(1995) By Any Name (18 page)

‘The flat in the bake-house,’ Elizabeth turned the conversation back. ‘Who lives in it now?’

‘As we said it’s a bloody holiday let,’ Dai cursed.

‘It sounds an interesting place. Who owns it?’

‘One of old Davies’s grandsons.’

‘Nothing to do with old Davies’s family. It was put on the market years back,’ Winston corrected.

‘The estate agent never sold it.’

‘Evans was after it.’

‘Evans never got it.’

John caught Elizabeth’s eye and inclined his head towards the door.

‘Thank you for talking to us,’ Elizabeth abandoned her almost full bottle of lager on the bar. ‘Time we were off?’

‘If we want to make Crickhowell tonight,’ John glanced at his wrist, forgetting that he didn’t have a watch.

‘You staying in Crickhowell?’ Dai asked.

‘With my sister, she’s just moved there,’ Elizabeth added in case the old men knew everyone in the town.’

‘Nothing but bloody strangers and incomers everywhere,’ Winston muttered.

Elizabeth ignored him. She left the pub but couldn’t resist looking back into the bar through the window from the street. Dai had picked up her bottle of lager and was pouring the contents into his own glass. She could almost hear him say.

“Pity to waste it. Don’t know why people pay good money to buy beer they don’t want. No sense, no sense at all.’

‘Anything from the men on the ground?’ Simmonds asked Chaloner when he returned to the operations room after a shower that had done nothing to make him forget his lack of sleep.

‘No. The coffee pot’s full. Help yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ Simmonds replied stiffly. He filled one of the mugs set on a tray next to the pot. ‘Do you think there’s any point in keeping the men out as they’ve found nothing?’

‘Not on the hills,’ Chaloner concurred. ‘We could play hide and seek in the dark for hours and still pass him by. A couple of patrols are on overnights, but I don’t hold any hope of them picking him up. But we’ve left the teams in the town centre. We’ll start calling them in an hour after the pubs close.’

‘Do you really think he’s here?’ Simmonds asked seriously.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. If he’s gone to ground, the chances are we won’t find him, if he’s out and about and on the scrounge for food and shelter we might get lucky.’ The telephone shrilled at his elbow.

He picked it up. ‘Chaloner.’

Simmonds sipped his coffee and wished he could listen in on all, not half the conversation. The expression on Chaloner’s face was deadpan, giving absolutely nothing away.

‘I’ll set everything in motion, sir, but shouldn’t we wait for absolute confirmation… No, sir, I am not questioning your authority… The last thing we want to do is upset civilians… I’ll wait, but I’d appreciate more information than you’ve just given me.’

‘A sighting?’ Simmonds asked when Chaloner replaced the receiver.

‘No.’ Chaloner rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘Someone in HQ has come up with an address for our man. In the centre of Brecon. They want us to storm the place.’

‘Us? You mean, Special Forces?’

‘I don’t think they were referring to the psychiatric squad.’

Simmonds only just managed to swallow his anger at the jibe. ‘They’ve identified him?’

‘Apparently not. The officer I just spoke to insists they still don’t know who John West is.’

‘Then how did they get the address?’

‘That’s the question I’ll be asking the CO when he arrives.’

* * *

‘Where are you going?’ Elizabeth asked John as he walked down the street towards the traffic lights.

‘To the other entrance to St Michael Street. After asking all those questions about the flat in the pub, we can hardly walk past the Catholic Church.’

‘I suppose not.’ She wondered, yet again whether John was feigning amnesia. She couldn’t imagine anyone, no matter how strong willed, overcoming the distress and disorientation he seemed to have suffered such a short while before, so quickly. He was thinking, planning and scheming – though she hated to admit it – like a terrorist.

He stepped into the shadows at the entrance to the lane and checked the alleyway and the street to make sure no one was watching them before leading the way back to the flat. It was dark below the high wall, the lamps shedding little light that went beyond the bounds of each narrow circle. The creak of his leather boots resounded into the silence as he walked ahead of her. A cat screeched in the back of a cottage garden as they turned left again, into the yard that fronted the flat.

She gazed at the stone facade of the bake-house trying to imagine what it had been like when the town’s bread had been baked within its thick walls.

‘Where are you going?’ she whispered when he walked past the front door and down the side of the building towards the garage.

‘To check something.’

‘Why?’ There was no one in sight yet she felt the need to whisper. He held his finger to his lips and looked up at the bake-house. It wasn’t possible to walk around it, because it shared a communal wall with the back of the house built behind it.

He checked the lock on the garage before returning to the front of the flat and opening the cellar door. She walked in. He locked the door behind them before switching on the light and unlocking the door that led to the flat, but he didn’t go up straight away. Instead he walked over to the array of protective clothing and equipment.

‘Tired of your leather gear?’

‘It’s bloody tight and uncomfortable.’

‘Those boots,’ she indicated the walking boots,

‘look heavier and even more uncomfortable.’

‘Over long distances they’d be like feather beds in comparison to these. You’ve obviously never done any hill walking.’

‘No, and before you say anything, I know you’re going to tell me that you have.’

‘On so short and acquaintance you know me well.’

He switched off the light and followed her out.

Leaving John to secure the locks Elizabeth went into the kitchen. She closed the blinds before switching on the lights and turning on the grill and oven to cook the steak, onion rings and garlic bread.

Taking the salad she’d mixed earlier out of the fridge she laid it on the table. She rummaged through the boxes of food and drink John had carried in from the car, found a bottle of red wine and put it on the table.

The door opened and John walked in, no longer in leather trousers and jacket, but jeans and black shirt and the trainers he’d found in the suitcase.

‘I don’t know why anyone would want to pierce their bodies.’ He rubbed the bloody spots on his ear lobes and nose.

‘Masochism,’ she suggested. ‘The meal’s almost ready. How do you like your steak?’

‘Cremated.’ He picked up the wine. ‘I’m sure we can do better than this?’ He went to the box and sifted through all the bottles, reading the labels and slotting them back before coming up with a Spanish Rioja. He opened a drawer and extracted a corkscrew.

‘I take it that’s better than my choice?’ She flipped the turkey steak she’d put in the pan for herself.

‘I prefer Spanish red to French, and French white to Spanish. Blast!’ He thrust the screw into the cork.

‘There I go again. Spouting trivia when I can’t remember my own name.’

‘We could try hypnosis after we’ve eaten.’

‘You said that could be risky.’

‘It could, but we’re running out of options.’

He sat at the table and looked up at her. ‘If I had murdered someone before I ran down that motorway, and relived that moment, could I lash out and hurt you?’

‘We won’t know what will happen until we try.’

She opened the oven door and checked the garlic bread. ‘Is there any salt in that cupboard?’

‘Salt and sauce.’ He placed both on the table.

‘I cook a gourmet meal and you want to smother it in tomato sauce?’

‘Not tomato, barbecue.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Taste it and see.’

‘I’d rather taste the smoked salmon and pumpernickel. They didn’t have rye,’ she apologized, ferrying the bread and fish to the table.

They ate in silence. Taking the empty plates to the sink, she went to the grill and lifted out the steak. It overflowed the edge of John’s plate, when she set it in front of him. She took her turkey steak and sat facing him.

‘Does this meal remind you of anything?’

‘That I’m hungry. Do you mind if we forget this guessing game for five minutes.’ When she didn’t answer he looked at the table. ‘There are no chips.’

‘You didn’t ask for them.’

‘They’re always a given. I love them.’

‘If I’d known I would have bought some oven chips.’

‘Not frozen chips. They’re an anathema, like plastic cutlery, and paper plates.’

‘They’re the only chips you can cook without a chip pan, and if you’d eaten some of the meals I’ve had to endure in the hospital canteen you’d consider frozen chips a delicacy.’

‘Forget I mentioned chips, the steak is good,’ he complimented, cutting a chunk and forking it to his mouth. She handed him the salad and onion rings and he helped himself. ‘No dressing on the salad.’

‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Oil and vinegar.’

‘There’s a bottle of virgin olive oil in the cupboard.’

‘The question is will it be within date stamp? It never is in this place, because it’s not used often enough.’

She watched him walk to the cupboard, thinking how right he’d been earlier. He could recall so many trivial things. Why couldn’t he remember anything important?

He found the bottle of oil and checked the date.

‘Three weeks to go,’ he declared as he brought it and a bottle of vinegar to the table.

‘How long does virgin olive oil last?’

‘I have no idea. Don’t you cook?’

‘I live alone and working the hours I do I tend to live off take-aways. Do you live alone?’

He halted, a forkful of steak half way to his mouth.

‘I don’t think so. At least, not always.’

‘You have memories of this place with people in it?’

‘Memories or guesswork. It’s obvious from the gear downstairs that it’s used by more than one person.’

‘But it’s not obvious whether they come here as a group or alone.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

She was beginning to feel as frustrated as him, as though the veil they’d spoken about actually existed.

That all she had to do was reach out and tear it down for the mystery of his identity to be solved. And, like him, she hoped the solution would be one they could both live with.

She’d worked with a psychopath soon after she’d qualified. An utterly charming, handsome and personable man. It appalled her when the realization finally dawned that he was totally ruthless, manipulative and utterly lacking in conscience. She could still hear her tutor’s lecture when she had explained her feelings.

‘Why the surprise, Liz? Do you think Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler or Peter Sutcliffe had signs around their necks saying “murderer”? With half the local population alerted by serial killings they were still able to persuade their victims to go along with them. They had the gift of charm, and everyone should beware of excessively charming people. They may be making the acquaintance of another Jack the Ripper. To their cost, and his delight.

CHAPTER TEN

John offered to clear up and make coffee after the meal. Sensing that he wanted to be alone, Elizabeth went into the living room. She turned the electric fire on high to combat the sudden drop in temperature and switched on the television. Flicking the buttons on the remote she saw a shot of a West End Cinema. Hoping it meant nothing more serious than a film premiere she sat on the sofa, pushed a cushion into the small of her back and waited to be entertained by glamour and glitz.

She wasn’t disappointed. An anchorman in a tuxedo and bow tie was joined by a shivering starlet in a backless, sleeveless, green sequined dress that defied gravity. Both were shouting into the microphone in an attempt to make themselves heard above the noise of a penned in cheering crowd. A line of limousines drew up in front of the cinema entrance and disgorged their occupants.

Celebrities stepped out on to a narrow strip of red carpet, the men darkly handsome in long overcoats, suits and white scarves. The women blue and shivering like the starlet, in dresses that revealed more than they concealed. As the noise of the crowd became more raucous, the anchorman gave up, and the scene faded. It was replaced by a shot of a Norman Castle. A knight in a full suit of armour was striding along the ramparts, calling out to an unseen foe in an East Coast American accent.

John opened the door and brought in a tray of coffee. ‘What are you watching?’

‘News channel. It’s focusing on a film premiere instead of you for a change.’

‘Good. Look what I stole?’ He produced one of the enormous, thick bars of chocolate they’d found in the cupboard in the corridor.

‘I remember, you like dark chocolate.’

‘Want a piece?’

‘I’ve never seen that sort before.’

‘It’s good, try some.’

‘Please.’ She tried to smile, to pretend that this was just a normal evening, and he was just a friend, but she couldn’t still her doubts. Malignant, suffocating, they poisoned her mind until she found herself questioning her own sanity.

He laid the chocolate bar, still in its wrapper over his knees and chopped it, karate style, with the side of his hand. Breaking off a section he handed it to her in the paper.

‘I’ve never seen chocolate as thick as this before.’

‘It’s not so much chocolate as sustaining rations for mountaineering.’ He pushed a piece into his mouth.

She unwrapped the segment he’d given her, and reeled at the high calorific content printed on the paper. It proved impossible to bite, so she pushed the whole square into her mouth. The castle had been superseded by the anchorman again as cheers greeted yet another limousine. The actor who’d been running around the castle in armour emerged from the interior with a willowy, dusky woman on his arm.

She continued to watch the screen, not really taking in anything that was being shown or said.

‘Another piece?’ he asked.