The Wicked Girls

Chapter Thirty-four

Despite the fact that they lead down to the seafront, the botanical gardens are almost always empty, mostly because big signs at the gates forbid alcohol, barbecues and ball games. The only people other than Martin himself who ever come here are pensioners with foil-wrapped sandwiches and the odd mother with toddlers, though the formal flowerbeds and lack of swings don’t make it particularly attractive to them. He likes to come here to think – and, after what he’s read in the Tribune, he has a lot of thinking to do today.

He takes his usual seat, on a bench on a hummock of earth that raises him high enough to see over the hedges that surround the garden and watch the comings and goings without being forced to participate.

And the first thing he sees is Kirsty Lindsay, hurrying from the direction of town, her head bowed. He almost jumps out of his skin. The bloody cheek of it. She’s the last person he expected to see. She shouldn’t come here ever again. Not after what she’s done to his town; what she’s done to him. Then he thinks: If I can see her, she can see me, and ducks down on his seat to take himself out of her line of vision. An old couple, toddling along below him, look up at the sudden movement and cross to the other side of the path, as though the extra five feet will act as a barrier against lunacy.

He gives them a big wide smile to assure them that they’re safe. It seems instead to make them more afraid. The woman clutches the man’s wool-wrapped arm and they march purposefully towards the nearest exit.

He waits until they’ve passed, then pops his head up to see where she’s got to. Registers with amazement that she’s covered a couple of hundred yards in the twenty seconds he’s been down, and is very nearly at the fence. She’s not looking around her. Seems to be buried in thought. She crosses Park Road, reaches the fence and swings left towards the entrance. My God, she’s coming in here, he thinks. Stoops down once more and scuttles for the cover of the hydrangea bushes behind him.

Through his screen of heavy foliage, he watches as she turns in through the gate and starts to walk along the path. She slows her pace a little now she’s off the road, but still seems blind to her surroundings. She seems to be having trouble breathing. Certainly, her chest is heaving like a character in a Victorian melodrama. Intrigued, he creeps round as she circles his mound, and watches her progress. She does a full circuit of the park – it doesn’t take long, as it’s barely bigger than one of those London residential squares – then flings herself down on a bench as though she’s simply run out of puff.

She does some strange things. Holds her hands out in front of her and stares at them. They seem to be shaking. Then she puts them up to either side of her forehead and rocks back and forth like a child’s toy. Something’s upset her, he thinks. Good. See how she likes it. Gingerly, he comes down the mound on the far side and works his way along behind the gardener’s hut to where a big clump of rhododendrons looms darkly, covering him until he’s within hearing distance.

She’s already on the phone. Her voice sounds high and weak; different from when he last heard it. As though she’s had a shock. As though she’s filled with panic and doing her ineffective best to control it.

‘Hi, Minty,’ she says. ‘It’s Kirsty Lindsay. Is there any chance Jack’s out of conference yet? Damn. OK. Can you get him to call me the minute he is? Yes, my mobile. I’m down in Whitmouth. Yup, OK. Thanks.’

She puts the phone on the seat and resumes her rocking. Wraps her arms round her body as though she’s cold, though the sun is bright enough to show up the peeling paint on the façades in vivid detail. She gets up and moves to another bench – Martin has to shadow her movements, as quietly as he can, to keep himself behind his cover – in the shade of a stately beech tree. Sits back and closes her eyes, covers them with her palm as though she has a headache.

The sound of her ringtone shatters the quiet. She snatches it up. ‘Hello? Oh, hi, Jack. Thanks for calling back. Yes, not yet, but I think it’ll definitely happen today. He’s still only charged with the stuff from Saturday right now, but I’d say it was ninety-nine per cent they’re going to do him for the murders. Name? Yes. Victor Cantrell. Yup. Same guy as last week. Works the dodgems at the theme park. No, not officially, yet. They’re holding off till they do the other charges. But half the town seems to know it’s him, and the wife just turned up to visit. So yes, I’m pretty sure. I’ll write it so you can drop the name in later if they announce it. Yeah. Look, the thing is, I’ve got to go home. Sorry. I don’t think I’ll be late filing, but I… can’t stay here…’

He hears her pause. She’s rethinking what she’s just said, he thinks. Didn’t mean it to come out like that. ‘I mean, I’ve got to get home. Childcare, I’m afraid. Yeah, sorry. Jim’s working in town this week and Soph’s gone down with something. Looks like flu. She’s really ill. Yuh, her school just called. No. Like I said, he’s in town. It’s got to be me. I’m sorry.’

She’s lying through her teeth. He can tell because she wrings her hands, the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear, as she speaks. ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s not even noon yet. It won’t take me more than an hour to file once I’m back. But I don’t have any alternative. I’m sorry. And Dave’s on the case tomorrow anyway.’

She goes quiet, and listens. When she speaks, it’s in a small voice. ‘I know. Yes, I know, Jack. I’ve got a couple of contacts down at the scene and I know they’ll call me if anything happens. And it’ll turn up on AP in seconds anyway. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I can do. I can’t just leave her in the sick bay. And Jack? I don’t think I’m going to be able to get out for the rest of the week. If you’ve got any pieces I can do on the phone, maybe…? No, OK. I understand. I’ll call Features. Hopefully they’ll have something. Yes, I know. But you’ve got kids yourself, haven’t you?’

Another silence as Jack speaks. Martin sees her blush, sees a look of exquisite pain cross her face. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I understand. No later than four. And I’ll give you a call next week when-’

She pulls the phone away from her head and looks at it. Jack has clearly hung up. She opens her bag to put it away, then sits up, alert, and looks towards town.

Martin looks too. He’s been so engrossed in Kirsty’s conversation that he’s not noticed an approaching hubbub. But it’s unmistakable now. Voices, calling, and many scuffling feet. He turns within his cover and looks towards the top gate. Hears a name separate itself from the cacophony, then hears it over and over. ‘Amber! Amber! This way, Amber!’

She’s half walking, half running as she enters the park, preceded by a dozen men in waxed jackets who run backwards, bump into each other and shout her name. Every now and then one breaks loose and scurries a few yards forwards, stops and holds his camera high in the air above his head, pointing down at the approaching mob. Behind, another knot of followers, all calling her name. ‘Amber! Amber! Amber!’

Amber Gordon is white and shaking, and holds her handbag up in front of her face like a shield. Stumbles forward like someone who has suddenly lost her sight. She doesn’t speak. Just staggers on, moving the bag from side to side in a futile attempt to block the cameras. She too has a phone clamped to her ear, though Martin can’t make out who she might be talking to.

They come nearer. He can make out more of the words now. ‘How are you feeling, Amber?’ ‘Do you have anything to say to the families?’ ‘How was Victor when you saw him? What did he say to you?’ ‘What does this mean to you, Amber? Did you have any idea?’ ‘Has it come as a shock? What are you going to do now?’

So it is. It’s Vic Cantrell. He’s heard the name half a dozen times, in the shops, on the Corniche, in the café where he bought his breakfast, as well as from Lindsay’s lips just now. And if ever there was proof, the sight of Amber Gordon and her sea of followers is it. He thrills at the sight. How are the mighty fallen, he thinks. That’s all you have to do, isn’t it? Wait for long enough and they all come tumbling down, one by one by one.

He glances over at Kirsty Lindsay and sees that she’s left the bench. But she’s not done what he would have expected. She should be running up to join her colleagues, but instead she’s doing something very strange. She’s clambering into the earthy flowerbed, over the roots of the beech tree, crushing the leaves of left-to-rest bluebells as she goes. She reaches the trunk of the tree and puts her hands on it. Works her way round it and hides herself behind, in the shadow of the hedge. Martin frowns. What the hell is she up to?

The front-running photographers are almost parallel with him now, their faces lit up with the thrill of the chase. It’s like watching a fox at bay. Amber’s hair is wild and her lips are pulled back in a snarl – rage? Fear? – that shows her teeth all the way to the molars. For a second he almost feels sorry for her, but then he remembers the humiliation, the cold way she saw him off when he called Jackie, the shock when he uncovered her link with Kirsty Lindsay, and the pity vanishes. She’s getting what she deserves.

She stops stock-still and tries to appeal to their better natures. ‘Please!’ she cries. ‘Please! Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I don’t have anything to say!’

Silence hangs in the air for one, two, three seconds, then the baying begins anew. ‘Where are you off to, Amber?’ ‘How did you find out?’ ‘Tell us how you’re feeling!’ ‘Are you standing by him?’

Amber takes a deep breath and lets out a scream. ‘Leave me alone!’

She breaks into a faltering run. Looks like there is little strength left in her legs. The chase continues, past Martin’s hiding place, past Kirsty Lindsay concealed in the shadows, past benches and bins and flowerbeds. She comes to the side gate and shoves her way through, staggers up Park Road towards the seafront. I’ll bet she’s going to Funnland, thinks Martin. That’s where I’d go. At least they’ve got security of sorts there.

Kirsty steps back out on to the path and stands for a moment staring after her bloodhound colleagues, her mouth taut, her face unreadable. Then she wheels on her heel and starts to walk, quickly, in the direction of the town gate. She’s up to something, thinks Martin. Anybody would think she’s trying to keep away from Amber. That she’s scared of something.

He waits till he’s sure she’s not going to look back, then comes out from behind the rhododendrons to follow her.