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‘I believe this is important, sir. I haven’t actually informed DI Reid yet. He’s asleep at his desk. But I thought you might like to know as a matter of urgency.’
‘Know what?’
‘They’re in Penrith.’
Bowman’s brain whirred even faster than usual, but he said nothing. Keep the man hanging. If Ashcroft was waiting for a pat on the back, he wasn’t going to get it.
‘Can you hear me, sir?’ Ashcroft said.
‘How do you know, Sergeant?’
‘They’ve used Foulkes’s bank card in Penrith. Took three hundred quid from an ATM in the early hours.’
‘I see.’ Bowman weighed his options. One was to simply relent and say something appreciative. So he did just that. ‘Good work, Sergeant.’ Toss a sprat to catch a mackerel. It had been one of his mother’s favourite expressions. ‘It looks like they are heading for Scotland, then.’
‘That’s what I reckon, sir.’
‘Good thinking.’ Massage the man’s ego, he thought. Pat him on the back and send him in the wrong direction. ‘Well, Sergeant, don’t let me delay your search. You had better tell DI Reid now. But keep me informed,’ he said and rang off.
Bowman remained at the table, tapping his fingers. His coffee was cold, and he had no time to make a new one.
He stood up and leaned against the railing of the balcony. Down below, men and women were heading off to work. A bus was pulling away from the stop immediately below him. A man with a black refuse bag in one hand was rooting around in a bin, looking for breakfast. Bowman saw all this, but it didn’t register.
He smiled to himself. It was all coming together rather well. Ashcroft and Reid would now head off towards Penrith on their wild goose chase and would be well out of the way while Bridget and Elgar tied up all the loose ends. Because if they didn’t soon, the loose ends were in danger of unravelling.
He flicked through the contacts on his mobile until he found the one he was looking for. Then he made the call.
A mocking, Irish voice. ‘Good morning, William.’ Only Bridget ever called him William. Except for his wife, of course. To everyone else he was either ‘Bill’ or ‘sir.’
Not that he cared too much. Bridget was the only person he could trust implicitly. The one person he needed.
‘I’ve got an extra little job for you, sweetie.’
‘Oh, William! You are going to wear me out with all these extra jobs.’
‘Her name is Sinead.’
* * *
‘Aaagh, shit!’ Sam had woken from his drug-induced sleep with the thickest of thick heads. When he peeled his eyes open, he had absolutely no idea where he was. He lay there trying to remember the night before, without success. When that didn’t work, he pushed himself up on his elbows to look around. Immediately a big bass drum exploded into action in the back of his head. He shut his eyes and held himself still, hoping that the pain would disappear. It didn’t. He opened his eyes again and squinted around the room.
There was a three-quarters full glass of water on the far bedside table. Maggie’s, presumably. She must have slept there, next to him. She must be downstairs having breakfast, or maybe it was long after breakfast. He groaned and swore simultaneously.
The fog was beginning to disperse. Slowly. They had to get going. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom. There were painkillers in the bathroom cupboard. He took two, and then a third, washing them down with tap water.
Beth’s was the only other room upstairs and th
e bed was a mess. But there was no sign of her bag.
He went back onto the landing and listened. Not a sound. He called their names, but quickly decided that they weren’t going to answer. He switched on the light in the main bedroom and felt anxiety for the first time. Maggie’s small red case, the sort you take as carry-on luggage on a flight, was nowhere to be seen.
He turned and stumbled as quickly as he dared down the steep panelled staircase. ‘Beth! Maggie!’
Then . . . ‘Aagh! Shit!’ His feet exploded in agony and he crashed to the floor, narrowly missing the kitchen table. For several seconds he lay still, fighting the excruciating pain and the impulse to yell like a baby. As he pushed himself up off the floor, something sharp pierced his right hand. He swore again.
Glass! He could see three pieces embedded in the palm of his hand. And there were lots more, he knew, embedded deep in both his feet. He lay there for several seconds, dazed and trying to work out his options.
Eventually he levered himself up onto a chair and tried to inspect the damage to his feet. He shifted himself onto the table so he could get a better view outside. He swore again. The car had gone. Maggie, Beth and the car were all gone.
