“Not clever enough, though,” says Amy, looking at the resolutely locked computer screen. “He doesn’t use it.”
“Mine uses iris recognition,” says Rosie. “Because of my high-maintenance nails.”
Amy and Rosie look at Scroggie’s face. His eyelids are puffy, deep purple, and clamped closed. They look at each other.
“I’ve done worse,” says Rosie, and maneuvers the swollen eyelids of Scroggie’s dead left eye open, with a great deal of difficulty.
“You’re a trouper,” says Amy. “I’ll give you that.”
Amy swivels the office chair just a jot so that Scroggie is “looking” directly into the camera and, with a happy ping, the computer springs into life.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” says Rosie.
23
Hollands Wood Campsite is on the right, just after you’ve driven through Brockenhurst. If you see the Balmer Lawn Hotel, you’re almost there.
Steve is trying very hard to stay calm. Whatever Jeff needs to talk to him about, it’ll be fine. Amy is okay; he’s been assured of that.
The site is huge, each pitch shielded by trees, and dappled in golden sunlight. Steve sees families sitting outside tents and caravans, eating salads from fold-up tables. Kids playing football with new friends, couples on bikes, and ponies poking their heads through tent flaps. The speed limit around the site is 5 mph, and the Corsa has rarely been happier. Unlike Steve. What could Jeff Nolan possibly need from him?
Deeper into the campsite, the pitches get further and further apart, and, Steve guesses, become more expensive; a few are unoccupied, even in August. Birdsong is everywhere, the odd radio playing quietly. Steve sees a couple sitting together under a caravan awning, both white-haired and tanned. She’s doing the crossword. One of his hands is holding a book, the other touching her arm.
It’s the sort of scene that Steve had always imagined for him and Debbie, but that will never happen now. But Steve has learned you must never resent other people for their happiness. Everyone is taking the best shot they’ve got, and some shots are just luckier than yours. Anytime you feel your unhappiness turning into bitterness, you have to check yourself. You can live with unhappiness, but bitterness will kill you.
He drives past Pitch 38, so it can’t be far now. The forest is all around him. It’ll be something simple, Steve is sure. Won’t it? Why has Jeff insisted on privacy? Who is he hiding their meeting from? Steve has messaged Amy, but she hasn’t picked it up yet.
Steve reaches Pitch 46, and immediately knows that Jeff is in trouble.
Jeff’s car, a black BMW, is parked on the grass. The driver’s door and front passenger door are both wide-open.
Steve parks the Corsa and approaches the BMW. The driver’s side window has been smashed, and in the driver’s seat he sees a pool of blood, still wet. The blood continues, streaked across the passenger seat. Steve walks around to the other side of the car. The streak of blood continues across the grass and into some gorse bushes. Steve navigates his way through the gorse and comes out on another pitch. More blood, which stops in the middle of the pitch. And what starts in the middle of the pitch are tire tracks.
Steve takes out his Dictaphone. “I couldn’t swear by it, but I’d say they’re the tire tracks of a Volvo XC90.”
So what is this? A kidnapping or a murder? And is Jeff Nolan the victim or the perpetrator?
Steve would be happy to leave it. Delighted to leave it, in fact. Turn the whole thing over to the police and forget about it. But Jeff Nolan had come down to see him about something. Something that was troubling him, and something he needed help with.
And the only thing the two men have in common is Amy.
Is she in trouble? Surely she would have told him?
24
In the hazy heat of a South Carolina noon, another bullet cracks through the air.
“We need to steal a car,” says Amy to Rosie. “A fast one.”
“We’re currently being shot at,” says Rosie. “Perhaps focus on that?”
“They’re not shooting at us,” says Amy. “They’re shooting near us. And a professional wouldn’t be shooting at all, so stop being so melodramatic. They’ll get bored in seven minutes or so.”
“I’ll settle in, then,” says Rosie. “I could just hire us a car, by the way? Unless that’s not cool enough for you?”
“Can’t use your credit card,” says Amy. “From now on. Nothing traceable.”
She has just listened to Jeff’s message. Professional, and to the point, even though he seems to have no idea why she is being targeted. He made it clear that she and Rosie must go entirely under the radar. Also, they can’t return to London: Jeff has gone, and he’s told her to not trust anyone else. She and Rosie are going to have to keep moving. Amy is a little shaken, but Jeff will be okay; he’s a professional. She understands, though, that they’re now on their own.
“No credit cards?” Rosie says. “Kill me now, Amy.”
Another burst of gunfire. A little further away? There is a woodland just behind Scroggie’s house, a perfect hiding place. Which is why Amy and Rosie are hidden, instead, in a neighbor’s garden, underneath a pool cover. Only their heads are above water. On the side of the pool are the documents they printed out in Scroggie’s house, and Rosie’s handbag. Rosie’s Louis Vuitton case is currently under a trampoline.
The gunman had run straight into the woodland. As Amy had known he would. Gunmen, by and large, are idiots.
Sheriff Scroggie’s home and computer had been a treasure trove. His personal email accounts had been full of boasts to pals about coming into some money (“More than usual, ya pal Scroggie just hit the big time”), and being asked to do an important job for some important guys (“Asked for me personal like. Heard I got jobs done, I guess”).
So Scroggie wasn’t going to lead them to the killer of Andrew Fairbanks. Scroggie was the killer.
Three other things stood out.
Firstly, his corpse: that was hard to ignore. Murdered, certainly. By Loubet? Looking at the handiwork, Amy was certain it had been done by someone incredibly committed to murdering people, so it could well be.
Secondly, a grocery bag containing a hundred thousand dollars that Rosie found in an upstairs cupboard. Scroggie must have stolen it from the bag that was found on the boat. It would explain why the bag had contained $900K. Either way, it was an idiotic move on Scroggie’s part. The hundred grand is currently under a lawn chair in the backyard where they’re hiding. It will come in handy now Amy has to stay off-grid.
And then, thirdly, and most pressingly at the current moment, somebody opened fire on them the instant they climbed out of Scroggie’s house.
“Who do you suppose is shooting at us?” asks Rosie. “Assassins?”
