Hanging Hill Part 25

In the garage the engine came to life. Jason gave a little yelp of victory. Zoe came back into the doorway, still drying her hands. He was standing next to the bike, grinning all over his face, turning the throttle, making the engine roar. 'Told you, didn't I?' he shouted, over the noise. 'Remember this face. Remember me!'

She put the towel down on the workbench and came over to the bike, shaking her head admiringly. 'Great,' she yelled. 'Do I owe you anything?'

'A ride? That is-' Remembering his manners, he stopped revving and let his face go sober. 'A ride? If you don't mind.'

'You want to drive my Shovelhead?'

'No I mean, not if it's a problem. Really. Forget I asked.'

'No, no I mean, it's ...' She nibbled her lip. Pretended to be struggling with this. Then, at length she said, 'It's fine. Are you insured?'

'I'll only take it up the road and back. I won't take it out of the street.'

'OK. I s'pose it's the least I can do. But take care of her, eh?'

'I will.'

Jason ran inside and came hurrying back out with a black Shoei open-face helmet. He kicked off his sandals and zipped boots on to his bare feet. He looked faintly insane in his T-s.h.i.+rt and the beetle headgear as he clambered on to the bike. He wobbled a bit coming out of the gates, then got into his stride. He turned out on to the street in second and was gone. She could hear the blast of the engine coming over the hedges and gardens as he sped up the road. She turned and went quickly back into the house.

The bookshelves in the living room didn't contain anything special. A few photos of the family, the Mooneys on their wedding day, Jason as a baby, a tall thin girl in a bridesmaid's dress. The books were mostly non-fiction, on domestic policy and languages Spanish, Russian, Arabic. Nothing that looked like business files. She went into the hallway and opened all the other doors. A utility room, a studio with half-finished pottery dotted around, a dining room with the curtains closed to stop the sun fading the furniture. And a room that was locked.

She rattled the door. She ran her fingers over the frame, feeling for a key. Checked in the bowl on the hallstand, picking up car keys on a springy spiral rubber ring, a gas-meter key, some petrol receipts. No key.

She went back through the garage, across the driveway and through the wooden side gate. Here, the houses stood quite close to each other, and the side access was in shadow. On this wall there were only two windows in the Mooneys' house, one frosted, with the overflow from the toilet below it, the second the window into the locked room. She put her hand against it and peered inside. She could make out a big mahogany leather-topped desk with a green banker's lamp on it, a leather armchair and a footstool. On the shelves beyond the desk she could plainly see the box files lined up. 'Kosovo', one said, 'Pritina' another. Maybe some record of whom he'd paid. And how. She drummed her fingers on the gla.s.s. She could smash the window now, be in and out in no time.

The noise of the bike coming back echoed down into the gap between the buildings, and she stepped back from the window, her hands itching to just do it. But the bike was getting louder and louder and at the last second she changed her mind. She went back to the gate leading to the driveway and found it had become stuck. She yanked at it, rattled the handle, but it wouldn't budge. The bike was nearer now. She glanced over her shoulder at the back garden. It'd take too long to go that way. She gave the gate one last tug. This time it opened, and she stepped outside, just in time for Jason to sweep into the driveway.

He stopped the bike, took off his helmet and looked at her curiously.

'Hi.' She patted the bike's handlebars. 'You enjoy her? You not enjoy?'

His eyes went from her to the side door. 'You OK?'

'Eh?' She glanced over her shoulder. 'Yeah. I was looking for a hosepipe. Wanted to give her a wash-down.'

'A wash-down? She doesn't look like she needs one.'

'I think she does.'

'There's a hosepipe there.' He gestured at the tap mounted on the front of the house, the hose carefully wound away on a green and yellow reel. 'Didn't you notice that before you went round the back?'

'No.'

Jason scratched his head thoughtfully, wrinkled his mouth. Then he swung his leg off the bike and looped his helmet around his wrist the way she'd seen bikers loop helmets when they were getting ready to swing them as a weapon.

'Jason?'

'Who are you?'

'Who am am I? I told you. I'm Evie.' I? I told you. I'm Evie.'

'Well, Evie, you'll regret it if you've taken anything out of the house. I've got your number-plate. And you have no idea how tenacious my father is when it comes to things like that.'

'I'm sure he is.'

'You really don't want to mess with my father.'

'I'm not messing with anyone.' She held up her hands. 'I'm going.'

She walked past him, half expecting to hear the whistle of his helmet cracking down on her head, he'd changed so quickly. Respect to you, Jason. You're not the pushover I thought. She scooped up her own helmet from the driveway, Jason shadowing her, arms folded, watching her zip her jacket, swing her leg over the Shovelhead.

'I left the towel on the workbench.' She revved the engine, held up a hand and flashed him a smile. 'You might want to hang it up, keep Mum happy, eh? See you around, Jason. Nice knowing you.'

21.

In the Ladies at Bristol airport Sally stood with her back to the mirror, holding her dress out to study the lipstick. In the reflection she could make out what she thought were letters, as if she had leaned on something. A display or some graffiti. But where? Most were smudged and indecipherable, but she was sure she could make out 'AW'. And maybe 'G'.

She went into one of the cubicles, took off her dress and tried to clean it with a packet of wet wipes she had in her bag. But the lipstick wouldn't come off. It just smudged further into the fabric, and in the end she had to put it back on, take off her sweater and wrap it round her waist so that it hung down and covered the lipstick. She went back to the car park, gooseb.u.mps coming up on her arms in spite of the sun. She threw her handbag on the back seat of the Ka and was about to get into the driver's seat, when something occurred to her. Steve had driven here she'd been in the pa.s.senger seat. She slammed the door and went round to the other side of the car, opened the door and dropped to a crouch, carefully touching the upholstery. Her finger came away red. She looked at it for a long time. Then, hurriedly, she pulled some more wipes out of the handbag and placed them so they were spread across the seat. She leaned a small amount of weight on to them with her hands, and counted in her head up to a hundred. She could hear other people, trundling their suitcases across the car park behind her. Could hear the pause in their steps as they stopped to look at her crouched in the opened door.

She turned over the wipes and studied them. For this to have been imprinted on her dress it must have been there since she'd got into the car. It had been parked overnight at Steve's, on his driveway. She tried to recall if she'd locked it. She never did at Peppercorn, so maybe she hadn't last night. Maybe kids had got into it.

She spread out the wipes and moved them around until they fitted together. The letters were blurred, some of them missing, and the ones she could work out were in reverse. She found a 'Y', then a 'G' and then a 'W'. She saw 'ITCH', the letters in sequence, and, quite clearly, 'EVIL'. Another 'Y' and 'ITH', then the whole thing tumbled suddenly into place.

You won't get away with it. You evil b.i.t.c.h.

Trembling she shot to her feet, almost banging her head against the car roof. She spun round, as if someone might be standing behind her, watching. All she could see for hundreds of yards in every direction were cars, the heads of one or two travellers moving among them. She slammed the door and started off towards the terminal at a trot. Then, realizing Steve had already gone through into Departures, she raced back to the car and fumbled her phone out of the bag, dropping things in her haste. She dialled his number, her fingers like jelly. There was a pause, then an electronic hum, and the phone connected to his voicemail.

'This is Steve. If you'd like to leave a message I'll ...'

She cancelled the call and stood in the glaring suns.h.i.+ne, her hands on the roof of the car, breathing hard, the truth coming down on her like a cloud.

Someone, somehow, knew exactly what she and Steve had done to David Goldrab.

22.

The motel was one of those places with sealed windows to stop the traffic noise, squeezy soap mounted on the walls and vending machines in the foyer. Signs everywhere guaranteed your money back if you didn't get a good night's sleep. It was ten miles outside London on the M4, and the moment Zoe saw it she pulled off the motorway and booked a room. She didn't intend to sleep there all she needed was a place to lie down for a couple of hours and think but she dutifully carried her helmet and few belongings in, and asked the receptionist for a toothbrush in a plastic wrap.

In the room she opened the window a crack, took off her boots and lay on her back, legs crossed. She draped her bike balaclava over her eyes, crossed her hands over her chest and began shuffling her thoughts around, trying to make them sit down in a proper straight line so she could decide what to do next. Whether to keep champing at the Mooney bit or call it a day and head back to Bath. What would it mean to her if she saw Goldrab dead, and all the things he knew about her past locked away? Did she think that now she'd apologized to Sally it was going to make her clean clean suddenly? Clean like Debbie Harry? The sort of clean Ben would like? She had the idea that uncleanness was a state of mind, which, once installed, never went away. Like Lady Macbeth's spot of blood. suddenly? Clean like Debbie Harry? The sort of clean Ben would like? She had the idea that uncleanness was a state of mind, which, once installed, never went away. Like Lady Macbeth's spot of blood.

She took long, calming breaths. Began working it all out. But the travel and the last few sleepless nights got the better of her. Within five minutes she was asleep.

She dreamed of the room again, the nursery with the snow falling outside. Except this time she was on the floor, feeling very small and very scared and, terrifyingly, Sally was standing above her. She was holding the broken hand over Zoe. It was wrecked, with bones sticking out at all angles, and the blood dripped out of it, rolling in fat plops on to Zoe's face.

She pushed her legs out, scrambling away from Sally, flipping herself over and stumbling for the door. Sally followed close behind, her hand raised. 'No!' she was crying. 'Don't go don't go!'

But Zoe was out of the door, tumbling down the stairs, breaking into a run, pelting through the streets. It was Bristol, she realized. St Paul's. Ahead she saw a doorway, a red light coming from it, a hand beckoning her. Hurry up Hurry up, someone yelled. Hurry up! This is the way through. In here! Hurry up! This is the way through. In here! And then, suddenly, she was standing on a stage, an audience looking expectantly up at her. In the front row were her parents, her first-form teacher and the superintendent. And then, suddenly, she was standing on a stage, an audience looking expectantly up at her. In the front row were her parents, her first-form teacher and the superintendent. Do something Do something, shouted the superintendant. Do something good Do something good. The lighting man frowned from the box at her, and at the back the maintenance man leaned on his broom, grinning up at her. Get on with it Get on with it, someone yelled. Do something good Do something good. Someone was pus.h.i.+ng her from behind. When she turned she saw David Goldrab, as a young man, London Tarn.

Zoe, he said. Lovely to see you again, Zoe! Lovely to see you again, Zoe!

She woke in the hotel room, her hands clutching the sides of the bed, her eyes wide. Her head was aching. She breathed in and out, in and out, staring at the headlights racing to and fro across the wall. After a while she rolled over. The display on the bedside table said 11:09. She groped for her phone the signal was strong, but no one in that time had tried to call her or text. She wondered who she'd been hoping for. Ben? It was eleven o'clock. He and Debbie would be in bed, maybe sharing a nightcap or cocoa. Or something else.

Debbie. Clean, clean, clean.

She put the phone into her pocket, swung her legs off the bed, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Then she straightened and considered her reflection. 'd.a.m.n it,' she hissed. 'd.a.m.n it and f.u.c.k it to all h.e.l.l.'

She knew what she was going to do. She was going to go back to Mooney's.

23.

'Millie, go to bed.' A hundred miles to the west, Sally sat at the kitchen table in Peppercorn Cottage, watching her daughter rummage in the fridge for a late-night snack. 'You've got school in the morning. Go on. It's late.'

'Jesus.' She gave her mother a disdainful look. 'What's the matter with you? You're so so messing with my head.' messing with my head.'

'I'm only asking you to go to bed.'

'But you're acting totally weird.' She turned from the fridge with a carton of milk and gave the wine gla.s.s next to Sally's elbow an accusatory nod. 'And you've drunk tons. I mean tons tons.'

Sally put a hand protectively over the gla.s.s. It was true: she'd drunk the whole bottle and it hadn't changed a thing. Not a thing. Her head was still hard and taut, her heart racing. 'Just pour a gla.s.s of milk,' she said, in a controlled voice, 'and take it to bed.'

'And how come all the doors are locked? It's like being in a prison. I mean, it's not like he's going to find us all the way out here, for Christ's sake.'

'What did you say?'

'He doesn't know where I live.'

'Who doesn't know where you live?' doesn't know where you live?'

Millie blinked, as if she wasn't quite sure whether she'd heard Sally right. 'Jake, of course. You've paid him now. He'll leave me alone.'

Sally didn't answer. The muscles under her ribs were aching, she'd been so scared all day. It was an effort to hold the panic locked inside. After a while she pushed the chair back and went to the pantry for another bottle of Steve's wine. 'Just pour the milk. Take it to your room. And leave the windows closed. It's going to rain tonight.'

Millie banged around the kitchen, getting a gla.s.s, pouring the milk. She slammed the carton down on the worktop and disappeared. Sally stood motionless in the pantry, listening to her clump off down the corridor, and slam her bedroom door. She took a breath, rested her head against the wall, and counted to ten.

It was nearly nine hours since Steve's plane had taken off in Bristol. Nine hours and it seemed like nine years. Nine centuries. Wearily, she pushed herself away from the door, uncorked the wine, carried it to the table and filled her gla.s.s. She sat down and checked the display on her mobile. Nothing. He'd be landing in fifty minutes. She'd left several messages on his voicemail. If he switched on his phone before he got into Immigration he'd get them all within the hour. He'd know something was wrong. She raised her eyes to the window, the lighted kitchen reflected in the dark panes. All the surfaces and cupboards and her own face, white as a moon, in the middle of it. Earlier, after picking up Millie from school, she'd gone round the house and locked all the doors and windows, closed all the curtains. But then the idea that someone could be standing unseen outside one of the windows had crept into her head and eventually she'd thrown the curtains open again. When it came to the choice of being watched or not being able to see what was happening outside, she'd chosen being watched.

Watched ...

She'd been sure, so sure, that night that no one could be watching her and Steve in the garden. So how could it be? How could could it be? What had she overlooked? it be? What had she overlooked?

She pulled the laptop towards her and opened Google. When Google Earth had first come out she and Millie used to spend hours looking at it zooming in on friends' houses, going into street view and taking virtual walks down streets they knew. Streets they didn't know. Streets they might never visit. Now she zoomed it in on Peppercorn. The familiar double-pitched roof of the garage, the grey gables three at back and front the stone chimney and the thatch. The photo had been taken in midsummer and the trees were as fluffy and fat as dandelion clocks, casting short, puffy shadows on the lawn. She traced her finger across the screen in a huge circle around the cottage. There was nothing, no overlooking buildings. She zoomed the image out and still there was nothing. Just the familiar planting lines through the crops in the neighbouring fields.

She pushed the computer away and sat for a while, a finger on her lips, thinking. She got up, switched off the light and went to stand at the window. There was nothing out there. No movement or change. Only the distant twinkle of cars on the motorway and the faint grey of the moon behind the clouds. She took off her shoes and padded silently down the corridor, into Millie's room. She was asleep in bed, her breath coming evenly in and out, so she went back to the hallway, put on her wellingtons and a duffel coat and found the big, high-powered torch that Steve had insisted on buying her from Maplins, because he said it was craziness her being out in the middle of nowhere when there were power cuts all the time. Steve. G.o.d, she wished he was here now.

Silently she let herself out of the back door. It was cool very cool, almost cold after the unseasonable heat of the day. She stood for a moment looking around at the familiar surroundings, the great line of silver birch on the north perimeter, the patch of wood to the east, the top garden where a kiwi tree grew, its fruit hard and bitter. Her car was parked at the place she and Steve had stood six nights ago, shaking and sick with what they had done.

She locked the door behind her and went to the car. She stood with her back to it and slowly, slowly, scanned the horizon. Nothing. She moved around the car and did the same on the other side. There was nothing there. No building or place someone could have stood and watched. She crossed the lawn to the flowerbed where she'd made the bonfire yesterday. The earth was still grey and luminous with the ash and she could smell the faintest trace of carbonized wood in the air. She hefted up the huge torch, switched it on and aimed the beam into the trees. She'd never used the light before and it was so powerful she could make out details hundreds of yards away. If it found gla.s.s, a window-pane she'd overlooked, it would flash back at her. She swept the torch across the fields, going in a wide circle up the side of the cottage, the garage, b.u.mping over the hedgerows. She could see individual leaves and branches in the forest, the trees bending and whispering. In the copse at the top of the property the beam glanced across twin green spots. Eyes looking at her steadily. She came to a halt, her heart thudding. The eyes moved slightly, ducked a little, turned. It was just a deer, startled in the middle of grazing.

Sally let out all her breath and lowered the torch. There was nothing no building, no concealed layby or bird hide or tree-house or farm building. Nowhere someone could have hidden to watch what they'd done. And then something occurred to her. Something that should have been clear all along if she'd only been thinking straight. The car. Whoever had sent the message had chosen to put it in the car when it was parked at Steve's. What did that mean? Why hadn't they come to Peppercorn? Why go to the trouble of following her to Steve's if ...

Of course. She switched off the torch, went fast across the lawn to the cottage. Unlocked the front door and, without taking off her wellingtons or switching on the lights, went into the kitchen and opened the laptop. The screen came to life all the thick midsummer fields green and vibrant with light. She zoomed out, clawed the image to the left, moving north, pausing when she came to the faint, blurred line of the Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill.

'There,' she breathed, sinking into her chair. 'There.'

The photograph had been taken in, she guessed, late June. A pinkish floating haze of poppies hung over the fields. Among them, Lightpil House a huge yellow slash on the green, its fountains and terraces reflecting the sun. To its north the almost triangular wedge of the parking s.p.a.ce where David Goldrab had died. To its south, near the perimeter, half hidden by towering poplars, the roof of a cottage.

Whoever had left the note knew nothing about Peppercorn Cottage: they'd seen her at David's. She'd thought they couldn't be overlooked where the killing happened, but she hadn't thought about the gardens of the houses at the top of Lightpil Lane. The bottom of the land attached to the cottage on the screen stretched along the northern wall of Lightpil House and came out at the bottom in a spoon shape, bordered by a low hedge. If someone had been standing there at the right time, if they had looked across the dip in the land ...

The phone rang in her pocket, making her jump. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it out with trembling hands.

'Steve. Steve? Steve?'

'Christ, Sally, what the h.e.l.l's going on?'

'It's all gone wrong. I told you it would go wrong and it has.'

'OK, OK, calm down. Now, first of all, we're speaking on an international line. You know what I mean by that can you hear it humming?'

She took deep breaths, still staring at the cottage roof. 'Yes,' she said shakily, thinking of those vast domed listening stations. And Cheltenham GCHQ not far from here. Did phone calls really get monitored? Maybe in Steve's job they did. 'I think I know what you mean.'

'Explain, carefully, what's happened.'

She licked her lips. 'I got a message when I got back into the car. The lipstick I leaned on it was a message. It said-' She swallowed. 'It said I wouldn't get away with it.'

There was a long silence at the end of the line as Steve digested this. 'Right,' he said, sounding as if he wasn't just thousands of miles away but millions. In a different galaxy. 'Right.'

'But if anyone has ... you know, witnessed anything, it wasn't here at Pepp- at my place, so I don't think they know where I am. It must have been at the ...' She hesitated. 'The first place. I think they must have seen my car and then they saw it outside your place and planted the message. I've looked at Google Earth and I think I know where they were standing ...'

'OK. I'm coming straight back. I'm not even going to leave the airport I'll just turn right around and get the first flight back. OK?'

'No,' she said. 'No. You can't.'