Long Time Lost (4 page)

Connor Lane watched from the lawn of his private estate on the shores of Lake Windermere as the sailing yacht drifted towards him. The fifty-foot craft was the centrepiece of a charity Connor had set up to assist youngsters with disabilities and learning difficulties. She’d been adapted for wheelchair users and Connor’s foundation had employed and trained a specialist crew. The hull and the mainsail were branded with the name of his company:
www.anycashcredit.com
.

‘Do you have a name for her yet?’

Connor returned his attention to the pretty blonde journalist sitting opposite him. She was mid-to-late twenties, more than ten years his junior. Not that age was usually an obstacle for Connor. In his experience, extreme wealth compensated for many things.

‘How about Samantha?’

She clutched a hand to her breast. Was it Connor’s imagination, or had she loosened another button on her blouse?

‘But that’s my name, Mr Lane.’

‘Connor, please. And a beautiful yacht should be named for a beautiful woman, don’t you agree?’

The hull of the yacht nudged against the newly installed pontoon, its sails ruffled by the soft evening breeze. Tomorrow, at a lavish garden party Connor was hosting with his wife, Yvonne, eight disabled youngsters would experience the thrill of sailing for the first time. It was a sport that Connor’s father, Larry, had lived for – the very reason, in fact, why the Lane family had moved to their sprawling Windermere home when Connor was just seven years old.

 ‘It’s a really wonderful thing you’re doing . . . Connor. I’m sure the children will be very grateful.’

He flashed her his best grin. He even allowed the smile to reach his eyes.

‘But I wonder . . .?’

‘Yes, Samantha?’

‘Don’t you think it’s just a little inappropriate, given the charges your brother is facing?’

Connor tried to maintain the grin. He tried very hard. But he could already feel his muscles tightening, jaw tensing, lips morphing into a predatory leer.

It had always been this way when someone attacked Russell. Connor had been just nineteen when their parents disappeared from his father’s sailing dinghy, presumed killed in a gangland hit, their bodies rumoured to be weighted down somewhere among the muddy depths of Windermere. Both boys had been orphaned that April night, but Connor had been left with an eleven-year-old brother to raise amid the sudden extreme demands of the criminal enterprise his father had overseen.

From day one, the hyenas of the underworld had probed and tested him. A lesser man would have crumbled. An ordinary man would have walked away. But Connor did neither of those things. He defended what was rightfully his. He dirtied his hands.

And meanwhile, he did everything in his power to shelter Russell from the violent reality of the world that swirled around them. Because Russell was special. He was sensitive and generous and kind. He was pure.

And now, to think that he was in custody, awaiting trial for murder . . .

‘My brother is innocent. His legal team will establish that soon enough.’

‘Perhaps. But there’s also the matter of your own recent conviction, isn’t there?’

Samantha gestured with her pen to Connor’s left ankle, which was crossed over his right thigh, resting on the ironed pleat of his chinos. She couldn’t see it. Nobody could. But there was an electronic tag fitted under Connor’s sock. The strap was a constant menace, snagging his skin, itching like hell. But the tag would remain there for the next four to six months while Connor was under curfew, restricted to the grounds of his estate.

‘I made a mistake. I was provoked by a journalist asking me offensive questions about my brother.’

‘You were convicted of actual bodily harm.’

Connor fixed another smile to his face. Six months ago he could have placed a call to Samantha’s editor and had her fired. Now life was more complicated.

Not that Connor was surprised by how rapidly his stock had fallen. He knew better than anyone that he’d never be widely admired. In part, that was because he’d inherited his father’s fortune and had multiplied it countless times over by establishing one of the first, and certainly the biggest and therefore most reviled, of the UK’s payday-loan companies.

But it was also because the original source of his family’s wealth had been even less respectable. Larry Lane had been a notorious loan shark. He’d started his business empire in Manchester, then expanded into Liverpool. And while some of the stories surrounding his activities were wild exaggerations, there was no getting away from the fact that Connor had made his millions – many multiples of millions, in fact – by refining his father’s old business model to apply a veneer of legality to the exploitation of those desperate enough to borrow money they couldn’t possibly hope to repay.

So now, instead of the vig there were prohibitive rates of APR. And where once Connor’s father might have threatened to break someone’s legs, these days his company wielded the menace of bankruptcy or the seizure of assets.

Small differences perhaps, but significant where Connor was concerned. Because slowly, patiently, he’d been working to rehabilitate his family’s reputation in the same way he’d refashioned their business. A high-profile charitable gesture here, a timely political donation there.

Not that any of it could begin to compensate for the latest scandal Russell had dragged to their door.

A stiff wind skimmed over the lake, rocking the yacht. Connor stood up from his lawn chair and buttoned his linen jacket.

‘I believe we’re done here, Samantha. Lovely as they are, you can go ahead and pop your breasts away now.’

She glared at him, baring her teeth. ‘I still need a portrait shot for the piece.’

But Connor wasn’t listening. His attention had been drawn to the south lawn, where a team of men were in the final stages of erecting a giant marquee. Beneath the flapping canvas, a small army of catering staff and a handful of volunteers from the Fresh Start Shelter for teenage runaways (also bankrolled by one of Connor’s foundations) were busy setting up tables and fold-out chairs. And there, waddling through the middle of them all, was the shambolic figure of Mike Renner.

‘Mr Lane? One picture by the yacht?’

Connor almost shuddered at the thought of being anywhere near the pontoon. He was afraid of very little in life but he was fearful of the steel-blue waters of Windermere.

‘You can see yourself out, Samantha. And please, don’t ever come back.’

He turned and walked off towards the stone steps leading up to the main house, the arched windows glowing now with the burnished orange light of the dipping sun. There was an ornamental fountain out front and Connor lingered beside it, looking across the wind-streaked lake at the lights coming on in Bowness, the sky stained in shades of purple and ochre, the wind picking up as if it might storm.

Renner was breathing hard by the time he joined him. Physically, he was a mess. Sartorially, he was even worse. But this balding, overweight man in the creased suit with the carelessly knotted tie and the scuffed loafers was Connor’s most loyal and trusted lieutenant, just as he had been for his father before him.

‘Nice boat.’ Renner made a small puffing sound as he caught his breath.

‘It’s a sail yacht.’

‘Yeah? What’s the difference?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Guess Larry would have been able to tell us.’

The two men watched the blonde journalist stride away across the lawn, a camera bag swinging from her shoulder, bashing her hip.

‘He’d be proud, you know? Of what you’re doing here.’

Connor knew that Renner was talking about more than just the yacht. He was also referring to the steps Connor was taking to protect Russell.

‘I have some news you’re not going to like.’

Which was something Connor had anticipated. He hadn’t been scheduled to see Renner until tomorrow.

‘I sent Wade to the Isle of Man to clear up after the man we hired. I thought it was sensible to sweep the place where he’d been staying before the cops found it. The man we hired was recommended to me. I was very specific about the levels of service we expect.’

‘And?’

‘And either my instructions weren’t sufficiently clear – which I seriously doubt – or this guy had something else in mind. Maybe he was hoping to make a little extra cash on the side.’

Connor had a creeping fear about where this was heading. It got worse when Renner glanced behind him, towards the teams of people buzzing about the marquee, before pulling a smartphone from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Wade recovered some surveillance equipment during his sweep. Our guy had a long-lens camera adapted for night-vision photography. Wade checked the camera and he found a bunch of surveillance shots of the house where Kate Sutherland was staying. The photograph I’m about to show you is date-stamped three days ago. The man we hired never sent it to me. If he had . . . Well, things would have been different.’

The image was dark and grainy, rendered in shades of green, but it was distinct enough for Connor to identify the man who’d been captured in a pale mint glow, stepping out through a sliding glass door.

His heart clenched and a deep chill spread through his chest.

‘You believe he has Kate Sutherland?’

‘I think that’s what we have to assume.’

‘I won’t allow this to happen again, Mike. I can’t. Find them. Do whatever it takes.’

‘And when I find them?’

‘You know the answer to that. But handle things yourself this time. No go-betweens.’

Perhaps it was Connor’s imagination, but Renner seemed to sag just a touch.

‘I’ll need Wade on it too,’ he said quietly.

‘As you wish. But nobody else. And Mike?’

‘Yes.’

‘No more mistakes.’

Kate stared hard at her reflection in the rust-pitted mirror in her bedroom. Clumps of her hair littered the towel draped over her shoulders and the plastic sheet spread on the floor beneath her chair. Becca was standing behind her with a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other. Not ten minutes ago, she’d dumped the remains of Kate’s ponytail into a black bin liner, along with the clothes she’d been wearing since she’d left the Isle of Man and the towel she’d used to dry herself with after her shower.

Kate felt picked apart. Unravelled. Her defences stripped away.

‘How many people have you done this for?’ she asked. ‘Before me, I mean.’

‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

‘But I’m not the first?’

‘No, honey, you’re not the first. You’re not an experiment. We’re good at this. Nick’s the absolute best at what he does.’

‘He hasn’t told me how any of this is going to work.’

‘He will. But it’s a lot to take in. He’s just looking out for you.’

Becca brushed Kate’s new fringe to the left, tipping her head to one side, frowning at the result.

‘Why are you involved in this?’

‘Why does anyone do anything any more?’

‘Money, usually.’

‘Well, I’ve got me enough of that.’

‘So then you’re a volunteer. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t seem very likely. You’re famous.’

‘Honey, that’s sweet, but that show was a long time ago.’

‘You have everything to lose.’

‘No, not everything. Not any more. And besides, maybe some things are just worth doing.’

‘Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?’

‘A cynic, huh? How about if I told you Nick helped me out once.’

‘Must have been a serious favour.’

‘Oh, it was.’ Becca nodded, and for the briefest moment her eyes took on a faraway look. ‘But Nick also convinced me that I’d be doing something important here. He knows I have a serious talent for blending in. When you have this face and these babies,’ she clutched her breasts, winking, ‘you need plenty of tricks to get by unnoticed.’

Kate gave Becca a dubious look. Back in the day, she’d seen her on the television, in tabloid newspapers and on the covers of glossy magazines, and the truth was that she didn’t appear very different today. She was always glamorous, always bold; an unmistakable combination of big hair, big make-up and a big body.

‘I know what you’re thinking. And I get it. I do. But what you’re seeing today is just a costume. I can change it any time I want. Just like I can change you. And if you’re clever, you’ll pay attention to me, because it might just save your life.’

‘Did Miller tell you that I killed a man?’

Becca pushed her mouth to one side and snipped at Kate’s hair. ‘Way he tells it, you had no choice.’

Kate thought about that. She wasn’t sure it was true. And even supposing it was, nothing could rid her of the skin-crawl sensation she couldn’t quite shake, or help in any way to make her forget that awful moment of silence, of stasis, after the gun jumped in her hand, before the man in the balaclava toppled back.

A killer on the run. That was who she was now, what she’d become.

‘Would you put your life in Miller’s hands if you were me?’

‘Honey, I put my life in his hands every day. If the people who wanted to get at you knew I was involved in any of this . . .’ Becca shuddered, leaving the rest unspoken.

‘How do you even find the time for this?’

‘Worried I won’t be there for you?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

‘Well, Miller’s your main guy. Remember that. But also, it just so happens I have plenty of time on my hands right now.’

‘How so?’

Becca met her eyes in the mirror. ‘I’m in the middle of what my agent calls a “period of career transition”.’

‘And what do you call it?’

‘A screw-up. And I mean that literally, or figuratively, or whatever. That show you liked so much? I didn’t leave it to move on to bigger things. I was written out of it because I spent the night with the head of the network. Huge mistake. His wife was
not
a fan. And he was seriously pissed off when she found out. He’s an influential guy. More influential than me or my agent, anyway.’ She fluffed Kate’s hair. ‘You like?’

Kate hated it. But she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed by the outcome. She looked leaner, sharper, tougher. Although not all of that was down to her new hairstyle.

‘And we’re done.’ Becca lifted the towel from Kate’s shoulders and guided her to her feet. ‘Stay on the sheet. Take off your robe.’

Kate untied the gown and let it fall from her shoulders. She’d shed a lot of weight recently. The stress had killed her appetite. Her whole life, she’d always been fit and healthy, but now she could glimpse the outline of her ribs through her skin, the jut of her clavicle.

The underwear she had on wasn’t anything like she would have chosen for herself. It was peach and silky, covered in frills. Becca had run out for it while Kate was in the shower. She felt like a stranger wearing it, which she guessed was the point.

‘Girl, you are beautiful,’

But Kate didn’t feel beautiful. She felt depleted and vulnerable. Especially under Becca’s gaze.

Becca was wide-hipped and voluptuous. She oozed sex appeal. Kate had already caught herself wondering if Miller had slept with her. If maybe he still did.

She crossed her hands in front of her abdomen, the plastic crinkling under her feet as Becca backed off towards a portable clothes rack in the corner of the room. The rail was jammed with garments suspended from plastic hangers. A set of colour photographs had been tacked up on the wall nearby and Kate could see that they were flash shots of the interior of her wardrobe on the Isle of Man.

‘You’ve spent your whole life with people taking notice of how good you look. Now that’s something we have to change.’