No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 26
One reckless moment, so many lives changed forever.
Now we’re about to die where Gemma and I conceived a baby.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
The baby could have been Jackson’s, of course, but it wasn’t.
He knows it. I know it. It’s the reason he lured me here.
The clouds part enough to let the moon light the sky. I step out of the car and scan the path that leads up to the cliffs and the scenic stroll to Belle Tout. The glass top to its round tower will be lit up, like the lighthouse it was when built in the 1800s. Across the car park to the west, the illuminated windows in the houses and bungalows on the hill show people at home.
Will Jackson risk a shot, knowing someone might hear?
I look back at the white van. He can’t be planning to make his escape in that.
His Harley must be somewhere close by.
I set the app on my phone to record and turn. My fleece is no barrier against the stiff onshore breeze, which whistles around me as I walk towards the telephone box.
“Stop where you are and raise your arms.” Jackson’s voice comes from the shadows by the wall that runs along the back gardens of the Coastguard Cottages. “I have a gun.”
“Where’s Gemma?”
“Enjoying the magnificent view.” A torch beam flashes into my eyes. “Up the steps, Fisher. Look back or make a sudden movement and I’ll shoot you. Then I’ll make your wife push you over the cliffs before she joins you.”
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Walter. You had me fooled.”
“Cut the chat, Fisher. Gemma’s getting cold up there.”
He doesn’t want to boast.
I walk as fast as I dare, struggling with the uneven ground, hoping I don’t put my foot in a rabbit hole and sprain my ankle.
With every step, I remind myself the police are on their way. Hopefully they won’t arrive too soon and spook Jackson.
I call over my shoulder. “Don’t you want to know how I worked out it was you, Walter?”
“What makes you think I care?”
I stop. “You didn’t kill Gemma when you shot Halliday.”
“No, that’s your job, Fisher – before you throw yourself off the cliffs in despair. She killed your child.”
I bite back the anger. My chances of living are tenuous enough without letting him goad me into mistakes.
Jackson falls in behind me, his steps almost silent. As the ground rises, we pass the end of the gardens at the rear of the Coastguard Cottages. The sound of the waves on the shore carries on the wind, which whips over the cliffs. Once on the muddy path, studded with sharp flints, it’s difficult to see ahead while the clouds blanket the moon. Aware the cliff edge is only a few metres to my right, I can’t afford to lose my way.
I consider faking a fall, wondering how he’ll react. He’d probably drag me to my feet, push the gun barrel into my back and march me the rest of the way.
“What if I refuse to kill her, Walter? If you shoot me, my suicide leap from the cliffs won’t wash.”
“I’ll tell Ashley Gemma shot you.”
“That could be a bit tricky if I’ve already pushed her over the cliffs.”
He laughs – a cold, chilling laugh that tells me he doesn’t care how we die.
“You could always jump together, holding hands. I’m easy.” He’s looming up behind me. “But what with everything you discovered about her, I wasn’t sure you’d want to save her. It’s touching to discover you do. It’s going to make your suffering even more enjoyable. I want you to know how it feels to lose the only thing in the world that matters.”
Is he talking about Gemma or the baby?
He’s had eight years for his anger to fester.
Can I make him angry enough to drop his guard?
I turn around to face him, but he’s not there.
I spot his shadow to my left. He’s ahead of me, looking down, the wind buffeting his black t-shirt. “Not far to go, Fisher. And in case you’re wondering ...”
He turns on his torch to illuminate the gun in his hand.
“The sound will carry for miles,” I say.
“I’ll be long gone before anyone gets close.”
He directs his torch to where his motorbike stands, close to some gorse bushes on the slope above. “That’s my motocross bike, built for this kind of terrain. If you’re looking for my Harley, forget it.”
He’s going to escape along the top to Belle Tout and back down to the coast road. If the police set up road blocks, he’ll stick to the hills.
The wind blows a hole in the clouds to let the moon shed some light, revealing a crash helmet and leather jacket on the bike. He must have brought the bike in the back of the van. He must have pushed the bike up the slope. No wonder he stripped off his jacket.
It also means Gemma must be tied up, so she can’t escape.
He probably carried her up here.
How do I overpower someone with that strength and stamina? He’s solid muscle, bigger and taller than me, pointing a gun at my chest.
“Tell me one thing, Walter. Gemma wanted nothing to do with you in London. She walked out while you were at work. She aborted your baby.”
I pause, hoping for reaction.
Nothing.
“Why didn’t you kill her with Halliday?” I brace myself and say, “Please don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to still be in love with her, Walter.”
“You call me stupid when you married a prostitute?”
He’s looming over me, a hulk that could swat me like a fly. Behind him, a few metres up the slope, not far from the cliff edge, I spot a bench in the moonlight.
Is Gemma’s lying on it?
“It was your baby she killed, Fisher. She told me.”
“She’d say anything to stop you killing her.” I feel the adrenaline rush through me, knowing the end is close. “Killing me and Gemma won’t change anything, Walter. You’ll still be the pathetic loser that needed an escort because he couldn’t get a real woman.”
He’s on me before I can react, knocking me to the ground with a punch to the side of my head. He stands above me, his breathing heavy, the gun shoved hard against my forehead.
“Did you really think I was going to let you steal her from me?”
He grabs my fleece and drags me along, forcing me to stagger to my feet. His momentum up the hill keeps me off balance. My head’s throbbing with so much pain, it’s all I can do to stay on my feet. When we draw level with the bench, he pushes me to the ground. I thud into the bench. The pain in my neck and shoulders shoots through me when I struggle to sit. Dazed and gasping for breath, it takes a few moments before I hear Gemma’s voice, muffled by the gag in her mouth.
Jackson stands a couple of metres away, knees bent, arms forward, gun pointed at us. “Untie her. She’s drowsy from the sedative. She’ll soon wake up when she sees the trip you’ll be sending her on.”
“If she dies, you’ll have lost her too, Walter.”
“She killed your baby, Fisher. You’re a Catholic. That makes it murder, doesn’t it?”
I use the bench to haul myself to my knees. A flint stabs my shin bone. I run my fingers over the ground, feeling for the sharp edges of the flint. It fits into the palm of my hand and slides into the pocket of my fleece. Now facing Gemma, I push the matted hair from her forehead with cold, trembling fingers. I can barely see her eyes or make out her face, but I taste the perspiration when I kiss her forehead.
I smell the stale odour of sweat and fear.
“This isn’t quite how I wanted our honeymoon to end,” I say, removing the sodden gag, “but at least we’re together.”
Her voice is no more than a whisper in my ear. “Untie my hands. I can’t feel them.”
I reach behind and undo the knots, wondering how I can disarm Jackson. Once her arms are free, I help her sit. While she shakes her hands and rubs her wrists, I untie the rope around her ankles. When we stand, she staggers and grabs me, almost pulling me over.
There’s nothing shaky about her voice, laced with contempt.
“You really are as thick as pig shit, Tony. I told you it was Kent’s baby to save my life. If I’d said it was yours, you’d have shot me and left me to burn with Bryan.”
She was there when Halliday was killed.
He says nothing, maintaining a tight grip on his gun, visible now in the moonlight. Behind him, the gorse bushes move with the wind.
“Over to the cliff edge, both of you.”
I slide my fingers into my pocket and grip the flint.
Gemma stands her ground. “You were such a disappointment in bed, Tony.”
He fires a shot into the bench beside us. Gemma screams, throwing her arms around me. As I stagger to stay on my feet, I spot headlights flicking in and out of sight as cars race towards us from Beachy Head.
Movement by the gorse catches my eye before clouds block out the moon.
I can barely see Jackson, which means he must be struggling to see me. I ease Gemma’s arms from around my neck. Stepping to one side, I flex my arm, ready to hurl the flint the moment the moon peeps out again.
It may be my only chance.
More headlights race along the winding road.
As the clouds pass, Jackson comes into view, his gun pointed at Gemma.
“Take her to cliff edge, Fisher, or I’ll shoot her where she stands.”
“Drop the gun, Tony. I’ve got a Taser.”
He freezes, keeping the gun pointed at us. “Ashley, how good of you to join us. It’s a pity you didn’t rescue Gemma while you had the chance.”
“And let you know I was here, waiting for you.”
As the clouds blank out the moon, he spins with the speed of a ballet dancer. I hurl the flint. His body jerks as the Taser strikes. A shot discharges. He thuds to the ground.
I rush over and kick the gun away.
Ashley drops the Taser and lurches forward.
I grab her as she stumbles.
Her back feels hot and sticky. Her breathing’s rapid, her voice strained.
“Why didn’t I just shoot him in the back, Kent?”
“Hang on, Ashley. Help’s on the way.”
“It’s too late.” She looks into my eyes and smiles. “You married the wrong woman, Kent. You know that, don’t you?”
Her head flops against my shoulder. Her legs buckle.
I know she’s dead, long before I lay her on the ground and check for a pulse.
Sixty
On the morning of Ashley’s funeral, I draw a long, deep breath and walk into the spare bedroom. Gemma’s still in her nightie, the duvet over her legs, two pillows propping her up. She doesn’t look up from her Kindle when she says, “There’s no point trying to persuade me, Kent, I can’t face them. Not yet.”
While I understand how she feels, I thought I’d persuaded her to attend. Ashley saved our lives. Then Gemma spotted the will in the study and changed her mind.
Like Mike Turner before her, Ashley has no family. She’s left her estate to me and the sanctuary.
My two closest friends and allies are gone.
And Gemma’s struggling to cope with the aftermath of her imprisonment and brush with death.
I understand why she doesn’t want to talk about what happened. But I don’t know how to deal with her silence, her refusal to see a counsellor. Afraid to push her, in case I damage her fragile recovery, I say nothing and do what she asks, hoping she’ll emerge from the darkness soon.
Naomi Foster knows more about what happened during her captivity than I do, having coaxed a full statement from Gemma.
While Naomi won’t go into any detail, she assured me Jackson didn’t sexually abuse or harm Gemma in any way. He kept her sedated and bound in his bedroom at home. His mother’s body lay in the adjoining bedroom, where she’d died from natural causes.
Jackson’s confession confirmed most of my suspicions and deductions about the events leading up to the abduction and beyond. Not that I draw any comfort or satisfaction from this. He’s left Gemma with psychological scars that will take months, maybe years, to heal. I’m not sure she’ll ever get over the horrors of what happened on her honeymoon.
Everyone tells me to give her time. She’s tough. She loves me. She’ll come through.
Looking at her in bed, her eyes staring at the Kindle reader in her hand, I wish she would let me hug her. I’ve told her how much I love her, but the last time I reached out to her, she flinched and shrank away.
“Everyone’s going to be there for Ashley,” I say, making one last plea. “They won’t be looking at you.”
“Of course they will.” She looks up, tears pricking her eyes. “If Tony Jackson hadn’t kidnapped me, she wouldn’t be dead, would she? Nothing you say can change that.”
“You’re not responsible for what he did.”
“It doesn’t stop me having to live through what happened every day, does it? It doesn’t stop me waking up in the night in a cold sweat, my head filled with images of your car burning. I only have to hear a bang or a sudden noise and I panic.” She catches her breath and slumps back onto the pillows. “I know it sounds selfish, but she’s been spared this ordeal. She’s a hero. Like you.”
“How can you say that? Ashley died saving our lives.”
The words burst out, propelled by the irritation and frustration I feel. I know Gemma doesn’t mean what she says. She’s angry, bitter and fearful. She’s been through hell in the ten days since Ashley died.
“She died saving your life, Kent, not mine.” Something in her voice tells me to bite my tongue. “Why didn’t she untie me and take me to safety while Tony was waiting in the car park for you? Why did she leave me lying there?”
I know from the notes Ashley dictated into her phone that she read the text Jackson sent me about being at Birling Gap. Though she didn’t know his motives, she worked out what he was doing and drove straight there. She saw him carry Gemma up to the hill to a bench and leave her there. While he returned for his motorbike, Ashley found another route to the top and hid behind some gorse bushes, armed with a Taser.
Her notes ended there.
“She saved us both, Gemma,” I say, trying not to sound judgemental. “If she’d freed you, Jackson would have realised straight away.”
“And killed you?” She flings back the duvet and gets to her feet, her eyes daring me to contradict her. “Tony told me how Ashley moved to Jevington to be close to you. She was always talking about you when she was with him. She didn’t come to our wedding because she couldn’t bear to see you marry me.”
“She was involved in a major investigation.”
“You’re defending her again.”
“She can hardly defend herself, can she?”
I turn away, wishing I could stay calm. I don’t want to argue, even if it means we’re communicating at last.
“What about me, Kent? I’m sorry Ashley died, I really am, but you rushed over to comfort her, not me.”
“You weren’t dying.”
“You didn’t know she was dying until she tumbled into your arms. You should have been holding me, Kent. You should have been comforting me, your wife. I spent days, wondering whether I would live, whether I would ever see you again. And then you rush to help Ashley Goodman.”
“Jackson was facing her when the gun went off. When she dropped the Taser...” I give her a helpless shrug. “I knew she’d been shot. I had to help her.”
Gemma nods. “I know you did. I know you feel responsible because the flint you threw struck Tony on the back of his head, causing him to fire the gun.” She pauses, looking drained of emotion. “But you didn’t have to nod when she said you’d married the wrong woman.”
She walks past me to the bathroom.
I think back to the cliff top, trying to remember what happened. Ashley slumped, threatening to drag me down with her. I straightened, trying to keep her on her feet, didn’t I?
Did Gemma mistake my movement for a nod?
Or did I subconsciously nod?
Whether I did or I didn’t, the damage is done. Gemma believes I did. If I try to explain, it will look like I’m protesting too much. If I say nothing, I’m confirming what she believes.
I’m still standing there, staring out of the window at the café when she returns, her hair brushed, her skin looking brighter.
“I didn’t marry the wrong woman.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stay here and not go to the funeral?”
“I have to pay my respects to Ashley. Can you imagine what people will say if I don’t show?”
“You could tell them I need you more. Or don’t you feel the same about me, now you know I used to sleep with strangers for money?” Her head tilts back in defiance. “Do you see the woman who took her clothes off for money, or the woman who struggled to keep her father out of the gutter?”
“I don’t care about the past or what you did, Gemma. You know that.”
“Then you should!” Her voice snaps at me with such ferocity, I step back. “My past made me the woman you fell in love with. Without the past, I wouldn’t be who I am. I’m proud of what I did, how I made something of my life. If you brush it under the carpet because you can’t handle it, you’re rejecting who I am, what makes me what I am.”
“Was it my baby?”
As the words leave my mouth, I wince. When she said she was proud of what she did ... I couldn’t stop myself. “I’m sorry, that came out all wrong.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Tears run down her cheeks as she stares at me. “It’s the one thing I can’t put right, Kent.”
She looks so empty, so lost, I want to take her in my arms. For a moment, I think we can put things right.
But someone calls me from the kitchen.
“You’re going to be late,” she says, heading for the wardrobe. “You must go and deliver the eulogy. You’ll be late,” she says, shooing me out of the room.
The door closes as Columbo races up, his tail wagging. He leads me back to the lounge where Trudi Blossom’s waiting. She looks elegant in a black suit, matching woollen hat and ankle boots. She gives me a smile and holds out a small package, contained in a silver bag.
