Closer, page 7
On the fringe of the forest, where pine trees thinned and became naturalistic garden, there was a stone folly: a three-story tower, like a small lighthouse. Cassie took up position on the top level, peering past crenellations toward the hall.
This was stupid. She knew that. Another sign of the weakness that had nearly cost her life the night before.
Matthew Scullery’s fault, damn him.
All his fault.
The weakness.
The need to be here, now, exposing herself to more risk when she should have been perfectly safe back at her refuge by the loch.
The place was mostly in darkness, save for a light upstairs and one coming from the library.
She pictured Matthew, sitting there with a book and a glass of Glenlivet, or maybe Highland Park. What was he feeling right now? Did he hate her? He should. There had been no serious attempt to search for her, no involvement of the police or mountain rescue, which could only mean they had gone through her things and found out that she was not who, or what, they had believed her to be.
He would hate her, and he would be angry. He would feel betrayed. Cheated. Confused. Very confused.
She shouldn’t be here. No good could come of it.
She would only break her own heart some more, being so close to Matthew and his broken heart.
What a mess.
Movement – signs of activity.
The main doors at the top of those grand stone steps opened, and then Matthew emerged, pulling a tweed jacket on. He climbed into a Ford Focus, one of the estate cars he had the use of when he stayed here.
He was on the move, damn it.
She ran back through the forest, her eyes adjusted to the dark, but still nearly tripping over shadowy tree roots and rocks.
She must have missed him, even though the estate’s long driveway headed in the other direction before joining the road. If he headed south, then he was gone already, but if he’d turned north toward the village...
Headlights in the dark.
She threw herself into the Honda Civic and gunned the engine, no lights yet.
A car drove past on the main road, and after a few seconds she pulled out and turned her lights on.
It was hard to see what kind of car it was, so she eased closer as a couple of tight bends slowed it. A gray Focus, registration ending in HW. It must be the one.
She eased off.
They were the only two cars on the road, and it was easy to follow his tail lights from a distance.
When they reached the village, the Ford Focus parked around at the side of the Pier Hotel, and Matthew climbed out.
It was all Cassie could do not to rush to him and beg his forgiveness.
She would never be able to explain, though.
She heard Connor in her head again. Is that likely to be a problem for you?
Of course it was a problem!
She loved Matthew.
He was her weakness, her flaw, her vulnerability, and she could do nothing about it.
She sat tight in her battered old car, and Matthew disappeared inside the hotel.
She’d gone there with him a few times on their visits up here. The place had seen better days, but she liked its rough and ready honesty. It was the kind of place where locals drank, where you could sit quietly at a table, or up at the bar, and chat with whoever happened to be in.
Something about the woman who entered the hotel a short time later set alarm bells going in Cassie’s head. Tall, with dark hair cascading down across her shoulders. Leather jacket, and leather leggings so tight they might have been sprayed on. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a movie set – superheroes, or a glamorous thriller. She looked like the kind of hooker who would bankrupt anyone but a millionaire, and most certainly not like a regular at the Pier Hotel.
Cassie climbed out of the car and crossed the street.
She couldn’t go in, but she needed to know what was going on.
She moved closer to a window, where she could see Matthew sitting up at the bar. He liked to do that, the way it made you part of things.
And the lady in leather... she sat next to him, had a hand on his arm.
Who was she? How did they know each other?
Had Napier hired her to take Matthew’s mind off things? Cassie wouldn’t put it past him.
She was being foolish.
When she looked again, the woman had taken her hand away from Matthew’s arm and they were talking.
Cassie knew there was a lot of Matthew’s life she still knew nothing of – would never know of, now. They had only been together a few months, and were still learning new things about each other every day.
Although his family was from the Borders, he had connections up here, too. The woman could easily be an old friend. A relative, even, although that hand on the arm had not looked like the touch of a family member. An old girlfriend?
The woman put her hand on Matthew’s arm again.
Another possibility occurred to her, then. Now that Cassie had been compromised, the section needed to get someone else close to Napier as quickly as possible. What better than to exploit a known weakness?
Was Matthew, with his well-established susceptibility to the fairer sex, the weakness they would exploit?
It made perfect, gut-wrenching sense.
Cassie couldn’t watch, and she couldn’t stop watching. She’d never felt so torn apart by anything.
She made herself turn away.
Made herself cross the street, walk back to the Honda Civic and climb inside.
She should never have got involved.
She sat and waited.
Watched the car’s clock.
Nothing until sometime after eleven, when people started to leave the bar.
There was no sign of Matthew or the woman, though.
The place was a hotel bar, and Cassie vaguely recalled something about the rules being different to normal public houses. Paying residents could continue to be served in a hotel bar long after normal closing hours. Did that explain why Matthew and the woman had not emerged? Did she have a room there, and so the bar continued to serve?
By eleven-thirty, the lights were out in the bar, and the two had not emerged.
By midnight, still nothing.
Matthew and the mystery woman were clearly staying the night.
She couldn’t blame him. He must feel angry, confused, abandoned. He must feel betrayed and cheated.
He must feel heartbroken.
Or was that just her?
6. Just One Night
I knew her game. She really was that obvious.
But when had that ever stopped me, or even slowed me down?
“You can’t drive. You’ve had too much to drink.”
She was right. I wasn’t drunk, but I was definitely over the limit. It wasn’t far, though, and the roads were empty; to be frank, I didn’t much care right now. In the last twenty-four hours it felt as if I had lost everything. Russian roulette with a few whiskies and a car on the narrow, winding roads between the village and Auldbrigg Haw didn’t seem unreasonable in such circumstances.
“I have a room here.”
She really was that obvious, and she didn’t even bother to pretend otherwise.
I hesitated, even still. Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have. When had I changed so much? Louise Palmer-Layne was utterly gorgeous. Beautiful, funny, smart, and clearly very willing. As Napier often reminded me, I always gave my heart away so easily, but that was usually because it followed where my dick led.
What could be the harm in losing myself in the arms of a beautiful woman? It had always worked in the past. And yet still I hesitated.
She’d been chipping away all evening. Teasing out my story, some of which she clearly already knew.
I played my cards close, though. I no longer knew who to trust, but Louise seemed to know what she was doing. Maybe – somehow – she could help unravel this messy situation.
And yes, I still clung to the hope that, however remote the possibility, there might be an explanation that would justify Cassie’s actions and not destroy all the memories I had of her.
Surely that could not all have been faked?
I still felt sick every time I relived that moment when I’d found the gun, the wadded cash, the burner phones, and the fake passport.
Old weaknesses are hard to deny, though...
Louise led me upstairs, to her room above the bar.
I tried to tell myself I was still resistant. I would sleep in the bath, or on the floor. Nothing would happen.
The fact remains, I went upstairs with her.
She pushed the door open, then stood with her back against it, waiting for me to pass.
The gap was narrow, and our bodies brushed against each other, and she smiled, and she was still being blatantly obvious.
That smile was loaded with promises. She was mine for the night. My escape. My release. My solace.
“I can’t,” I said, backing across the room.
She said nothing, just shrugged her shoulders and let that leather jacket slide down her arms as she pushed the door shut with her heel.
“I’m not... I should go.” I should never have gone up there.
She moved toward me, smiling now.
I hated myself then. Hated my weakness, my shallowness. Hated that I found her so damned attractive.
“You’re wasted on her,” she said.
I shrugged. “I love her.”
That smile again, as if she’d scored some kind of victory. One too subtle for my addled mind, just then.
“You need to help me,” she said. “Because if you help me, you’re helping your old friend Stewart Napier, and maybe, just maybe, you’re offering a sliver of hope to Cassandra Deane.”
Then she turned, went to the door, and paused, looking back over her shoulder, her jacket hanging from one hand.
“Think about it, Matt,” she said. “Help the people you love.”
And then she left me alone in that room.
I slept fitfully. What little sleep I managed was broken by dark and disturbing dreams, and for long periods I found myself lying there, staring up at the low ceiling.
Why was I here?
Because I’d felt powerless – abandoned by Cassie, and then by Napier – and I’d been casting around for anything at all that might make me feel that I was in control of my situation.
I was trapped, I knew.
I should call the police, but the first question they’d ask would be why I’d waited so long before reporting Cassie’s disappearance. And they’d regard me as some kind of madman if I started to tell them about glamorous secret agents trying to seduce me...
I should talk to Napier when he returned, but again, he’d ask why I’d waited until now to mention the approach from MI5. He’d never trust me again.
I wasn’t cut out for this. I was a successful businessman, risen from lowly origins – a worldly man, I had thought – but all this was beyond my ken.
More than anything, I was scared for Cassie. For what she was, and what might have become of her.
I couldn’t just stand by, but I had no idea what I could usefully do.
In the morning, when I went down to the corner of the bar set aside for residents’ breakfasts, Louise was already there. Apparently we were the only guests, which explained why it had been so easy for her to get another room last night. She wore black jeans, a white t-shirt, the same leather jacket.
Suddenly my appetite for breakfast had departed.
“Coffee?” she asked, indicating a jug on a hotplate on the bar with the nod of a head.
I shook my head. “No. I have to go.”
She nodded, as if she’d expected that.
“Stewart Napier is at risk,” she said. “We need to protect him. He’s important to our country.” She nodded again, this time indicating the TV playing silently behind the bar. It was on one of the news channels, and there he was, Stewart Napier, shaking hands with the Foreign Secretary in Downing Street. I had no idea what urgent business had drawn him down to London last night, but it didn’t surprise me to see him on the news.
“You’re close to him, Matt. You need to be my eyes and ears. Tell me everything. And I promise I’ll do all I can to find your girlfriend.”
I knew I’d already crossed some kind of line. I’d called Louise. I’d brought her here. I was already the keeper of secrets that might undermine my bond with Napier.
I shrugged, trying to remain noncommittal, but I knew from her smile that she understood. She had me. She’d had me from the moment I’d chosen not to mention my contact with her. And still, I did not know if that was a good thing or not.
§
That evening, Napier and I took dinner out on the south terrace. My old friend had been delayed getting back and then busy with conference calls, so this was our first chance to catch up.
It was one of those beautiful late summer evenings, all the more to treasure because it would not be long before autumn closed in, and this kind of opportunity was over for the year.
After the meal we lingered, savoring the single malt that had come out when the empty plates had been removed.
“So what’s all this about, Napier?” I asked. “I saw you on the TV news this morning. Hobnobbing with the great and good.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,” he laughed. “Neither great nor good, I’d say, but they’re the people we have to deal with.”
“So?”
“You know I’m not at liberty to discuss the vast majority of the topics likely to make me give up an evening of my time and spend it in the company of the Foreign Secretary, don’t you, Mattie?”
I smiled and waited. Napier’s public image was that of a man of great integrity and modesty, but in the private company of those few he trusted he’d always been a scurrilous gossip.
He leaned forward, elbows on the granite table. “There’s a wee situation,” he said. “Middle East. A hostage thing. They think I can help.”
“The academic?” A university researcher had been held somewhere in Syria for a few weeks now on suspicion of spying. It wasn’t clear whether he’d been arrested or was in the hands of a militant group, as far as I recalled.
Napier tipped his head to one side. “I couldn’t possibly say.”
“And they asked for you?”
“I’m ideally placed.”
“Really? Oh, come on, Napier. I know you have oil interests out there, but you’re hardly the SAS.”
He laughed, although I detected a hint of defensiveness in his look. He’d always liked to be taken seriously, even when he put on a show of being self-effacing.
“I know people,” he said. “That’s what matters. I know which strings to pull. Which palms to grease and who to lean on.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “Why you?”
He laughed again. “Because I’m a safe pair of hands, and they want someone with a public profile to be seen to be involved. Government doesn’t do deals with terrorists, Mattie, but respected philanthropists like yours truly can wade in, knock a few heads together, and make a difference.”
“That’s the spin they put on it, eh?”
He shrugged. He didn’t do modesty very well. Not to someone who knew him as well as me, at any rate.
“There must be a reason,” I persisted. “You’re not just convenient. They’re putting you out there on all the news channels. It’s not about the hostage, is it? It’s about you. They’re building your profile.” I thought of Cassie; her job – or what I’d believed to be her job – had involved detailed management of celebrities’ public profiles. I knew enough about all that to see it when it was happening to my old friend.
“So, they’re pushing me out in the open,” Napier said. “Politics has a very poor reputation right now. Someone like me... well, a fresh broom, Mattie. A fresh broom.”
“And do you want that?” Napier had always been very private – at least partly because, even now, an openly gay politician was the exception, and still an easy target for the tabloid media.
“Sometimes one has to shoulder one’s responsibilities.” It was a well-rehearsed line. One used a million times by politicians as they jockey for position and yet deny doing so.
I stared at my old friend. He’d always been ambitious, but I’d believed his claims that he preferred to work behind the scenes. Seeing the mask slip, even briefly, was a shock to me.
“You want it, don’t you? You really do.” Whatever ‘it’ was... “So tell me, where exactly does all this lead?”
“It leads to the safe release of an innocent man.”
“Save it for the cameras, Napier.”
He had the decency, at least, to smile at that.
“The Way Forward,” he said.
He was referring to the populist movement that had emerged from nowhere in the last couple of years, riding on a massive wave of public dissatisfaction in the established political order. Neither left nor right, but out in front, as the slogan went.
“And Bernard Bowler’s happy with that?”
A shrug. Bowler was the figurehead for the Way Forward, a charismatic wheeler and dealer whose leadership had given the disaffected a natural home. Napier had been one of Bowler’s trusted inner circle from the start.
“I’m steady and reliable,” Napier said. “Bernard is... volatile. That’s part of his appeal, of course, but no one knows quite where they stand with him. A man like him is always one scandal away from catastrophe.”
“And you’re the man in the wings, waiting to sweep in and rescue any such situation?” I could see it now, a publicist’s wet dream. Present Napier as the man who’d had the balls to wade into a hostage situation and rescue an innocent man, and he’d have the profile to do just about anything: not just a trusted worker behind the scenes, but one whose name was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
“As my associates keep telling me, I’m seen to have a safe pair of hands.”
“Aren’t their risks?” I asked, thinking of Louise Palmer-Layne’s warning words.
“We live in unpredictable times,” Napier said. “Believe it or not, I may be our nation’s best hope.”
