Running Scared (26 page)

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’d like to think Jane was getting her life back together again.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered, ‘to think Jane will be home again. It’s the best Christmas present I could’ve imagined. I’ve prayed for it. I honestly thought God wasn’t listening, but He was.’

There were tears in her eyes. ‘You will be prepared for changes?’ I repeated anxiously. I really wondered how they’d cope.

But Sheila, I’d already decided, had hidden depths. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said firmly. ‘Jane and I always had a good relationship before.’

It didn’t seem to occur to her that if it had been as good as all that, Jane would have been able to talk through her problems at home.

She had put her hand in the pocket of the woollen jacket and produced a small package wrapped in a paper napkin. She put it in my hand. ‘Shortbread, for the journey.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry you’re not able to stay for lunch. Have you got enough money to buy something?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured her, ‘but thanks for the biscuits.’ There was nothing else to say but to wish her good luck, and put distance between myself and that house as fast as I could.

I felt really relieved as the train drew out, as if I’d put down a heavy weight I’d been toting along ever since Tig had turned up at the door with Bonnie. I’d done what I’d said I’d do and got away relatively lightly. My part was over.

A metallic rattle announced there was a trolley service on this line. The guy came along, hauling his load as I’d been hauling my symbolic one. He stopped and asked, without much show of interest, if I wanted any refreshments. I bought a coffee (black, white or cappuccino?) off him and unwrapped my shortbread biscuits. But somehow, although I was hungry, I couldn’t eat more than one of them. I wrapped the others up again and put them away to give to Tig later.

Supposing Tig was still there when I got back. I’d raised Sheila’s hopes and I couldn’t bear to think of them being dashed. No, I would
not
worry about that. It wasn’t my concern. I’d done my bit. You don’t have to save the world, Fran!

A previous traveller on this train, who’d sat on the opposite seat to mine, had left bits of his Sunday newspaper behind, including the magazine supplement. To take my mind off Tig and her family, I reached for it, and sipping my coffee, opened it up.

‘BRITAIN’S MOST WANTED MEN!’ screamed the heading to the story which made centre pages. A row of smudged mugshots or heads taken from paparazzi snaps formed a border to the article which was, it seemed, about criminals who’d eluded the law successfully – the Mr Big figures of the underworld, who lived it up with flash cars and flashy girlfriends while the foot soldiers, who took the risks, did the time. I ran my eye down the rogues’ gallery with only minor interest.

Then I saw it – saw him. His hair was darker in this pic but a bottle of bleach had since taken care of that. There he was and not a shadow of a doubt of it. Not sitting in a jazzy shirt in the sunshine as he’d been when the snaps Coverdale had acquired were taken. No, here he was leaving what looked like a nightclub, caught in the glare of the flashlight as he made for his limo. His name, I learned at last, was Jerry Grice.

Chapter Thirteen

At least, the article informed me, as I scanned it eagerly, that was one of two or three names he’d operated under. A warrant had been issued for his arrest in connection with a raid on a City bank vault which had netted an undisclosed sum in gold ingots and other valuables in safety deposit boxes. No one could ever be sure just how much the raiders had got away with, because many of the deposit box owners had been strangely coy about the contents, but the gold alone had made it a major robbery. Of the gang, most had been picked up and several gaoled. Grice alone remained at large and, more importantly, he knew where the loot was. Virtually none of that had been recovered.

Ironically, Grice was described as being not a violent man, but a planner, an ideas merchant. The journalist was being deliberately naive, I thought. If you’re in charge, you don’t need to be violent yourself. You’ve got underlings to do that sort of thing for you, the actual orders issued by middle-ranking thugs in your employ. That way, Grice and others like him kept their hands clean. They were the clever clogs who got clean away with the dosh, while other mugs got banged up, and snoopers like Coverdale got dead.

I sat back, the cooling coffee in my grip, the magazine lying open on my lap. Coverdale had set his sights on tracking Grice down and thanks to Mrs Stevens, I knew he’d started in Zurich, home of the numbered bank account. Shrewdly, he’d tracked the money, because that would lead him to the man. It’d led him to a tropical location where he’d not only found Grice, but managed to get the photos as evidence. Then Coverdale’s plans had gone disastrously wrong. What, I wondered, had Coverdale meant to do with the information? He hadn’t handed it over to the cops. Had he envisaged some mega-deal with telly or a top magazine or newspaper, his name blazoned over everything? I didn’t know, probably never would know, what Coverdale had wanted to do. He didn’t get to do it, that’s all I knew. Except that now I knew too what the police were playing at.

Grice’s minions had failed to recover the negatives. Not knowing they were in police hands, he must be growing increasingly frustrated and angry – and very worried. Sooner or later, by police reckoning, he’d come back to take care of it himself. That’s what they were waiting for so patiently; that was why they wouldn’t reveal to the public that they held the negatives. They were forcing Grice’s hand, confident that he’d show.

It wouldn’t be difficult for him, after all. With that amount of money to play with, he could buy himself a false passport in any nationality he chose. He could hire a private plane to fly him in and out to a deserted air-strip or field. Heck, if SOE could fly agents in and out of Occupied Europe during the last war, then a seriously big-time crook like Grice could buy himself an away-day any time he chose. He’d probably done it a dozen times before, cocking a snook at detectives and half-a-dozen other concerned agencies.

So what made it so different, from the cops’ point of view, this time? Why were they so sure this was their great chance to get him? Partly, I told myself, because this time they knew roughly when to expect him and a network of underworld informers must have been put on alert. But mostly, because this time they knew whom Grice would contact. He’d contact me.

By now, we’d rocked gently into the tunnel immediately before Marylebone Station. I was startled into awareness. The journey had passed with me deep in thought. I rolled up the magazine carefully and set out for home. To tell Ganesh or not, that was the question. On the whole, my instinct was not. On the other hand, there was nothing like a little insurance. If only one person knows (viz., Coverdale) he can be taken out. The more people who know, the more difficult it gets.

It was growing dark by the time I reached the house. The window of my basement flat was in darkness but a light was flashing around in the basement itself and indignant voices floated upwards on the cold air. I could also hear muffled, furious barking.

‘She must be there, Charles. I’m sure of it. At least, the damn dog is. Ring again.’

I leaned over the railing. Bertie and Charlie had obviously heard about the break-in and come down in force to remonstrate with me. One of them was holding a torch to the window and trying to see in. The other was by the door, trying, for some reason, to see through the letter box. I toyed with the idea of calling the police or running across to the Neighbourhood Watch fanatic opposite to report prowlers. It was a nice idea, but I didn’t need more hassle with the duo than I already had.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked in a dignified way.

There was no way either of them could look anything but caught red-handed. The one by the door jumped up as if on a spring and the one by the window swung the torch round and shone it up into my face.

I shielded my eyes with my hand and snapped, ‘Put that out!’

Rather to my surprise, he did. While I still had the advantage of surprise, I added, ‘And come up here if you want to talk to me. I’m not coming down there.’

They huffed a bit, but climbed up the stairwell and arrived on the pavement. By the light of the streetlamp, I could see the one with the torch was Bertie. He was trying to shove it away in a battered briefcase he carried as if it’d suddenly become red-hot.

‘We wish to speak to you,’ said Charlie, getting his presence of mind back first.

‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘But don’t waste my time.’

‘Look here!’ he began. ‘You shouldn’t take that tone with us, really you shouldn’t! It’s most unwise. We have genuine cause for grievance, as you very well know. Our aunt continues to be put in danger by your presence and we have come to insist—’

His voice was rising in indignation and Bertie, who’d been glancing uneasily at Daphne’s windows, cleared his throat and took charge.

‘Quite, Charles, quite. But not, um, here in the street perhaps? My dear,’ he turned a sickly smile on me, ‘can’t we go down to the flat and discuss all this in civilised fashion, eh?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘The flat is my home and I don’t choose to allow either of you into it. Nor do I want you prowling in the basement. You’ve upset my dog.’

‘We don’t see anything in your lease which allows you to keep animals!’ squawked Charlie.

‘There’s nothing in it says I can’t. Anyway, Daphne knows Bonnie is there and she doesn’t mind.’

Bertie, growing even jumpier, suggested we might, then, perhaps repair to a hostelry, as he put it.

‘I’m not going into any pub with a couple of old goats like you two,’ I said. ‘I’ve got my reputation to think of.’

‘That’s slander!’ gasped Bertie.

‘No, it isn’t. You ask your brother. He’s got difficulty keeping his hands to himself and for all I know, you’re the same. You’re two and I’m one. I wouldn’t feel safe. We talk here or, if you don’t hurry up, we don’t talk at all.’

Bertie had been distracted enough to turn to his brother. ‘Charles? What’s she talking about?’

‘No idea,’ bawled Charlie, oblivious to how many people might hear him. ‘She’s
non compos mentis
, if you ask me. Clearly not of sound mind.’

‘You . . .’ Bertie lowered his voice, shuffled a few steps away and drew his brother aside. ‘You haven’t . . .?’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘Of course I bloody haven’t!’ snarled Charlie.

‘Not for want of trying,’ I called.

They turned an angry but united front to me. ‘It seems very strange to us,’ said Bertie, appointing himself spokesman, ‘that Aunt Daphne, after living safely and undisturbed in this house for forty years, should suddenly find the police virtually camped on her doorstep. First a murder, then an attempted break-in – what next, I wonder? There was also, we understand, a previous unpleasant affair which necessitated numerous calls at the house by the constabulary. You can hardly blame us for our concern. We do not, and cannot, consider you a suitable tenant in the light of all this. We have the safety of an elderly, frail lady to consider.’

‘It’s for Daphne to decide,’ I retorted. ‘And anyway, she hasn’t been bothered, or not much, by the police. I have and I can cope.’

‘Don’t doubt it,’ muttered Charlie. ‘Practice makes perfect, they say.’

Bertie sidled up to me like an evil old owl. ‘Tell me, my dear, what was the intruder after?’

‘How should I know?’ I snapped.

‘But we think you do, eh? Yes, we think you do. Consider it. He didn’t attempt to break into our aunt’s house. He chose your flat – yet a look through the window, or a few minutes reconnoitring beforehand, would’ve told him you were unlikely to prove a rewarding target.’

‘It’s a basement,’ I pointed out. ‘They’re always likely targets. No one could see him trying to get in.’

‘The police,’ Bertie insisted, ‘seem to have made several visits and do not, in my experience, usually spend so much time on a failed burglary. One visit to take a statement and perhaps some fingerprints, would normally be enough.’

‘So, what was he after?’ growled Charlie, thrusting his unattractive mug into mine.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘A rapist, perhaps?’ I met his piggy little eyes accusingly.

Charlie stepped back. ‘Come along, Bertram,’ he said. ‘We’re wasting our time.’ He turned back to me with a final shot. ‘You’ve had your chance to discuss this, as my brother said, in a civilised manner. Very well. So be it. We shall have to see what may be done under the law.’

They marched off up the street, side by side, rigid with outraged dignity.