The Hiding Place(79)

I can tell the question rattles him.

“I don’t want to talk about Marie.”

“You’re the one who sent her to see me.”

“Actually, it was her idea.”

Not what she told me. But this is Hurst. Lies are as natural as breathing.

“She thought she might be able to talk some sense into you. Avoid any more unpleasantness.”

“Like sending Fletch’s boys to beat me up? Trashing the cottage? That sort of unpleasantness?”

A thin, whip-sharp smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Didn’t find it, did they? I bet that really pissed you off.”

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “You seem to think I care more about the things that happened back then than I actually do.”

“You cared enough to follow Chris up the Block that evening. What happened? Did you argue? Did you push him?”

He shakes his head, like he’s dealing with a sad lunatic.

“Have you heard yourself? You know, I feel sorry for you. You made some sort of life for yourself. You had a career, and yet you’re willing to throw it all away. For what? To settle old scores? Search for answers where there aren’t any? Just let it go. Leave now before you make things even worse for yourself.”

I reach for my drink and take a long, slow sip.

“I saw you. You were there.”

“I didn’t hurt Chris. I tried to save him.”

“Right.”

“I tried to talk him down. But he was beyond reason. Rambling. Insane stuff. And then he jumped. And I ran, I admit it. I didn’t want to stick around, have people leap to the wrong conclusions.”

I wonder if his choice of words—“leap to”—is deliberately callous. But I don’t think so. And I don’t think he’s lying. Deep down, I’m not sure I ever believed he pushed Chris. I wanted to. It gave me another reason to hate him. And maybe, it gave me a get-out too. Because if Chris jumped, it meant I’d let him down. Just like Annie.

Of course, I don’t believe Hurst tried to save Chris either. The only person Hurst has ever cared about saving is himself. That’s what I’m counting on.

“Why are you so afraid of me being here?”

“I’m not. Just sick of it.”

“Yeah, funnily enough, you don’t look so well.”

“I’m tired. Cancer takes its toll, on everyone. There. Happy? Not such a perfect life after all. That what you want to hear?”

I stare at him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe things haven’t worked out so well for him. I think about what Miss Grayson said: He is desperate…You are the only person who can stop him.

I fully intend to. But that is not why I’m here. First, I have other business. Business Hurst would understand. Saving-my-own-skin business.

I take the bag and thump it onto the desk. I see his eyes widen. He recognizes the battered, unbranded holdall. The faded and curling Doctor Who and Star Trek stickers.

“What the hell is this?”

“I think you know. But for the members of the jury—” I open it and carefully place the contents in front of him—“it’s the crowbar you smashed my sister’s head in with, and your school tie, coated in her blood and your DNA.”

His mouth works, teeth grinding, chewing on this information like a bitter pill. “And what is this supposed to prove? Your sister was found. Alive.”

“We both know that’s not what happened.”

“Try telling that story to the police. I’m sure they’ll find you a nice comfy straitjacket to slip into.”

“Fine. Try this. My sister disappeared for two days. Forty-eight hours. Where was she? What do you think the police would do if they were given this evidence? Evidence that you took her? Hurt her? How would that go down with the villagers, your councillor buddies?”

He stares at the plastic bag containing the crowbar and the bloody tie for a long time. Then he raises his eyes.

“So I’ll ask you again—what do you want?”

“Thirty grand.”

I wait. And then something happens to his face. I was expecting anger, denial. Maybe threats. Instead, he leans back in his chair and a sound bellows from his lips. Laughter.

In all the scenarios I played out in my mind, this is not one I expected. I glance nervously toward the window. Just darkness outside. I feel my tension rise.

“Want to share the joke?”

He straightens and gathers himself. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

“Fine.” I pick up the crowbar and the tie and put them back inside the bag. “Maybe I’ll just take this to the police right now.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You sound very sure about that.”

“I am.”

“If you try to stop me, or plan on calling your thugs, I should warn you that—”

“Stop talking shit.” He cuts me down. “I’ve no intention of hurting you. You see, that’s your problem. You’re always looking for someone to strike out at. Someone to blame. You never stop to think that you brought all of this on yourself.”

“I don’t know what the hell you mean.”

“I know about the crash.”