Dark Winter

50

I sat where I was, nursing my coffee as the boys big-timed it and the girls laughed and kidded about. My mind was spinning. How had he known where Kelly was? Grey and Navy must have followed us back to the safe flat, then tracked me, Jimmy and Carmen back to the bungalow.

It was pointless rushing around or going ballistic. The first thing to do in these situations is accept that you’re in the shit. Stop, take a deep breath, get yourself into some kind of order, then work out what to do. Flapping wouldn’t help me to sort out this nightmare, so it wouldn’t help her either. I took a mouthful of brew, deliberately slowing myself down.

Did this still have to be done without any help from the Yes Man, now that it seemed everything was OK in the state of Spookdom? My legs had stopped bobbing about. I had no energy to waste now: my head needed to suck up everything it could get.

Fuck worrying about whether the Yes Man could help. Of course he could, but I wasn’t going to ask him and risk a fuck-up as he sacrificed Kelly to get DW and the source.

I needed to stay focused on what to do next, but I couldn’t. I looked at the Polaroid again. Not knowing what was happening to her, that was the worst feeling of all. I thought about her being scared, hungry, thirsty, maybe tied up after the picture was taken and dumped somewhere dark and derelict. That strange thudding pain came back in the centre of my chest. As the teenagers discussed where to go clubbing tonight, I stroked her frightened face with the tip of my thumb.

I went to take another gulp of the brew but realized the cup was empty. I put away the picture and pulled over the source’s from across the table. I had no option: delivering the bottles was my only chance of making contact with Kelly. The best way to help her was to get myself over there and do what was required of me – then work out what the fuck to do after that.

I put the cup back down on the table. All I knew for sure was that I had an address to go to in Berlin, stuff to pick up, and a cell number to call once I got back. All right, I could do that. I could bring DW into the country. The real problems would arise when I tried to lift Kelly and make sure that shit didn’t get chucked about the Underground. If I fucked up, we’d both be dead.

I slumped against the seat, totally shattered. When I got back from Berlin, I’d need someone to back me. I’d be thinking on my feet, and four were better than two. My only hope was Suzy. There was a strong chance she’d refuse, possibly even go straight to the Yes Man. At least that bit was easy. At the first sign of hesitation, she’d be spending some time locked in the boot of the Vectra.

If I found her, that was.

More people came into the café and the steam machine went into overdrive. I felt a little better now there was some sort of plan.

One thing went right for me. The Vectra hadn’t been clamped. Sitting behind the wheel, I tried to remember everything she’d said about where she lived, and Bluewater was the obvious start point. I jumped out again and went to a phone box. Directory Enquiries gave me the number, and I was soon talking to Bluewater’s information desk.

‘I want to do some serious shopping, but I don’t know where you are.’

The girl recovered swiftly from her astonishment, and slipped into auto-waffle. ‘Well, sir, it’s very simple and convenient to travel to and from Bluewater. We are located one mile east of the M25 and one mile west of the A2-M2 interchange. Signposting is clear in all directions.’

‘So you’re in Kent?’

‘Yes, sir. We have a very wide range of shops for your convenience and enjoyment. Parking is—’

Cutting her off in her prime, I got back in the car and headed east towards Docklands and the Dartford crossing, probably driving over the Thames estuary at about the same time that the remains of the ASU would be flowing under it. I checked traser, and it was just after two. What if I didn’t find her? It was mental slapping time: ‘Just shut the fuck up and get on with it.’

I’d have to fix a cut-off time for the first flight tomorrow morning. After that I’d be on my own.

As the gleaming towers of Canary Wharf went past on my right I stopped at another phone box and called Directory Enquiries again. ‘Air Berlin, please.’

A minute later a crisp, fast-speaking female voice fired a barrage of German at me. I cut in. ‘What UK airports do you fly to Berlin from, and what’s the earliest flight tomorrow and the latest back?’

The German instantly transformed into far better English than I’d ever be able to speak. ‘The first flight leaves London Stansted at 0730 and arrives at Berlin Tegel at 1005. The latest return I have is 1905 from Berlin Tegel, arriving at London Stansted at 1940. Would you like to make a reservation?’

‘Yes, please. One seat.’

I shoved a hand down my sweatshirt to get out my Nick Stone docs, and my new German girlfriend booked me a flight.

Back on the road, I was soon being directed into the right-hand lane for the M25 and the Queen Elizabeth Bridge. Pretty soon I couldn’t move for signs to Bluewater, just as I’d been promised. I just wished there had been one saying, ‘Bovis house with half-built conservatory and kitchen window overlooking Bluewater’.

The complex was one big car park, as far as I could tell, radiating out from a huge central mall, surrounded by high ground of sorts. The developers had moved in big-time. This was Commuter Central: if you didn’t want to drive to London on the M25 for a day’s work, Gravesend station was just a few miles away.

I cruised through Bean, Greenhithe and Swanscombe, scanning passers-by just in case my six numbers all came up and Suzy walked past with a bag of bananas and organic muesli bars.

Every building company on earth was throwing stuff up around here, and for all I knew she might have been using Bovis generically. I drove around a few of the huge estates. Each had a single entrance, which branched into a cul-de-sac with a name like Chancel View or Orchard Way, but without a church or apple tree in sight. Some of the houses were so new that the front lawns were still just piles of rubble.

I spotted two carpet-fitters coming out of a semi and pulled in. ‘You know where the Bovis estate is, mate?’

The older of the two lit a cigarette and conferred with a younger lad in an England shirt with his hair pushed forwards in a gelled fringe. It didn’t look promising. ‘Not sure.’ He took a drag. ‘All these fucking places look the same to me, know what I mean?’

I waved my thanks and did a three-point turn to get me out of the estate. A service station appeared and I took the chance to fill up with petrol and a meal deal, cheese and pickle sandwich, crisps and a bottle of Coke.

The traffic built up as I made my way back towards Bluewater; hundreds of cars seemed to be streaming out of the car parks. I finally found a space.

The inside of the mall looked and sounded much like any other – piped music and acres of glass, rubber plants and escalators. Getting online was easy: there were BT Internet phones dotted about on each floor. I shoved my 50p into the machine and logged on to Google. The Bovis homes site it took me to was stuffed full of pictures and sales pitch; there were any number of developments in Kent, but none around here. The nearest was on the border with Surrey. I played about, trying to see if someone like the Department of the Environment had a register of construction under way around the county, but came up with nothing.

I picked up a slice of spicy hot pizza and some more Coke, then made my way back to the car. There was nothing I could do at the moment, except try to resist the temptation to get out the Polaroid.

I wiped my greasy hands on my jeans, walked round the car park and drank the Coke, checking out the line of sight of buildings in the distance. It was just after four – leaving me about four more hours of daylight to check out the clusters of buildings in my line of sight, plus all night if I needed it.

I got back into the car and drove. After an hour, all these new builds blurred into one as I cruised area after area of new red semis, with the odd bit of upscale mock-Tudor and yellow-brick executive thrown in, all with nice double garages and BMWs and Freelanders filling the driveways. I landed up in a cul-de-sac with a large turning circle called Warwick Drive. This place was a few years older than the rest; for a start, grass had taken root. Everything looked manicured – I was expecting the Stepford Wives to appear any minute for a spot of synchronized shopping.

I carried on along Warwick. Bluewater was no more than three or four Ks away, across the fields. There was a possible in front of me, down in the turning circle. Mick Davies and Son Conservatories had a Ford Transit flatbed parked outside, and there was a well-worn path across the grass that disappeared down a narrow alleyway between the house and its neighbour.

There was no car in the drive so I parked up and walked round to the back, homing in on a radio knocking out a boy-band tune. The one I guessed was Mick was at the top of a ladder, screwing fixings into the dark-wood frame of a conservatory, and the son was at the bottom, holding it steady. The back garden looked small for the size of the house, and a line of newly planted trees just inside the fenceline wasn’t doing a particularly good job yet of blocking out the mall in the distance. The rest of the garden was in shit state: next to a pile of sand there was a concrete mixer with a hosepipe thrown into it leading from a tap on the wall. Water overflowed from the bucket.

Dad upstairs was getting busy with his mastic gun in the gap between the wood frame and the brickwork, so I nodded at the son. I had to speak up over the boy band. ‘I live just down the road here – thought I’d come and have a look. I’m thinking about having one myself. Is she in?’ I pointed to the house. ‘You know, the blonde girl? Short hair?’

I had a peep through the left-hand window, into the dining room. A dark brown table and chairs were stuck in the middle of the room. There was an arch through to the living room.

‘Nah, I think she’s got brown hair, mate.’ He let go of the ladder with his right arm and traced a line just above his shoulders. ‘About there.’

‘You’re right, I’m thinking about next door. It’s Suzy who lives here, isn’t it?’

To the right of the dining-room window there was a half-glazed door and to the right of that the kitchen, with brown wall units and a chrome mixer tap sticking up above the window-sill.

‘Think so.’

‘But she’s not in?’

‘Nah.’

‘Do you know when she’s back?’

The conservatory footings and six courses of brickwork were already in place, encompassing the back door and kitchen. The frame was nearly up.

He shrugged.

‘What about her husband, is he about?’

‘Never see anyone, mate.’

‘OK, cheers.’

I checked traser as I walked along the narrow gap between the two houses. It was five eighteen, time those boys were packing up. I’d keep on looking for other possibles, but I had a feeling I’d already scored.

As I drove out of the estate my eyes were stinging big-time with tiredness, and my vision was getting blurred. But, fuck it, I could sleep next week. One thing puzzled me: the house had looked too big for just one person, but everything she’d ever said, and done, indicated she lived on her own. There was no one she’d wanted to phone, and she hadn’t been worried about anyone or anything. Maybe she’d bought this place as an investment.

But what if she hadn’t? What if the reason she had a big house was because she had a husband and kids? With a house full of people, how was I going to stop her if she chose to do a runner to the Yes Man? Fuck it, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

I started to check out other possibles. I’d come back here at dark o’clock.