(2013) The Catch Page 27

  As he brought the bookcase out from the wall, he could see that its course exactly matched the scuff marks on the timber. Wishing again for better light, he leaned over and peered behind the bookcase. The floor here was subtly different. He had to kneel down before he could see why.

  Some of the boards had been cut and glued to form a hatch, complete with two small screw eyes acting as handles.

  Robbie pushed and dragged the bookcase another foot or so until it was clear of the hatch. It left him out of breath. His suit was filthy with grime, and there was rain blowing in on him. But he didn’t care about any of that.

  He knelt down again and lifted the hatch to reveal a narrow void beneath the shed. It was two feet deep, lined with a damp-proof membrane, and it contained two document boxes, resistant to fire and water, each one large enough to accommodate a ream of A4 paper.

  For Robbie, the excitement was immense. It felt like a hit of cocaine, like the first big one of the night, the one that chased a couple of drinks – a beer and a vodka, say – when he was set up nicely in some plush lively venue where a fit young woman or two had already caught his eye and given him that special sultry look that the boyfriend never saw: I’m here for the taking, baby ...

  He had no idea what lay inside those boxes, but they’d been extremely well hidden. For now that was all he needed to know.

  What it meant for Robbie, if he had to sum it up in one word, was Jackpot.

  CHAPTER 63

  Cate had expected to spend the afternoon dodging conversational grenades, and in that sense she wasn’t disappointed. Her mother wasted little time in revealing what was on her mind.

  ‘When did you last see Robbie?’ she said, mumbling around an unlit cigarette.

  ‘A couple of days ago. Oh, Mum. Do you have to smoke?’

  ‘Just this one. Did he say what he’s up to?’

  ‘Not really. You won’t be able to go into the shops.’

  ‘It’ll be finished by then. Only he’s being even more slippery than usual. I was hoping you could shed some light on his behaviour.’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  Thankfully they were almost on Western Road, where the crowds would hamper any kind of serious conversation – or so Cate hoped.

  ‘I know one thing. If he wasn’t my son, I’d have made him redundant by now.’

  ‘If he wasn’t your son he wouldn’t have been able to take so many liberties in the first place.’

  Teresa’s rueful humming noise signalled that her daughter had a point.

  ‘Things haven’t picked up, then?’ Cate asked.

  ‘Treading water, no better than that.’ She brightened. ‘There’s a nice place near Steyning that’s coming back on the books. One of Robbie’s, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cate felt a cold tingling along her spine.

  ‘A farmhouse, should rent for at least twenty-five hundred a month. The original client died in a road accident and the executor decided to hand it back to us.’

  ‘Did Robbie tell you that?’

  Stupid, Cate, stupid.

  Her mother gave her a pointed look. ‘No, Indira. But Robbie’s handling it. Why?’

  Cate shrugged, said nothing. They turned on to Western Road, into a swarm of shoppers. She felt a nudge on her arm: hoped it was a passer-by, and not her mother.

  ‘Come on, lady. Do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Nearly crumbling under the force of her mother’s gaze, Cate found salvation: ‘Ooh, Topshop! Let’s start there.’

  ****

  Stemper had to move closer once they reached the shops. Even from a few yards away it was a struggle to keep them in sight. And it was pointless following them inside – he could hardly remain unobtrusive in ladies’ fashion – so he had to be content with loitering on the pavement.

  Not that he was complaining. The morning had yielded some impressive results. Jerry had identified one of the men who’d returned to the accident scene. From what Stemper had learned, he was confident that the man worked for Compton Property Services – and might well be the owner’s son.

  And now, having just spotted that the young woman was wearing a distinctive green enamel bracelet, Stemper knew that he’d found another piece of the puzzle: the woman who’d been with Hank on the night he died. Easy to understand why she’d lied about knowing the two men, if one of them was her brother.

  But why had they murdered Hank? That continued to perplex him, although the money that had been discovered on Thursday morning had to figure somewhere, he thought.

  Still, the woman would know. Stemper looked forward to making her tell him.

  ****

  Cate couldn’t begin to fathom Robbie’s motives for taking on O’Brien’s property. To divert her mother’s attention from it, she raised the only subject that could hope to compete with Robbie’s shenanigans: her love life.

  ‘I’m on the hunt for a new outfit,’ she said as they crossed the road towards Churchill Square. ‘Something for the evening that I can also wear to work. Not too glamorous or sexy.’

  ‘Not vampish.’

  ‘No. But still a bit sexy.’

  That earned an incredulous sidelong glance. ‘You’ve got a date?’

  Cate responded with a mysterious smile. Her mother whooped.

  ‘About bloody time, that’s all I can say. So who is he?’

  ‘Just somebody I met through work.’ After what Cate had been through this week, lying had never come so easy to her. She said nothing more as she eased past an elderly couple, entering the indoor mall a pace or two ahead of her mother.

  ‘Not so fast, madam.’ Teresa manoeuvred alongside. ‘When are you seeing him?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight! Why the chuff didn’t you say? You haven’t even had your hair done. Or your nails. Now you’ve only got a few hours—’

  ‘Mum, calm down. It’s just dinner. It might not come to anything.’

  ‘It probably won’t, if you’re not going to make an effort.’ Teresa huffed, as only a mother could.

  Playing the role that was expected of her, Cate said, ‘I wish I’d never mentioned it now.’

  Teresa wasn’t listening. ‘Do you need shoes? Huh. Silly question.’ She steered her towards ALDO. ‘Let’s start here.’

  ****

  Stemper followed them for over an hour. Once or twice he came perilously close to attracting the attention of the centre’s security guards. It was only the density of the crowd that kept him safe. The needless risk to which he was exposing himself nearly convinced him to abandon the mission – never mind the brain-rotting tedium of watching women shop. All that time and they hadn’t made a single purchase.

  But he couldn’t give up yet. There was one more thing that he wanted.

  He got it, at last, once they left the indoor centre and made their way over to North Laine, a district of narrow streets, some of them pedestrian-only, crammed with small boutiques selling esoteric art and sculpture, idiosyncratic fashion, rare books and classic vinyl. This was the bohemian heart of Brighton, and here among the shoppers there were tourists in their droves. No one would think it untoward if Stemper took a few photographs with his phone.

  He timed it perfectly, just as the two women moved slowly past the gable end of a building which hosted a stunning mural in comic-book style. He managed to get three shots, and reviewed them as he walked. One of them wasn’t bad, but none had caught the younger woman’s face as clearly as he would have liked.

  He followed them into Kensington Gardens, a densely packed thoroughfare where many of the traders had outside displays, leaving only a narrow channel for hundreds of people to negotiate. Stemper decided to stay with them for another five or ten minutes, in the hope that a better shot would present itself.

  The women had fought their way into a vintage-clothing store when Stemper became conscious of a presence behind him. In the hubbub of passing shoppers he didn’t register the voice until a hand grabbed his shoulder.r />
  ‘I said, what the fuck are you doing?’

  He turned to find a man looming over him: in his thirties, tall and heavy. He had bloodshot eyes and a pudgy face, flushed with a degree of anger that seemed quite out of proportion to the offence.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’ve been following my w— Caitlin. I saw you taking her photo.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’

  ‘It’s no mistake. I want to know what the hell you’re playing at. Who are you?’

  He was virtually shouting, but there was enough noise around them to make it unremarkable. Even so, it wouldn’t be long before he drew a crowd. Stemper couldn’t let that happen.

  The man was still gripping his shoulder. He had a considerable advantage in height, weight and age. In a straight fight Stemper was likely to end up pinned to the ground while a helpful spectator summoned the police.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, and instead of trying to break free he moved in towards his assailant, easing him against a rack of second-hand leather jackets. He angled his body in a way that concealed his right hand as it slipped into his pocket.

  As a rule, Stemper avoided the use of knives. Although they had all sorts of advantages – they were quick, silent, effective – these were outweighed by one colossal disadvantage: they made a lot of mess.

  Stemper carried one, an illegal switchblade, to be used only in emergencies. And this certainly qualified. He couldn’t let the woman see him; nor could he face questioning from the police as to why he had taken photographs of her.

  He stumbled against the larger man, blurting an apology to mask the tiny click as the blade emerged. Bending slightly, he drove the knife into the man’s inner thigh, burying it deep before withdrawing it in a slashing motion. A jet of blood spurted out and hit the display of jackets. Stemper dropped the knife into his coat and was turning as the man started to collapse, making no sound other than a gasp of shock.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Stemper said, and he might have been addressing the tall man nearby who seemed to have tripped on the rack of clothing, or perhaps it was the young couple into whose path he stepped as he danced sideways across the red-brick pavement, away from the puddle of blood that was already beginning to spread into the street.

  Immersed in the crowd, he turned his head at the sound of a scream: it would look odd not to. But where others stopped or responded, Stemper pushed on, ignoring the subsequent cries of horror, upping his pace as he turned left, into Gloucester Road, then right. This was Tidy Street, a name that prompted a grim smile. Stemper dipped his head and with one hand kept adjusting his glasses or gently touching his moustache. If he was unfortunate enough to be noticed, these were the details he wanted people to remember.

  A couple of minutes later he’d gone far enough to seek a temporary refuge. In the empty doorway of an office block he stopped, his back to the road, appearing to study a list of the businesses within the building. He removed the glasses and the false moustache, then slipped off his raincoat and casually reversed it. Folding the coat over his arm, he put a handkerchief to his face and kept it there as he walked away.

  Turning the next corner, he put the coat back on – now blue – and added a flat cap. Even nature was coming to his assistance: it had started to rain. Everyone in his vicinity began to fiddle with umbrellas or quicken their pace.

  Invisible, Stemper walked briskly to his car. He couldn’t pretend that this development was anything other than deeply unfortunate, and there were many searching questions arising from it: chiefly, was it a sign of age, of failing powers, that he’d been caught unawares?

  But that was for later. Right now he consoled himself with the knowledge that he’d dealt with a serious threat to his liberty. He was safe, and so was the mission with which the Blakes had entrusted him.

  In fact, he reasoned, Gordon and Patricia didn’t have to know about this at all.

  ****

  They heard shouts and screams while Cate was deliberating over a rather splendid 1960s shift dress. Her mother thought it was perfect; Cate felt it would be indecently tight.

  ‘Maybe if I could get rid of my lumpy bits.’

  ‘Lumpy bits? Please! In twenty years you’ll look back and be amazed at how slim you were.’

  Cate shrugged. ‘Still. It’s not for me.’ She replaced the dress on the rack and frowned. ‘What do you think that is?’

  They moved towards the doorway, where other customers were peering into the street. As Cate and her mother fought their way through, they could see a gathering outside a clothing store across the way. Beyond the outer cordon of spectators there seemed to be an inner group who were bending or kneeling. A few people were talking in urgent, indistinct voices, but the main crowd seemed strangely silent.

  ‘Heart attack?’ said a man in the shop.

  A woman on the pavement turned to him. ‘There’s a man bleeding. They say he’s been stabbed.’

  Others overheard, and there were gasps and frightened murmurs. Cate shivered but Teresa, always a little prurient, took a step towards the crowd. ‘Shall we have a look?’

  ‘Not unless you’ve got medical training you never told me about.’ Cate took her mother’s arm and jerked her forward.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘It’s ghoulish. We can’t help, so we shouldn’t just stand and gawp.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ She tutted. ‘Probably kids. They all carry knives nowadays, apparently.’

  ‘I hope he’s all right, whoever he is.’ There were sirens now, as harsh and insistent as a crying child. Cate imagined what a nightmare it must be for the paramedics, having to fight their way through the city-centre traffic.

  Teresa grunted, then said, ‘I’m getting peckish – uh.’ She twitched, and Cate did, too, as a drop of rain caught her in the face.

  ‘That seals it,’ her mother declared. ‘Time for coffee and cake.’

  CHAPTER 64

  Robbie knew that the afternoon was destined to stay imprinted on his memory for ever. The feel of the cold, rough wooden floor, the smell of mildew, the sound of the rain beating on the roof and drip-drip-dripping in the corner: these things would always be associated with the magical thrill of his discovery.

  Each box was stuffed full of paperwork in different shapes and sizes, as well as half a dozen notebooks and a couple of plastic document wallets. A quick perusal revealed that one letterhead was predominant: Templeton Wynne. The name was vaguely familiar to Robbie, but his lack of knowledge wasn’t critical. Easily remedied by Google.

  There were reports, memos, printouts of long back-and-forth conversations by email, even some handwritten notes that looked to have been photocopied in a hurry, the paper curling away from the light. Robbie didn’t stop to read anything in detail. Better to sift through it quickly and try to understand what he had.

  Then he took a peek inside one of the document wallets and roared with laughter. No problem understanding this.

  ****

  He upended it, and a cascade of banknotes fluttered out. Pounds, dollars, euros, yen, some in thick bundles secured with rubber bands, others loose. All used notes, and mostly large denominations.

  So Hank O’Brien in some respects was a man after his own heart, Robbie thought. He too had a fighting fund.

  He made some quick calculations and was stunned by the result. There had to be at least twenty grand here. It certainly put the money he’d lost during the week into perspective.

  He stared at it for so long that he went into a kind of trance, lulled by the rain and nearly hypnotised by the possibilities that were opening up to him. Hank was a man with secrets, all right. Every instinct told Robbie that the contents of all this paperwork would make the cash almost irrelevant by comparison.

  A gust of wind slammed the door, then sucked it open again. It was enough to break the spell. He thought about the man who’d photographed them on Wednesday night, and Cheryl’s description of a break-in where nothing appeare
d to have been taken. He shivered.

  Someone else is looking for this.

  ****

  But they hadn’t found it. And Cheryl can’t have known about the hiding place, or she’d have emptied it herself. It was here for the taking—

  Robbie’s phone buzzed softly. He would have ignored it, but for the feeling that it had buzzed maybe once or twice before, while he was sorting through the papers.

  It was Bree. A missed call, following up on a text: Where r u? Call me x

  No chance, he thought, although he was astonished to find it was half past two. How had that happened?

  Maureen Heath was waiting for him, but the gold mine here in the shed changed everything. He didn’t have to whore himself out.

  He was ready to call Maureen and cancel the meeting when the ‘Dan’ voice spoke up again. Don’t be so impulsive. You need Bree’s alibi, remember.

  Buy some time, that was the best option. So he made the call, Maureen Heath answering the moment it rang.

  ‘You ain’t baling out on me, are you?’

  Robbie was taken aback by the aggression in her voice. ‘Sorry, Maureen. I’ve been called into a meeting. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My other half’s away tomorrow. From Monday he’s in and out all week, so it’s gotta be tomorrow.’

  It sounded like an order, rather than a suggestion. Robbie bristled, but made an effort not to let it show.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Ten o’clock’s good. I hope you’ve got lots of energy.’

  ‘Plenty,’ he said, thinking about the fresh excuse he would have to find in the morning.

  ‘How about uniforms?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘For dressing up. A fireman’s sexy. Or a Navy one, like Richard Gere in that film.’