the way to headquarters either. He knew that well enough.

They turned onto a ring road system that wound its way east and then south, followed it for a couple of miles before exiting onto a single carriageway leading into the fens.

‘So when did headquarters shift to the fens?’

The sergeant turned his head, blew smoke in Withers’ direction, ‘Since you started messing in Main Man’s business.’

Suspicions confirmed. It took a while for the rashness of his actions to hit home. Why hadn’t he asked for ID?

Because he was tired, his instincts weren’t what they might have been. The blue Ford Focus had certainly looked like an unmarked police car, and in the gloomy dawn light, they’d certainly seemed to be kosher cops.

Now he knew they weren’t.

The car turned right onto a narrow fen road; dykes ran along both sides. It was beginning to pick up speed. He just might –

His left hand shot to the latch. He grimaced. Central locking, of course.

‘Don’t even think about it, Withers.’ The big man alongside was so close he felt his thighs grinding in; the touch on his shoulder was surprisingly soft, but when he looked at the other hand, he saw the barrel of a gun.

‘You might have got away by your skin last time, buster, but you’re fucked now.’

Well fucked.

Withers cursed his own foolishness, watched the willows flash by at ever-increasing speed. The bogus sergeant took a left bend without slowing, and the car spun sideways. Withers willed the car to ditch, plunge the lot of them into chaos; it seemed to be his only chance, but the driver was no novice – he rode the spin well, levelled out the wheel. He shot a glance at the man beside him – he hadn’t batted an eyelid.

He breathed deeply, tried not to look at the silver barrel that thrust into his side.

Cold metal in the heat of the moment.

He tried to focus his mind on escape, to work on any possibility that might arise. Except that he couldn’t envisage a single one.

Locked in a car with three of Main Man’s henchmen, all larger than himself. Out now in Fenland terrain that had become familiar during his time here. They passed a couple of smallholdings, with scatterings of pigs and goats, their heads raised in curiosity.

Ahead of them lay an isolated two-storey building. He knew full well where he was headed, had done since they left the ring road bearing south.

Main Man’s headquarters.

They pulled into the forecourt, tyres burning into the gravel. The driver, a shaven-headed bruiser without his police cap, jumped out and headed for the door. Withers felt a hand grip his arm, twist it behind his back, and propel him forward as the passenger door was flung open. The thug in the front passenger seat had swept around the rear and grabbed his free arm before he’d a chance to react; between the pair, he was frogmarched through the front door the driver had opened.

The shaven-headed bruiser raced ahead, up the stairs. Withers was forced to follow, with the cold steel of the barrel still pressed to his back. There was an urge to turn abruptly, swing for all he was worth, send the pair flailing down the narrow staircase. But he’d be a dead man: instinctively, the guy behind would pull the trigger.

Withers was pushed across the landing into a barely furnished room; a smashed whisky bottle lay on the floor beside the window.

He saw the shaven-headed bruiser shrug, glance at his colleagues in surprise, then march to the side window, presumably searching for Main Man’s car.

The car wasn’t there.

Neither was Main Man.