Mr. Flood's Last Resort(82)

But why lie to us? To Renata and me?

He checks his mirrors often, as if someone’s tailgating him. I glance behind me and so does St. Valentine.

“We’re being followed,” says the saint.

A new black BMW is keeping a polite distance, pottering along the inside lane in a way new black BMWs never do.

And I’m about to exclaim when St. Valentine leans forwards, his voice cold. “Don’t say a bloody word, Twinkle.”

We drive on in silence, with Sam checking his mirror.

I steal another glance. St. Valentine is halfway out of the rear window trying to get a glimpse at the driver.

“Is everything all right?” asks Sam.

“Just looking for my handbag.”

“It’s there, by your feet.”

“So it is.”

Sam frowns at me.

“Tell him to pull in,” urges St. Valentine. “See if we can’t get a handle on the situation.”

“Can we stop at the services, Sam? I need the bathroom.”

Sam checks his mirror and pulls into the inside lane, indicating early, slowing down, checking his mirror again.

“Your fella not only knows we’re being followed, he’s encouraging it,” says St. Valentine. “And you’ll never guess who’s in that beamer.”

I would.

*

I SIT down on the toilet and look at my phone. There are five missed calls from Renata.

She answers at once. “Where are you?”

“On a toilet in a motorway service station being followed by Gabriel Flood.”

There’s a pause. “He’s following you? Are you sure?”

Someone in the next cubicle flushes. I wait. “Yes, I’m sure. What did you call me for?”

Another pause, then her voice flat and stern. “Sam isn’t Sam.”

“No, I know. He’s Maggie Dunne’s brother.”

She sounds surprised. “What gives you that idea?”

“Look at the photograph of Maggie. It’s the same smile. He came undercover as an agency worker to investigate the Floods. But Cathal found out, and that’s why he threatened him.”

“It would fit.”

The words vacant cunt are etched on the toilet door in foot-high letters; I try not to take it personally.

“Only there’s a real Sam Hebden,” says Renata. “I’ve just spoken to him.”

“How?”

“I got his number from one of the girls in the agency. Biba is off with a mild dose of gout.”

It’s as simple as that.

“He confirmed that he worked with Mr. Flood until he was run off the property. Then he was transferred to a new gig in Hull.” Renata’s tone softens. “The real Sam Hebden is of medium height, bald, with a goatee beard, and a port-wine stain on his left buttock.”

I frown. “So what does that mean?”

“No idea, but there’s something else: Mary Flood was a major figure at Cedar House.”

“Tell me.”

“I sent for a brochure and it arrived today, surprisingly glossy. Nowadays Holly Lodge offers tailored care for older people in a faith-led environment. There’s a whole page on the history of the place; it says Mary Flood built a wing.”

“I don’t see—”

“I’m working on a way to get you in. How are your acting skills?”

“You are kidding.”

There’s a smile in Renata’s voice. “Answer your bloody phone, Maud.”

*

SAM IS waiting outside with takeaway coffees. “Are you ready?”

St. Valentine is standing next to him, only now he has friends: St. Dymphna and St. George, St. Rita and St. Monica stand alongside. St. Dymphna chews her plait and St. George holds a sack in his gauntleted hand. St. Rita and St. Monica stand a little apart, ignoring each other like socially awkward party guests. I’m almost glad to see them.

Sam hands me my coffee.

The saints perk up and start to watch him closely.

“He’s nervous,” announces St. Dymphna to her plait.

“Agitated, more like,” says St. Valentine. “Look at his eyes; there’s a fair twitch to the left one.”

I gesture at a concrete planter. “We’ll sit here a moment, Sam, just while we drink.”

“I’d rather press on.”

I smile. “What’s the rush? Our meeting with Frank Gaunt isn’t until three. He’s the police—”

Sam looks at me, unsmiling. “I know who he is.”

He sits down next to me and puts his coffee on the ground. He searches in his pocket for his cigarettes, lights one, and gazes out across the car park.

“This is crazy, Maud. Let’s just go back to London. It’s all gone far enough.”

“What’s gone far enough?”

He takes a deep drag and exhales. “This fictional crime case.”

The saints glance at each other, then at me. St. George puts his sack down and grasps the hilt of his sword.

I take a cautious sip of my coffee, moving slowly, counting to ten. “Mary Flood had a dubious accident; that’s not fictional. Maggie Dunne disappeared; that’s not fictional either. Mary kept the cuttings; she did that for a reason.”