The Hiding Place(86)

I glance at Hurst. “Fine. How long till they get back?”

“That’s why I called. They’re not coming back.”

“What?”

“They drove back from town. Marie dropped the boy off on the high street to meet some mates. Now she’s heading along the road toward your cottage.”

“My cottage?”

“No, wait, hang on—she’s stopped. She’s getting out of the car. Okay, this is weird. She’s got a flashlight and a backpack.”

Shit.

“The pit,” I say. “She’s going to the pit.”





36





I do not believe in fate.

But sometimes there is an ineluctable quality to life, a course it is difficult to alter.

It all started here, at the pit. And this, it seems, is where it will end.

Not quite how I imagined. Not quite how I planned. But then, that’s the problem with plans. They never work out like you think. Mine, it seems, never work out at all.


—



We pull up in Hurst’s Range Rover. He hasn’t said a word throughout the short drive. But I can see the dazed look in his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he tries to digest what he’s learned. Tries to comprehend how Marie could have betrayed him. Lied to him.

I expected anger. But he just looks broken. Diminished. I was wrong about him. I thought Marie was just another trophy, like the house and the car. But Hurst loves her. Always has. And, despite everything, he still wants to save her.

I spot a yellow Mini parked carelessly by the side of the road. I can’t see Gloria or her car. I’m not sure if this is a concern or a relief.

We both climb out.

“Where is she?” Hurst asks.

“I don’t know.” I scan the fence with my flashlight, find the gap I squeezed through before. “Come on.”

I slip through; Hurst follows. I hear him curse. It isn’t just his wallet that is better padded these days.

“About time.”

I jump. Gloria emerges from the shadows by the fence. Unusually for Gloria, she is wearing a dark coat over her normal pastel hues. Dressed for business.

I look around. “Where’s Marie?”

“In the trunk of my car.”

“You bitch,” Hurst says.

Gloria turns to him. “Stephen Hurst, I presume? Actually, I’m joking. She set off over that hill about twenty minutes ago.”

I quickly intervene. “Gloria, Marie has your money. More than thirty grand. Over seven hundred and fifty. We just need to bring her down.”

She looks at Hurst. “What about him?”

“What about him?”

“You said Marie, his wife, has the money?”

“Yes.”

“So what use is he?”

“Gloria—”

“That’s what I thought.”

She moves so fast I barely see the gun. I just hear a pop and suddenly Hurst is writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching his leg. Dark red blood is gushing—actually gushing—from the wound. I drop to my knees beside him. I grasp his arms.

“Jesus!”

I look around. The road beyond the fence is deserted. No one around. Even the headlights of a passing car wouldn’t illuminate us, here in the shadows.

“Femoral artery,” Gloria says, lowering the gun, which has a large silencer attached to the end. “Even if I apply pressure, he will bleed out in approximately fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Hurst’s eyes find mine. Gloria grabs my arm and hauls me up. “You’re wasting time. Go and get my fucking money.”

“But what about—”

She presses a finger to my lips. “Tick, tock.”

I scramble up the hill, flashlight bobbing wildly up and down in front of me. It isn’t a lot of use. I’m guided by gut instinct and fear. I didn’t bring my cane, so I stumble, limp and scrabble up and down the rocky, slippery slopes. My bad leg provides a near-constant accompaniment of pain. My ribs join in on percussion. But another part of me feels disembodied from the whole experience, like I am above myself and watching as a tall, thin man with a smoker’s wheeze and wild black hair staggers around the countryside like a drunken tramp.

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all; laugh until I scream. The whole thing feels like some terrible, macabre dream. And yet, I know, deep down, that this is unremittingly real. A waking nightmare that started twenty-five years ago.

And finishes tonight.

At the bottom of the hill I see her, sitting cross-legged, at the entrance. A camping light is beside her, a backpack at her feet. Her head is swathed in a scarf and a hood is pulled up against the chill. She hunches over and for a moment I think she is praying. Then, as she straightens, I see that she is lighting a cigarette.

I flick off the flashlight and watch her. But I’m not really seeing her. I’m seeing a fifteen-year-old girl. A girl who was beautiful, clever…and cold. I wonder how I never saw it before, but then a pretty face can blind you to a lot of faults, especially when you are a fifteen-year-old mass of hormones yourself. You don’t care what lies beneath. The darkness. The rotten bones.

I take a step forward. “Marie?”

She doesn’t turn. “I knew it would be you. Always you. Since we were little kids, a thorn in my side.”