The Guilty Couple(80)

This time, instead of pulling at the roof, I hack at the hole, then turn my head sharply as shards of rusty metal drop onto my face. I climb back down and search all the toolboxes until I find a pair of protective goggles. I find a rag in the same box and tie that over my nose and mouth and climb back onto the table. All the anger, all the frustration, all the pain I’m feeling is propelled out of my body and into the crowbar as I smash it against the roof over and over and over again.

I don’t know how much time passes but I keep ramming the crowbar against the roof and slowly, slowly the hole gets larger. Cool air chills the sweat on my brow but there’s no escaping the scent of death. I blink away sweat and tears as my arms and shoulders scream with each upwards thrust of the crowbar but I don’t pause, and I don’t stop. Dominic has stolen everything from me. I won’t let him take Grace too.

By the time the hole is big enough for me to squeeze through I have almost no strength left in my arms and I try once, twice, three times to lift myself up and out into the cool North London air, only to drop back into the garage again and tumble to the floor. I pile weights onto the tables to give me a few extra inches in height. It sways precariously as I step onto it but I get my fingers through the hole and manage to stabilise myself then, taking one last look at the freezer, I pull myself through.

It’s starting to rain as I scrabble across the roof, twist onto my stomach and drop to the floor. It grows heavier as I run out of the cul-de-sac and find myself on a main road with houses on either side of the street. Cars zoom back and forth but there are no people around apart from a young, dark-haired woman in black boots, a black jacket and khaki trousers, holding a red umbrella. I run to catch up with her.

‘Excuse me?’ I touch her on the shoulder when she doesn’t respond. ‘Excuse me! Please, I need help!’

She jolts and twists round, pulling the ear pods from her ears. Her eyes flick from my head to my feet and she takes a step back, startled by what she sees.

‘Please.’ I press a hand to my chest as I try to catch enough breath to speak. ‘What time is it?’

She takes a phone from her pocket. ‘Just after one p.m.’ As she turns to continue walking I follow alongside her.

‘I need to get to Heathrow. Is there a taxi rank nearby?’

She looks annoyed that I’m still bothering her but she stops walking and points down the street. ‘Enfield Lock’s just down there. You could take a train.’

‘Does it take long? To get to Heathrow?’

She shrugs. ‘Dunno. Depends if the trains are running.’

It’s too risky. I could end up anywhere and I haven’t got any money to buy a ticket. I could jump the ticket barriers but the last thing I need is for a guard to chase me down. A taxi wouldn’t ask for the money until I arrived. We’re near the M25 here. If the traffic’s not too bad it might even be quicker.

‘Is there a cab firm?’ I ask. ‘Nearby?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘The nearest one’s about twenty-five, thirty minutes away if you walk fast.’

‘Can I borrow your phone? To ring one instead?’

She eyes me dubiously.

‘Please. You have no idea how important it is that I get to Heathrow.’

‘Okay.’ She visibly tenses as she hands the phone over. She thinks I’m going to take off.

As the rain soaks through my hoodie, I call for a cab.

The taxi driver, a thin, balding man in his late fifties, nearly refused to take me. He took one look at me – soaking wet, red-faced, bloodied and breathing heavily whilst frantically explaining that I didn’t have the money on me to pay for the fare upfront but someone would pay for it at Heathrow – and the expression on his face said it all. It was only when I burst into tears and told him that my daughter was leaving for Dubai, and I needed to say goodbye because I didn’t know when I’d see her again, that he finally took pity on me and unlocked the doors. He glanced at me as I got in and started the engine before I’d clipped in my seatbelt.

I waited a full five minutes before I asked if I could use his mobile. He wasn’t keen but I convinced him it was an emergency and he reluctantly handed me his iPhone. I dialled 999, watching out of the corner of my eye as the taxi driver’s eyebrows twitched upwards when I asked to be connected to the police. I told the operator my name and that I’d just escaped from a garage on Bridle Road, Enfield, after I’d been locked inside by Nancy Ritchie. I said I’d discovered the body of Jack Law who had been murdered by Dominic Sutherland and that they’d find it in the only garage in the row with a broken roof. I told her Dominic was about to leave for Dubai on a one-way ticket and they had to stop him before he left the country for good.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the cabbie then but he was either too stunned, or too scared, to ask me any questions as I handed back his phone.

For the last forty-five minutes Radio Five Live has been blaring out sports news, filling the space between us. The driver’s silence suits me and the incessant drone of the radio is helping to drown out thoughts about Jack and how I’m never going to see him again.

I shift in my seat. Watching the minutes tick by as the cars in front of us draw to a halt, yet again, is more than I can bear.

‘How much longer do you think?’

‘Nearly there.’ He inclines his head to one side. ‘That’s the sign for Terminal Five.’