38

A young police officer was waiting at the hotel, having been alerted by Ash about the theft of the laptop. Rebecca hurriedly explained that she had it back, no harm done, and brushed away his questions.

‘We need to find my friends,’ she said.

‘Miss, we need to deal with this report of a theft.’

‘No, you need to listen to me.’ Her voice hard with urgency. ‘My friends may be in trouble. There are people out there who may do them harm.’

The police officer smirked. ‘Miss, are we not being a wee bit dramatic here? What kind of harm?’

That pissed her off. ‘No, I’m not being dramatic. My friends Chaz Wymark and Alan Fields are under threat from the mor—’ She stopped herself in time. ‘From the young men who work for Carl Marsh. You know who Carl Marsh is, don’t you?’

His face hardened at her tone. ‘Miss . . .’

‘You need to listen to me. And you need to stop calling me Miss. My name is Rebecca Connolly and you need to take me to find them.’

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes searching for something that would guide his next decision. Thankfully, he found the right thing. ‘I’ve a car behind the station. Which way would they go?’

She peered now at the road ahead, hoping for a glimpse of lights, but the darkness beyond the sweep of the headlights was unbroken. The constable was a decent driver but Rebecca could feel the tug of the wind as he concentrated on his steering.

It was the rear lights they saw first, just a glimpse as they hit the top of a hill, lying on the rugged shoreline to the left, then the police car’s beams picked out the dim outline of the Land Rover wedged against one of the Seven Sisters. Rebecca was out of the car before it had even come to a complete standstill. She ignored the cries of the police officer telling her to wait, she barely registered the woman standing beside a dark-coloured hatchback, her mobile phone in her hand, already calling for help. She slid down the steep drop and stumbled around the jagged boulders, her feet in turns scraping and slipping on the slimy rocks, the constable still calling to her to stay away, that it could be dangerous, but all she wanted to do, all she needed to do, was get to the Land Rover. Chaz’s Land Rover. Music blared from the radio, something operatic, something sad and tragic and moving. The engine turned and clicked while steam from the crushed bonnet floated into the falling rain. The 4x4 had slammed into the tall column of rock and sat at an oblique angle, its rear passenger wheel perched on a smaller clump of rock. The passenger door hung open and she climbed up onto a boulder to peer in, her footing precarious thanks to the rain, salt water and seaweed.

Alan was hanging in his seatbelt, but he was conscious. He didn’t even look at Rebecca, as her head appeared over the edge of the Land Rover’s floor. He had Chaz’s hand clasped between both of his as he whispered to him.

Drip

Rebecca moved slightly, hanging onto the door for support, and saw Chaz was unconscious behind the wheel.

Drip

Alan kept whispering as he raised one hand to brush Chaz’s hair away from his forehead.

Drip

Liquid hit metal. Blood, draining from Chaz’s wounds. A steady, rhythmic drip, like the ticking of a clock, like the clicking of the engine. Rebecca stared at the young man, so motionless, so pale, the wheel against his chest, skewered by the shard of bodywork that pierced his side.

‘Chaz,’ she said, and then couldn’t think of anything else.

Alan didn’t look round. He kept saying something as he fixed Chaz’s hair. She couldn’t be certain but she thought he was telling the young man that he loved him.

She could hear the police officer on the radio, his voice urgent as he called for an ambulance.

‘Help’s coming, Alan,’ she said, feeling she had to say something. ‘Everything will be okay. Help’s coming . . .’

Alan didn’t acknowledge her. He ran the back of his hand gently down Chaz’s face and made a soft shooshing sound. When he spoke, he did so without turning, his voice gaping with pain. ‘Look what they’ve done, Rebecca. Look what they’ve done to my beautiful boy . . .’

She stared at him as the rain fell and the aria ended and the ticking in the engine slowed and died.