The fragile cage, p.14
The Fragile Cage, page 14
The weapon that had killed him.
And Jörgensen.
A stiletto.
Only one person could provide an answer. The more Kyle thought about it, the more certain he was. Ken Munday would know who was responsible; it had to be either Munday himself or his faceless replacement.
But to get an answer he had to find Munday.
And that wasn’t going to be easy.
Kyle stirred his tea and took another sip. He’d given up the sleep thing at six. Rain beat against the kitchen window in sporadic gusts; April was living up to its reputation. His head felt heavy from sleeplessness but the headache had receded to a background throb. A two or a three.
As the caffeine did its work he went through a list of options. It wasn’t a long list; in fact, there was only one item he considered worth pursuing.
Rebecca and he had been together long enough to accumulate the usual flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Letters, wedding invitations, Christmas cards, keepsakes, shared bills, certificates, books, magazines … Kyle had cleared the flat the day after Bec had left, dumped as much of their shared detritus as would fit into two suitcases and hoisted them above the wardrobe. Every knick knack, every reminder of their life together was stored in the suitcases. Munday might be difficult to find, but maybe, just maybe, Bec would be a little easier. There might be something, an indication, a tiny clue as to where she – they – might have gone. In every relationship, if the man had any sense he would always be wise to heed a woman’s instinct regarding a potential home.
Munday had sense.
Rebecca had the instinct.
Kyle sipped his tea. The radio was tuned to Radio One, the volume low. Tom Jones was singing at full throttle:
I felt the knife in my hand…
Kyle turned the set off with an irritated flick. He retraced his thoughts. A woman’s instinct…
Bec had chosen this flat. He hadn’t been fussed either way, but she’d found it, decorated it to her liking, furnished it to her taste. There were traces of her everywhere, despite Kyle’s attempts to cover them up. The wallpaper, the carpet, the kitchen utensils – all Bec. If he’d been in better health, perhaps he’d have moved out by now, left it all behind. But he hadn’t, and the reminders of her presence were still very much in evidence. He tried to remember conversations they’d had about life, living, moving to new places.
Holidays, dreams, aspirations…
He finished his tea and went into the bedroom. The first suitcase was lighter than he’d remembered; papers, mainly. He placed it on the bed and undid the locks.
Each item was a memory. A birthday card, a love note. A restaurant receipt. A catalogue of good times. After ten minutes he was finding it hard, but he made himself carry on sifting, checking, remembering. His eyes became blurry, and still he carried on.
He was almost at the bottom of the suitcase, just a few scraps left when his hand fell on a photograph. It was a postcard-sized image of a semi-derelict cottage. Kyle studied it. Bec had talked about it; he dredged through his memory, finally recalling that the cottage had belonged to a family member, one of Bec’s aunts on her mother’s side. Welsh? That rang a bell.
He peered at the photograph. The name of the cottage was inscribed in faded print at the bottom. He fetched a magnifying glass, and the letters swam into focus.
Goitre Bach, Tywi.
Now he remembered. Bec’s aunt had died, leaving the cottage unoccupied. Her mother had told Bec that her father had always expressed a desire to renovate the place, perhaps relocate there in retirement, or maybe rent it to holidaymakers during the summer. It had never happened.
Kyle retrieved his bundle of Ordnance Survey maps from a drawer, spread the appropriate map on the bed. There was Tywi, an area of conifer forest near Tregaron. As isolated as you could wish for. One of the more remote parts of Mid-Wales.
Perfect, in fact.
The phone rang. Kyle went impatiently to answer it.
‘Morning. I just wondered how you were.’
‘I know where they are,’ Kyle said.
Bates took a moment to respond. Kyle listened to her breathing.
‘I’m coming with you.’
Kyle was silent.
‘You’re not safe on your own.’
That was probably true. ‘What are you going to tell Forsyth?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘He won’t be happy.’
‘My decision.’
Kyle thought about it, but only for a second. ‘Can you be ready by midday?’
‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
This was a new one on Kyle. He laughed. ‘I’ll see you then.’
He replaced the receiver, still smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘What makes you so certain?’ Bates’ forehead creased as she changed gear, eased her Austin A40, an ancient vehicle she’d christened The Flying Flea, a further few yards towards the traffic lights.
‘I’m not. But it’s a strong possibility.’ He looked up from the map. ‘Besides, it’s all I have right now.’
‘And the plan?’ She threw him a glance. ‘I probably need to know it.’
Kyle folded the map, took an orange from the brown bag at his feet, started peeling it. ‘That might be a problem. All in good time.’
‘You don’t have one.’
‘I’ve a rough idea.’
‘How rough?’
Kyle offered Bates an orange segment. She’d brought the fruit with her. She’d remembered.
‘No, ta. I don’t want to deprive you.’
‘I have an entire bag. Even I can’t manage them all.’
She grinned. ‘If you’re sure.’
He reached over and popped a segment into her mouth. ‘Maybe it’ll shut you up for a bit while I think.’
‘Hey! Watch it. I’m your transport, remember?’
‘I’m grateful. Really I am.’
She nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘It’ll be late when we get there – if we get there.’ She drummed on the steering wheel in frustration. The traffic was bad and getting worse.
‘What did you tell Forsyth?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I do.’
‘I pulled a female issue.’
‘Did you, indeed?’
‘He didn’t know what to say. First time I’ve ever seen him flustered.’
‘He’s not likely to be following us, then.’
‘Nope.’
Kyle nodded. ‘Brave. Not sure I could have done that in your shoes.’
Bates snorted. ‘About time someone turned the tables. You know what it’s like for a woman in the Met.’
‘I do, yes. Bec was toying with the idea of joining. I put her off.’
‘You don’t talk about her much.’
‘What’s to say? She left me. That’s it.’
They drove in silence for a while. Traffic began to thin the further west they travelled. The rain stopped and the sun made a brief appearance, teasingly low between the clouds, before disappearing again in a wash of grey.
‘Would you have her back?’ Bates asked quietly.
Kyle looked up. ‘You’ve been mulling that over for the last ten minutes?’
‘I’m just interested, that’s all.’
‘I don’t know. It won’t happen, anyway.’
‘But if it did, would you?’
‘Bates? Please?’
‘Don’t you think we should be on first-name terms by now?’
Kyle inclined his head. ‘If you prefer – I’m kind of used to Bates.’
‘Well, don’t mind me. If you want formal, that’s fine too.’
‘I’ve hurt your feelings. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. I’m all right. You haven’t.’
The silence that followed was tense, like the final minutes before a thunderstorm. There was electricity in the air but how much of it was positive and how much negative Kyle wasn’t able to judge.
They crossed the Welsh border at eight, just as the watery sun was calling it a day. It made a valedictory appearance for a few minutes, then sank over the horizon.
‘We need somewhere to stay,’ Bates said, breaking the long silence. ‘Or are we sleeping in the Flea?’
‘Let’s see what happens.’
‘As a plan, Kyle, that leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘I’m aware.’
But Bates wasn’t satisfied. ‘So, we arrive at this cottage. Let’s say Munday’s in. You knock on the door and force him to tell you the truth about what happened in the raid when your friend was killed. He either tells you or he doesn’t. Let’s say he does. Let’s say he’s guilty. What then? You beat him up – in front of Rebecca? Kill him?’
Kyle rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘I don’t know, OK? Of course I won’t kill him.’
‘No? The doctors said you had psychopathic tendencies, yes? Unless I got that bit wrong.’
‘Pull over.’
‘What?’
‘Pull over.’
‘Why?’
‘I can do this myself. I shouldn’t have involved you. Pull over.’
‘No.’
‘Bates!’
Bates put her foot down and Kyle banged his head on the side window. When she realised what had happened she jammed on the brakes and brought the car to a standstill.
‘I’m sorry. Your head.’
‘I’m all right.’ Kyle opened the door. ‘Go home. Forget this.’
He stepped onto the verge, slammed the door, walked on. He heard Bates revving the engine behind him. He rubbed his forehead. No harm done.
The Flying Flea drew up alongside him. She leaned over, unwound the passenger window.
‘Kyle. Get in. This is stupid. You’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘I’ll hitch. Go home.’
‘Someone has to watch your back.’
A lorry appeared, honked its horn, sailed past inches from the A40’s wing mirror.
‘Drive on. You’ll get shunted.’ Kyle kept walking.
‘Psychopathic and stubborn,’ she yelled.
‘All fine qualities for the job,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’
A more cautious queue of traffic was beginning to build up behind Bates. Horns began to blare as she continued a slow kerb crawl.
Kyle glared. ‘Move on!’
‘I bet you can’t speak a word of Welsh,’ she said. ‘I can. My grandparents were from Aberystwyth.’
‘Good for you.’
The horns were now a discordant symphony; no one could overtake due to a bend in the road ahead. Kyle’s head was aching. He took a few more steps then stopped.
Bates brought the car to a halt alongside. ‘Please get in, Kyle.’
The horns rose to a crescendo.
Defeated, he opened the door and sank into the passenger seat.
‘See. I can be stubborn too.’ Bates pulled away, changed into second.
‘So it seems. Drive on before we fall victim to a lynch mob.’
‘Only forty miles to go. And a bit.’ Bates began to hum a tune. ‘You don’t have to talk to me, it’s fine.’
Kyle sat quietly for a while, turning over likely scenarios in his mind. He’d catch Munday off guard, for sure. The last thing the escapee would expect was anyone showing up on his doorstep. But how would he react? Munday was no saint. They’d negotiated an uneasy truce before, but that had expired. Sure, Bec trusted the man, but Kyle never would.
Whatever happened, he would get to the truth.
He owed that much to Colin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
They arrived in Tregaron just after ten. Kyle wanted to ask for directions in the hotel, but Bates pointed out that her Welsh language skills would allay any suspicion concerning the true nature of their visit. She could spin some yarn about wanting to visit the area in the morning, do some walking, a little birdwatching. She’d heard there was a derelict cottage – she’d quite like to sketch it. It sounded plausible. Kyle conceded, agreed to wait in the car.
A few minutes after Bates had disappeared into the hotel a group of youths staggered drunkenly out of the bar, shouting and joking but they passed the Flying Flea without paying it any attention. Kyle massaged his neck muscles; they were stiff with tension.
Bates reappeared. ‘All OK. They have rooms, and they’ll do us a plate of sandwiches if we want. No hot food till breakfast.’
‘Rooms? Now?’
Bates put her hands on her hips. ‘Please tell me you’re not intending to tackle Munday in this?’ She gestured around her at the steadily falling rain. ‘We’re out in the sticks, Kyle. There’s no light. You won’t be able to see a damn thing. And Munday’ll be prepared – we both know he will be. He’ll not have left things to chance.’
Kyle grunted. He was weary after the previous night’s aborted sleep. A bed, something to eat. It sounded sensible. Tomorrow was another day and Munday, if he was in the vicinity, had no reason to suspect that his location had been compromised.
Face it, Kyle, you can’t even be certain he’s here at all …
‘Come on, Kyle. I’m tired and hungry.’
The hotel foyer was as Kyle had expected to find it – drab, but warm and clean. Bates was booking them in.
‘Two singles?’ The clerk looked at them suspiciously.
‘Please.’
‘Names in the register.’
A book was pushed across the counter. The clerk, a middle-aged woman with blonde, badly permed hair, sniffed as Bates entered her name. ‘Rooms on separate floors, look.’ She squinted at Bates’ entry. ‘Yourself on the first, 101, and himself on the second, 129.’ She nodded towards Kyle. He accepted the biro from Bates and scrawled his name and address.
‘On holiday, is it?’ The woman looked them up and down.
‘Walking, sketching,’ Bates shot her a smile. ‘A little rest and relaxation with my cousin.’
‘Cousin, is it?’ The woman thawed a little, took the register back with a flourish. ‘Family is important here. We like to keep everything in the family. The way God intended.’
‘Absolutely.’ Bates beamed.
She passed the room keys across the counter. ‘If you go through to the saloon I’ll get the girl to prepare you some sandwiches. Won’t be much. Ham or cheese, I expect. Fresh, though. Nothing processed here.’
‘Anything you can do,’ Kyle said. ‘We’d appreciate it. It’s been a long day.’ He looked pointedly at Bates.
They found a corner table, and Kyle ordered a Coke for Bates and an orange juice for himself. The young barman was in the process of packing up for the night, but grudgingly reopened the till to take Kyle’s money. The sandwiches came and Kyle ate mechanically, chewing the coarse bread with scant awareness of the filling. Neither spoke.
Bates finished first. There was an awkward silence. ‘Right. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She stood up.
‘Sure.’ Kyle nodded. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he added.
‘No problem.’ She walked away towards the stairs.
Kyle watched her go. He felt a pang of guilt that he’d involved her. And something else, too – but he didn’t care to analyse that too deeply.
He sat by himself, turning over tomorrow’s possible scenarios. Munday was somewhere else altogether. Or Munday was indeed in residence at Goitre Bach, and he would tell Kyle the whole truth. Or he wouldn’t. He would probably lie – the criminal’s default – but, Kyle reasoned, Munday was a different kind of criminal; there was a layer of integrity lurking somewhere beneath that hard exterior, and that was the place Kyle needed to reach. Maybe Bec would help. If Munday failed to respond to his own entreaties, perhaps she could appeal to the man’s better nature.
Or maybe Munday would show his other side, the side that had earned him a long prison sentence. People like Munday were at their most dangerous when cornered, and a situation like that wouldn’t end well. Kyle knew he had to approach the man cautiously, persuasively, keep any latent psychopathy well under control. Bates seemed good for him in that respect. Maybe that’s why she was here. Kyle didn’t believe in much, let alone in divine providence, but sometimes things just seemed to fall into place. Maybe Bates was one of those things.
He looked up as the hotel door banged open and a tall man in a long coat and expensive-looking shoes came in, removed his hat, shook the water from it and made his way across the foyer to check in. He caught Kyle’s eye, nodded a polite greeting. He looked foreign. Spanish?
Or Italian, perhaps.
As Kyle made his way up to his room he wondered what might bring an Italian to a place like Tregaron. Business, most likely; there certainly didn’t seem to be much pleasure on offer here.
With that thought echoing in his mind Kyle undressed, fell onto the bed and passed into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The knocking was persistent. Kyle wanted it to stop. He invited the noise into his dream, where perhaps he could control it.
He was striding through an area of dense woodland, cutting a path through a tangle of foliage. There was something behind him, something fast. He could hear it crashing through the undergrowth. He tried to walk faster, but in the way of dreams, the more he tried to pick it up, the more his pace slowed.
He looked at his feet. They were caked in mud, so much mud. That was why he couldn’t go any faster. He came to an inevitable standstill as the mud assumed a weight entirely out of proportion to its volume. He was stuck fast, and his pursuer knew it.
Kyle turned to face whatever was coming. A figure appeared, darting from tree to tree. One moment it was there, the next it was somewhere entirely different, all laws of physics and geometry broken. The figure was pointing something at him. He heard four loud reports.
Four knocks.
‘Kyle? It’s Bates. Get up. I’ve seen her.’
The fog lifted, the woodland dispersed. In its place, the spartan decor of his Tregaron Hotel bedroom.
‘Wait. Just a minute.’ He found his feet, went groggily to the door and opened it.
