Blood Falls (25 page)

Glenn coughed, a bit embarrassed, and went on. ‘No sign of a mobile phone. He might have one with him, but there was no charger, either. I reckon he’s been using a call box.’

‘Well, that would be something, at least,’ Leon said. Accentuate the positive.

The fewer traces that Victor left in his wake, the better.

Forty-Three

THE AFTERNOON’S DELIVERIES
weren’t for the vending business. Joe was given half a dozen thick brown envelopes and told to deliver them to various private addresses in Trelennan and some neighbouring towns: Port Isaac, Camelford, Boscastle.

From the feel of them, the envelopes contained thick bundles of paper that could, in Joe’s estimation, be money. Strips of transparent tape had been used to seal them, but one or two had loose edges that could perhaps be prised open without causing any visible damage.

He thought about it as he drove to Port Isaac, but concluded that this bore the traits of another test. It would be simple enough for someone to booby-trap an envelope with flour or ink. Not worth the risk.

At each address he had to wait for the householder to collect the package by hand. In every case Joe had the feeling that the delivery was expected. Four men and two women took the envelopes from him with little more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

He was back at Leon’s by a quarter to six, and was relieved to see Fenton waddling across the hall. Joe was given his wages in an envelope identical to the ones he’d just delivered, albeit much thinner. That answered the questions in Joe’s mind. He
had
been delivering cash, and it probably had constituted another test.

By his reckoning he’d worked approximately eighteen hours over
the two days. At ten quid an hour, cash in hand, he was expecting a hundred and eighty pounds. But Fenton – or Leon – evidently thought otherwise. They had paid him two hundred.

It was a pleasant surprise; totally unexpected in the light of the mostly negative things he’d been told about Leon Race. Then again, it chimed with what Carl Ennis had said. Work hard, and they’ll look after you.

Diana was busy with housework when Joe got in. He felt a twinge of guilt as he set down the bag containing the wine he’d bought for this evening.

Upstairs, he found her running a brightly coloured Dyson along the landing. She saw him and started, one hand clamped to her chest. He yelled an apology, and she nodded.

‘It’s all right. I’m done now.’

They went back downstairs, Joe carrying the Dyson. In the kitchen, while Diana made coffee, Joe surreptitiously placed the wine in the fridge, then counted out a hundred pounds and tried to give it to her.

‘What’s this?’

‘I got paid for the first two days. This is part of what I owe you.’

She stared at him. ‘Joe, I did this as a favour. We’re friends, remember?’

‘I can’t stay here and not contribute to the running costs.’ He pressed the notes into her hand. ‘This is me, putting my foot down, okay? No arguments.’

Reluctantly, Diana accepted the money. She was smiling, but Joe thought there might have been a tear or two glistening in her eyes. He was reminded of the conversation they needed to have, the blunt, honest questions he had to ask. Now would be a perfect opportunity, but he was tired, and running late.

Those were the excuses he gave himself. More than that, perhaps, he was scared of the answers he might receive.

But it was Diana who broached a difficult subject. ‘Joe, I know this
can easily be misconstrued, but I’m worried for you. Please go carefully with Ellie.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s … God, I don’t know how to put this. “Damaged goods” sounds a bit harsh, and I don’t mean to be bitchy, truly I don’t …’

‘Di, we just got talking, struck up a friendship,’ Joe said. ‘That’s all it is.’

‘You may think that. What about her?’ She gave a quick shake of her head, as though irritated by her own line of thought. ‘Oh dear. I sound like your mother, don’t I?’

Joe shrugged. ‘A bit.’

‘Well, I’ll shut up now. I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, it’s fine,’ Joe said. ‘I promise I’ll be very cautious. Both feet touching the floor at all times.’

The comment was more or less forgotten until Ellie opened her front door, wearing a simple but figure-hugging sleeveless black dress, high-necked and scooped in the back. It cleverly revealed a lot of flesh, but none of it in places that could be considered overtly sexual.

She greeted Joe with a smile; he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
Only to be polite
, the voice in his head assured Diana.

She turned to let him in. The sight of her bare back, the delicate bumps of her upper spine, made him shiver. Her skin was the colour of honey, clear and smooth and taut, with good muscle tone in her arms and shoulders. It occurred to him that all kinds of things were possible while still keeping both feet on the floor.

He held up two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘I hope these are okay. I’m not much of a wine buff.’

‘Me neither,’ she said, taking them from him. ‘Cold and wet is my usual criteria.’

Ellie waited while he removed his jacket and hung it by the door. He could almost see her mind working: registering that he’d made sure the wine was chilled; that he was scrubbed clean and smartly
dressed and smelled good. That he looked exactly like a man going on a date.

‘What did Diana have to say about this?’ she asked.

‘Not much,’ Joe said. ‘We’re not joined at the hip.’

Ellie laughed, softly mocking. ‘No. But I bet she told you to be on your guard.’

She led him through to the kitchen, where he was greeted by the aroma of slow-cooked beef. The splendour of the room – a huge kitchen-diner with hand-crafted maple cabinets and granite worktops – took him by surprise. From outside, the house was only a modest semi, probably three bedrooms, with a grey slate roof and rendered walls painted the colour of clotted cream.

‘This swallowed up half the garden,’ Ellie admitted. ‘Luckily, I was never much of a gardener.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ Joe was struck by the similarity to Diana’s kitchen. The dimensions and the layout, and even the units themselves, were virtually identical. ‘Was it like this when you moved in?’

‘No. We added this part a couple of years after we bought it.’ Ellie waited to see if he would query the plural. ‘My husband did it.’

‘Oh. You’re married, then?’

Poker-faced, she said, ‘Frankly, I’m concerned it’s taken you this long to ask. Or do I resemble the cliché of the lifelong spinster librarian?’

‘Absolutely not. I just didn’t like to pry.’

‘Really? Is that so you don’t have to answer questions in return?’

‘Partly,’ Joe admitted.

‘Well, pry away,’ she said drily, ‘because I intend to.’

She had put one bottle of wine in the fridge; the other she handed back to him, together with a Christmas-tree corkscrew. ‘Would you do the honours?’

He stood beside her at the counter as she opened an overhead cupboard and took out a pair of large full-bodied glasses.

‘You’re separated?’ he said.

‘We split up six years ago. Now we’re divorced. Full and final.’ She moved aside a step and watched him pour the wine. ‘And much better off without him.’

‘But you’ve not remarried? Not met anybody else?’

‘I’ve seen a couple of guys. The first was a disaster, the classic rebound case. The second one …’ She pulled a face. ‘He kept acting like he couldn’t believe his luck.’

‘Understandable.’

‘Ha ha. Thank you. The keener he got, the less I wanted to know. Makes me think I should stick to the single life. What about you?’

Joe grinned at the speed with which she’d switched the focus.

‘I’m separated. Four years or so.’ He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but he was sure she spotted something.

‘Children?’

‘Two girls. Amy and Hannah.’ He smiled, as he always did when he talked about them. He wished Ellie wasn’t watching him so closely.

‘You don’t see them very often.’ An observation, not a question.

‘It’s complicated. How’s that for a cliché?’

She picked up on his sadness, reflecting it in her own expression. ‘You know, normally I’m a nosy cow. But on this occasion I’m not going to push it.’

‘I appreciate that.’

Ellie held up her wine. ‘To families, absent and otherwise.’

‘To families,’ Joe said, and they touched glasses, a quiet brittle clink that could have been the sound of a heart breaking.

Dinner was going to be a while yet, she said, and suggested they move into the lounge. It was smaller than the kitchen, with pale blue floral wallpaper and a thick cream carpet. There were shelves piled with books either side of the chimney breast, and a gas fire in a modern chrome surround.

For seating, Joe had a choice between a sofa and two armchairs.
He took one end of the sofa, and Ellie took the other, pulling out a nest of tables for their glasses.

‘Was it an amicable split from your husband?’

‘Not at first, but we get on reasonably well these days. I can’t say the same for his current partner, I’m afraid.’

He caught the sourness in her voice and grimaced in sympathy. At the same time he’d noticed a couple of photographs on the mantelpiece. They showed a handsome, broad-shouldered young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with a mop of dark hair and a killer smile. Joe immediately saw the likeness to Ellie, but there was another resemblance, too—

‘You look puzzled,’ Ellie said.

‘Sorry, but is that …?’ Joe pointed at the photographs.

‘My son, Alec. He’s twenty-one. Studying English at Durham.’

Joe went on staring, transfixed by the photos, by the similarity …

In a voice that seemed to come from miles away, he said, ‘Your ex-husband did the extension? So he’s a builder?’

‘
Was
a builder. He gave it up, rather inexplicably.’ She added wryly: ‘I put it down to a mid-life crisis.’

Joe groaned. Now it was there in front of him, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t worked it out sooner.

‘It’s Glenn, isn’t it? You were married to Glenn Hicks.’

Forty-Four

VICTOR ARRIVED EARLY
and loitered in the shadows outside the pub. Scared to go inside. Desperate to go inside. It was another world in there, another universe. Busy and bright, probably expensive, somewhere he would never belong.

So he stood a while longer, shivering from the cold, trembling with anxiety. He needed something to calm his nerves. Anything would do: he wasn’t fussy. Booze, fags, weed, benzos … anything.

But he had none of those. He had nothing. He’d smoked the last of his cigarettes outside the station at Bodmin Parkway, and now, after taking a fucking taxi to Trelennan, all his money was gone. Every last penny, literally. That included the cash he’d got from pawning some shitty earrings and a camera, stolen this very morning from his ex-wife’s aunt, who had Alzheimer’s and had believed him when he’d said he was from social services.

If, God forbid, something went wrong tonight and he didn’t lay his hands on the cash, he had no idea how he would get home. He’d thought to buy a return ticket for the train, but Bodmin was miles away: further than he’d walked in his whole life. He’d never make it.

So it had to come good tonight. There was no alternative. No Plan B.

Time to start thinking positive, he told himself. Act confident. Act like he was a player. Otherwise Leon Race would make mincemeat of him.

At least the Crow’s Nest was just as Leon had described it. Vic had been fearing a trap. Told himself that if he got here and found a tiny deserted boozer in the middle of nowhere, he’d turn right round and get the hell out. He wouldn’t have, of course, because the money meant too much to him, but at least now that was one less thing to worry about.

Although it
was
in the middle of nowhere. Leon had said a mile or so out of Trelennan, but Vic couldn’t see any lights in the distance. Maybe trees or a hill in the way. No street lights along here, either. Under a cloudy sky, still dripping a few dregs of rain, it was darkness like he’d not seen in years. Fucking countryside …

Positive
, remember. The windows had fancy blinds on them, and the glass was steamed up, but he could tell from all the messy silhouettes that the pub was packed to the rafters. And the car park was stuffed full of decent motors. Vic wished he’d brought along a few acquaintances, people who could have had these lovely Beemers and Mercs spirited away while he was doing his business with Leon, and no one any the wiser.

Safe as houses, too. Out here in the country you probably didn’t see the filth from one day to the next.

Inducing a little rush of confidence, he dragged one foot into the air and urged it forwards, followed by the other, and before he knew it he was walking in a fast, slightly uneven gait towards the entrance. No turning back. No more nerves. All you wanna think about now is
the money the money the money
.

He pushed the door open, into a sort of lobby, then through another door into the main room, and the warmth and the smells of rich fresh food and alcohol were so intoxicating that they made his head spin. He took a deep breath and swallowed greedily: more calories in the air than in anything he’d had all day. In fact, he realised he hadn’t eaten a single thing for nearly twenty-four hours.

What had Leon called it? A
gastro
-pub? Victor hadn’t really
understood what that meant, but he saw it now. A nice upmarket place, with the quality and style of a restaurant and the relaxed atmosphere of a pub. It was all very sleek: beautiful wood floors and matching tables, a kind of posh rustic look. Plain walls painted a deep maroon colour and lots of modern squiggly artwork, hanging beneath lamps like silver eyelashes. No horse brasses or beer mats; definitely no fruit machines or dartboards. Soft tinkly piano music, barely audible above the chatter of conversation, and staff in crisp black and white uniforms like waiters Vic recalled from a holiday in Venice, many years ago.

One of them ghosted up now, stood beside him and then took a deliberate step back. Looking at Vic in an uncertain way, his face set in a pre-sneer.