The Hiding Place(85)

He’s right. And what if they start asking more questions? Investigate the scene again. Question my dad’s injuries.

“So,” Hurst says, “I think this is what we call a stalemate.”

I nod and stand. I take the carefully wrapped items and put them back into the holdall. I don’t really have any other choice. I take my phone out of my pocket.

Hurst stares at it. “You’re still going to call the police?”

“No.”

I bring up my contacts and raise the phone to my ear. She answers on the first ring.

“Hi, Joe.”

“You need to talk to him.” I hold out the phone to Hurst.

He looks at it like I am holding out a grenade. And I am. In a way.

“And who exactly am I talking to?” he asks me.

“The woman who will kill your wife and son if I do not walk out of here thirty grand richer.”

He takes the phone and I watch his face turn gray. Gloria can do that to people. Even before she sends him the pictures: shots of Marie and Jeremy finishing their dinner in town right now.

He hands the phone back to me.

“You’d better get that money,” Gloria says. And then: “They’re leaving. I need to follow them.”

I end the call and look at Hurst. “Thirty grand. Transfer it now and I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

He just stares at me. He looks dazed. Like someone has just told him all at once that the world is flat, aliens exist and Jesus is on his way back for a visit.

Gloria can do that to you too.

“What the hell have you done?” he croaks.

“I just need the money.”

His eyes find focus. They are full of tears. “I don’t have it.”

“I don’t believe you. That car sitting out front is worth sixty grand at least.”

“Contract lease.”

“This house.”

“Remortgaged.”

“The villa in Portugal.”

“I sold it, barely broke even.”

The sick feeling is back. Worse now. It feels like a rat is worrying away at my insides. Chewing through my stomach lining. Heading for my bowels.

“I don’t think Gloria will like to hear that.”

He runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “It’s the truth. I don’t have thirty grand. I don’t have twenty or ten or even five fucking grand.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s all gone. Marie’s treatment in America. Do you know how much a miracle cure costs?” A bitter chuckle. “Over seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds. That’s how much. It’s everything I’ve got. I’ve nothing left.”

“Liar.” I shake my head. “Just like always. Trying to save your skin. You’re a liar.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No. I called the clinic in America. Marie told me about it. And guess what—they’d never heard of you or Marie. She isn’t booked in there for a fucking ingrowing toenail, let alone a miracle cancer treatment.”

I stare at him in triumph. I expect to see the usual defiant snarl. A man challenged and angry at being caught in a lie. But instead I see something else. Something not expected. Confusion. Fear.

“That can’t be right. She paid them. I transferred the money.”

“More lies. Do you ever stop? I know what you’re planning.”

“I can show you the bank statements. The account number.”

“Right. Of course you can—” I stop suddenly. I stare at him. “She?”

“Marie. She found the clinic. She arranged it all. The hotels, flights.”

“You transferred all the money to Marie?”

“Into our joint account. She made the payment from there.”

“But you didn’t talk to the clinic. You didn’t check that they received the money?”

“I trust my wife. And why would she lie? She’s desperate. She doesn’t want to die. This treatment was her only chance.”

And desperate people want to believe in miracles.

I try to stay calm, to think. “Why have you been obstructing the country-park plans?”

“Because it’s more profitable to build houses on the land.”

“Even with what’s underneath?”

He sneers. “A rockfall sealed that place off years ago.”

“That’s what I hoped. But it seems your son has found another way in.”

“Jeremy? No. And what the hell does this have to do with anything?”

“You never told him what we found?”

“I told him never to go up there. To stay away.”

“And kids always do what their parents tell them?”

“Of course they don’t. In fact, Jeremy couldn’t care less what I say. But he listens to Marie. Always has. He’d do anything for her. He’s a mummy’s boy.”

I swallow and it’s like swallowing fragments of ground glass.

He’d do anything for her. A mummy’s boy.

And sometimes the apple does not fall so very far from the tree.

I’ve just been barking up the wrong tree.

My phone starts to ring. I grab it. “Yes?”

“How’s it going?”