The Valley (25 page)

Despite all her refits, the
Glen Avon
did not seem to have changed much when I saw her again. She had the same berth on the same jetty, and still looked sleeker and faster than the other yachts. My sense of déjà vu was completed by Max, who was pacing up and down on her deck, wearing an old pair of scruffy shorts similar to the ones I had incinerated. In turn, I wondered whether he noticed the same look of apprehension on my face or saw that I was carrying the same backpack on my shoulders – a backpack which I had already told him I had destroyed.

‘Where are the boys?’ Max yelled out.

He had told me to meet him at the boat at 9am sharp, and it was already 9-15. He walked right up to the edge of the Glen Avon’s deck. ‘Where are Jack and Tom?’ he said, clearly agitated. ‘We need to cast off straight away. The tide’s going out.’

‘They aren’t coming,’ I said. ‘And nor am I.’

Max stared at me. Behind him I could see a large yacht motoring out of the marina and its wash caused the
Glen Avon
to rock up and down. The bottom of the gangplank rattled against the quayside.

‘Max, you need to come with me,’ I said. ‘We have to talk.’

He pointed to the gangplank. ‘If you want to talk, let’s do it on board. I’ll make you some coffee.’

‘No, we’re going to talk in the café,’ I said. ‘The same café where I met Gerry.’

His face changed, his eyes darting around to check if people were observing us.

‘I can’t just abandon the boat,’ he said.

‘Yes, you can. I will see you in the café in ten minutes. Our talk won’t take long.’

I turned around and walked away.

‘Is it just you, John?’ Max shouted. ‘You’re not with anyone, are you?’

I ignored him and marched to the main marina gate. This time I had a proper Visitor’s Pass. In fact I had three, one for me, one for Jack and one for Tom. Max had sent them to the PropFace office by courier. Now I handed them all in and headed into town, confident that so far, everything was going to plan. My initial confrontation with Max had actually been easier than my one with Karen and the boys a couple of days before, when I had sprung on them the news that we were no longer going sailing, and instead I needed Karen to look after them all weekend.

As I turned into the high street on which the coffee bar was located, I heard the pat-pat-pat of someone running in soft-soled shoes, and shortly Max pulled up beside me.

‘John, you’re scaring me,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ll tell you in the café.’

His long legs stretched out, trying to railroad me off my path. ‘Why there?’

‘Because that’s where it started.’

Max stuck his arm out to stop me. ‘You haven’t done anything stupid, have you, John? You haven’t told anyone?’

I barged past. I could see the sign outside the cafe and the high street was beginning to fill up with cars and people, which was exactly what I wanted.

He strode along beside me. ‘John, please tell me you haven’t –’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t. At least not yet.’

He gave up trying to talk to me after that. Inside the café, it was a struggle even to get him to say what sort of tea he would like. I ordered an Earl Grey for him and an espresso for myself and headed for the nearest table.

‘Actually, do you mind if we sit over there?’ Max said, pointing to a small table near a window in a deserted corner of the room.

I walked over to it and sat down on the outside seat, forcing Max to sit on the bench under the window.

‘I want to know about Gerry,’ I said.

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘Are you wearing a microphone?’

I reached down to my sweatshirt and pulled it up so he could see the bare flesh of my stomach and chest. ‘

‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t tell me anything incriminating then. Just tell me who Gerry was.’

Max looked around the café again, and then scratched his head. I noticed how his fair hair now had flecks of grey at the temples.

‘Gerry was a finance person who was involved with my hedge fund,’ he said eventually.

‘And?’

‘And nothing,’ Max said. He leaned across towards me. ‘That’s all I’m telling you. It’s for your own good. The less you know, the less you’re involved.’

‘He lived in the Caymans, didn’t he? He was an accountant.’

Max lent back. ‘I’m not saying anymore,’ he said.

‘Okay – tell me about Charlie Wall then.’

‘I’ve told you everything.’

‘You didn’t tell me you knew him at Bristol. ‘

‘I didn’t.’

‘He was part of the lot you went shooting with.’

‘Oh, this is what it’s all about, is it? Some copper has told you that eighteen years ago, I belonged to the same clay-pigeon shooting club as Charlie?’

He threw up his hands.

‘John, they tried this bullshit on me too. I belonged to a clay-pigeon shooting club at Bristol, because on my shotgun certificate I had to say where I used my gun, and I couldn’t admit I used it illegally to shoot foxes in suburban gardens with you, could I? So I joined a clay-pigeon club. I only went there twice. And I have absolutely no recollection of meeting Charlie Wall there or anywhere else.’

‘He once worked as an odd-job man for a gamekeeper.’

‘Not on the Glen Avon estate.’

‘Did you ever go rough shooting with him?’

Max took a sip of his tea. ‘Look, John, I’m told Charlie Wall liked shooting and so do I, and when I was at Bristol, I apparently lived within twenty miles of where he lived. So it’s possible we did some shooting or beating together, but I have no memory of it. And even if we did, so what? It’s like saying you must have known him because you were both South Africans and you lived close to him as well. So come on, John, who’s been feeding you all these lies? It’s a policeman, isn’t it?’

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then leaned towards me.

‘John, don’t you see: they’re trying to turn you. Remember what I said – we have nothing to fear as long as we stay united.’

‘Tell me about George Colebrook’s murder.’

Max looked me straight in the eyes. ‘You tell me, John. In the version I heard, he was knifed by a mugger at an ATM, when I wasn’t even in the country. But I guess you’re going to tell me I did it, aren’t you?’

‘Are you sure you weren’t in the country?’

‘Very sure. I intended to come over that week but I cancelled. And I’ll tell you something else: I hadn’t seen George for five years before he died. If you don’t believe me, talk to his widow.’

‘I know that. It’s why you got Charlie Wall to kill him. And then, you got rid of Charlie Wall.’

‘You’re off with the fairies now.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. But let me take a guess: the same police officer who told you that Charlie Wall and I might have run into each other nearly twenty years ago, also told you I was in the country the week George was murdered? Is that right?’

I did not say anything.

‘Look at me, John,’ he said. ‘It’s all bullshit. You need to talk to people you can trust, not someone who’s out to get us.’

‘And then there was Lucy. You got Charlie to kill her as well, didn’t you?’

Max’s whole expression changed. ‘No, that’s too far,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t really mean these things, but you can’t say that.’

‘Charlie killed Lucy, then Charlie killed George, then you killed Charlie. You probably wanted Charlie to kill Gerry as well, but for some reason that wasn’t possible. Maybe he’d smelt a rat. So you used me instead to lure him on to your boat and you then killed him yourself. I suppose in your mind you weren’t doing anything wrong, just removing evidence. And now the final bit of evidence to remove is me. If I go on board your boat today, I won’t come back again, will I, Max?’

‘John, you need help.’

‘The only one I haven’t been able to figure out is Angela.’

‘Who’s Angela?’

‘The girl I was seeing. Suddenly she disappeared –just like all the others.’

‘I don’t know anything about this girl, but I bet she hasn’t disappeared. She’s probably just avoiding you.’

He lowered his voice. ‘John, you haven’t been easy to be around recently. Talk to Karen, or Ian Joseph, or anyone who knows you well, and they’ll say the same thing. Or just look in the mirror, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got bags under your eyes. You’re sick, John. And people are exploiting you.’

I took a sip of coffee as Max continued.

‘Trust your friends, John. We’re not all part of a gigantic conspiracy. We’re concerned about you. And in my case it’s guilt as well, because I know what triggered all this. Maybe I should never have got you involved. But you can’t go around telling people what you’ve just told me.’

‘I haven’t told anyone.’

Max smiled. ‘That’s good.’

‘And I won’t tell anyone provided you do what I say. I want you to disappear Max. You don’t have to kill yourself or anything like that. You just have to go away.’

‘John – ’

‘I never want you to contact me or my family ever again.’

He leaned back. ‘And will you allow me to set foot in PropFace, the company I actually own?’

‘No. Because you’re not going to own it anymore. You’re going to sell your shares to me.’

Max laughed. ‘Oh, really? And how are you going to pay for them?’

‘I am going to give you all the money I can: £5,000 now and another £10,000 by the end of the year. And I will pay you another £15,000 next year and the one after that and –’

‘That wouldn’t even pay the interest.’

‘It’s non-negotiable.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘If you refuse, I go to the police.’

‘With your crackpot theory?’

‘With my crackpot theory, yes. And with my rather less than crackpot evidence.’

I bent down and picked up my backpack from the floor. I carefully placed it on my side of the table, unzipped its main compartment and tilted it towards him so he could glimpse the sawn-off shotgun inside. It was wrapped in cling film and wedged across the back.

‘Do you recognise it, Max? It’s the gun you killed Gerry with. And can you remember the towel I was supposed to have burnt? The one you used to mop up his blood.’

I settled the backpack on my lap, just out of his reach and pulled out of it a transparent zip-up wallet, letting Max see the monogrammed towel inside.

‘It’s got more than your initials on, Max. I reckon it’s got your finger prints, fibres from your clothes, traces of your skin, debris from the shotgun blast, and lots of Gerry’s blood.’

I turned the wallet over so Max could see the dark brown blood stain. Then I slid it back inside the backpack, and unzipped one of the side pockets.

‘And that’s not all, Max. I think the forensic team will especially appreciate this little item.’

I dangled in front of him a clear plastic freezer bag for storing food. Inside it were the charred remains of the silencer he had used.

‘I’ve got the two cartridges as well – the empty one that you used to kill Gerry and the one you left in the other barrel. And then of course there’s the body. I couldn’t give the police directions to the exact spot where we dumped him, but I could get us close. I’m sure anchor chains show up quite well on underwater radar.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But the gun by itself is probably enough evidence – and not just of Gerry’s murder.’

He gave me a look of total incomprehension.

‘I saw you kill Gerry, Max. And we both know you killed Charlie Wall. But I don’t really care about either of them. If their deaths were all you were responsible for, I could let things be. But then I took a good look at the shotgun. On board the
Glen Avon
, you told me it was a worthless relic from the 1930s that you found in an old gamekeeper’s cottage. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’

He glared at me.

‘The gun-maker’s name is engraved on the side. It didn’t mean anything to me because I don’t know anything about guns. But I know how to use Google. The first page of results told me that guns like this aren’t worthless relics. Sotheby’s sold one the other day for £30,000. But this one would be a little bit cheaper, wouldn’t it, Max? Because it’s wanted by the police.’

He ignored me, his face red with defiance.

‘It’s one of a pair taken from your Chelsea home, at the same time as your wife was abducted and never seen again. For ages I couldn’t see the connection between Gerry’s murder and Lucy’s disappearance but I had the evidence all along, in the form of this gun.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Max said. ‘It’s the same make of gun, and yes, I did spin you a yarn about getting it from a keeper’s cottage, but – ’

‘It’s too late, Max; I’m not listening anymore. But there is one further thing you need to know. Someone has seen all this evidence. They’ve already got a sample of the towel, photographs of the gun and a signed copy of a statement from me.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone you don’t know but I do and I trust them absolutely. And I’m going to hand over the rest of the evidence to them. They’ll keep it discreetly. If I stay alive, and you stay away, the evidence stays hidden. All you have to do is sign this and post it back to me.’

I reached inside the backpack and took out a large envelope.

‘It’s a contract, letting me buy your stake in PropFace for the terms I told you. Your lawyers will find it acceptable. I copied the contract they drafted when you bought your stake; all I’ve changed are the names, the amounts, the dates and the prices.’

As Max leafed through it, I carried on talking. ‘I want a signed copy on my desk by Monday. And you can also tell Ian Joseph not to turn up for work anymore at PropFace. I don’t want him, or any of your henchmen, to ever set foot in the building again.’

He looked up. ‘I was wrong about you,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a victim, someone who needed support. You’re not though. You’re just a cheap little blackmailer.’

‘I’m not a blackmailer,’ I said. ‘If I was, you’d be paying me £15,000 a year for life, not the other way round. This isn’t about me taking money from you, it’s about me being free from you – permanently. If I was a saint, I’d walk away from PropFace as well. But you were right when on the boat you said neither of us could start all over again. Too much of my life is invested in that company. So all I can do is make sure every penny you put in it is returned to you, even if it takes me twenty five years, because I don’t want your blood money. Not anymore.’