A soft knock on his door.
‘Brought you a beer.’
Simon was standing by the open window, listening to an owl in the copse and trying to let its gentle hooting soothe him. He had washed his knuckles under the cold tap but the gash he had inflicted on himself still smarted.
Will had closed the door behind him and now he stood just inside the room, holding the beer bottle. He was the last person Serrailler wanted to talk to, except perhaps Morson.
‘You OK?’
He did not reply.
‘Listen … there wasn’t much I could do. That last lot of stuff …’
‘I can’t take it … not snuff movies. Never could. Just way too far.’
‘Not sure about them myself, but Andrew’s always been into them. He’s got tapes where –’
‘Shut up.’
‘Well – have the beer.’
‘Can you just put it down there?’
He clenched his fist in spite of the injury. He wanted to smash it into Fernley’s face. Into Morson’s face. He knew he was on the verge of being unable to control himself.
Instead of leaving, Will came to stand by him at the window. The owl hooted again.
‘Love that sound. When I was a small boy, I rescued a newly fledged tawny – it had fallen out of the nest onto a ledge. I climbed up and got it, put it higher up. The mother came and fed it there … kind of good deed, I thought.’
Simon turned to look at him. His face had softened with the memory. He was a good-looking man. He spoke quietly. How? How, how, how? Thinking of what Will had just sat calmly watching in the basement room, watching with such greed and excitement, his head swam. He had heard Fernley in the group therapy sessions, explaining what he had done, how he felt about it. He had listened and he might have been listening to an actor in a play, spouting out a false confession, working up their emotions, sweating to try and convince those men how he belonged, was one of them and worse than some. Just as he himself had done.
But tonight, the reality of it all had come home to him, the reason he had been there and was now in this house he was desperate to get away from, a vile, tainted, depraved place which would leave its stain on him for the rest of his life.
‘Andrew’s happy to get us to the next stage – cars, drivers – perfectly safe.’
‘He can’t know that. It’s not safe.’
‘He’s done it before. OK, not exactly the same – but people needing to move somewhere discreetly.’
‘Right. I might head north.’
‘Do you have somewhere?’
‘Probably.’
‘Listen, Johnno … I don’t know what’s got to you. Is it just what we did catching up with you or is it something else? Can’t just be that stuff tonight, you’ve seen plenty of that, for God’s sake, or why are you here?’
‘Sorry.’ Simon put a hand on Fernley’s shoulder. ‘Delayed shock … I get nightmares – because if we’re taken, it’s not going to be back to Stitchford, is it?’
‘You had a bad time, didn’t you? They beat you up?’
‘You could say. Rather not talk about it at this time of night.’
‘I’ll go. Want me to slip down and get you a Scotch to chase the beer? Or Andrew will have some pills, make you sleep like the dead.’
‘I’m OK. Thanks for the drink.’
A door slammed somewhere. Footsteps hard up the stairs.
‘Shit.’
They turned as Morson crashed into the room. ‘They’ve hacked into Blind Runner …’ He leaned against the door jamb to catch his breath.
‘It isn’t possible.’
‘No, it isn’t, but they’ve done it all the same. They’ve got into the back room, which means they’ve got the lists, contact emails.’
Fernley’s face was white. ‘For fuck’s sake … are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
‘How? How?’
‘A leak. Has to be.’
‘No way.’
They were talking across Serrailler. He might not have been there. There was panic on their faces, in their voices – controlled, but still panic.
‘I need to talk to someone,’ Will said.
‘PAYG mobile in my desk drawer, right-hand side, with the pens. Bring it up here.’
When Will had bolted out of the room, Morson seemed to calm down and relax. He wandered over to the open window and stood listening. The owl was still there, its soft hoot filling the garden.
‘You’re OK, are you, Johnno?’
‘What about?’
‘Your network, you idiot.’
‘Don’t know – haven’t had a chance to check. Anyway, it’s a long time since I was on there, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. You might have had all sorts of things set up from Stitchford.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Deprived, then, I take it.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘Did he?’ Andrew swung round. ‘Will? Must have been frustrating and he’s an impatient sort of bloke. I’m surprised you threw in your lot with him.’
Andrew’s eyes did not leave Serrailler’s face.
‘Right. You can get online from here.’
‘Better not.’
‘Be quite safe.’
‘Not given what’s gone on with yours, I don’t think so. Can’t risk it anyway.’
‘What’s your username?’
‘As if I’d tell you.’
‘Safe with me.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Can I use the phone after he’s done?’
‘Be my guest.’
Will came back with a basic-pay-as-you-go phone in his hand. ‘You sure this is OK?’
He looked strained.
‘Perfectly. Unused. It’s the safest way. I’ll leave you to it. When you’re done Johnno here wants a turn.’
Left alone, Serrailler stood, thinking, thinking. If they had managed to black out a member of the paedophile ring Morson was central to, they would have enough information to trace a lot of people. It was a breakthrough, certainly, but it had put him in more danger. He needed to alert his contact and plan a getaway. He needed Snoopy …
When Will brought the phone back, he checked it out. Nothing. Whoever had been contacted, the number and message had been deleted. Using it, though, to send a covert police message was chancy. Cat. One text? No. If there was the remotest chance that Morson could call up the number, it could put her in danger. He had learned over many years that there is no such thing as absolute safety, or any move that was entirely without risk.
He made up a number, sent a text that said Am OK and deleted it all. Not to have done so would have looked suspicious.
He lay on his bed, fully dressed, waiting for the house to fall silent, time to pass.
He had to find his watch. If it had gone with the old newspapers Lynn might have put them in the recycling bin, in which case he would find it. If it was with his dirty clothes, he hoped to God she had not put it through the washing machine. If she hadn’t, and it had dropped out of the bundle, he could either go and ask her the next day, or hope she would return it to him. But tonight, he could at least do one search.
He waited until a quarter to three, then put on the old cotton jacket Morson had found for him and which fitted loosely, took two bananas and an apple from the fruit bowl, and the now-tepid bottle of beer. Nothing else because he had nothing else. He was only taking extreme precautions. Chances were he would be back in his bed safely, watch intact, within the hour. But he had an odd sense that he might be at risk, and he had learned long ago not to ignore his gut instincts.
He moved with infinite patience and care, one small step, barely the length of his foot, then stop, listen, wait, one small step. The wood settled into itself, the boards shifted, but he had become used to the sounds the house made of its own accord and tried to work with them and not make more of his own. It took five full minutes to cross the landing to the first staircase, after which he stood for another minute, scarcely breathing, not touching the banister, hands against his sides. One step down, millimetre by millimetre. Ten minutes to go down the stairs. Five on the second landing, and here, he was even more careful, if that were possible, because Morson’s room was a couple of yards to his right. He heard a faint snore. There was not a sliver of light.
His hand bumped very slightly against the head of the banister and he froze. Nothing. Two more minutes. Three. Four. He moved again.
It was easier once he had reached the wide hall, and started to inch his way to the side door. He was unsure if anyone had a room on this side of the house but took no chances, still moved at snail pace and with the greatest stealth, still paused, listened, holding his breath. There was no hurry other than to do it all before the sun rose, and before the others surfaced out of the deepest sleep into a lighter one during which they might become aware of sounds.
He slid bolts. Found the key on the shelf. Turned the lock. It made a slight click but the noise was deadened by the thick walls on either side. Wait again.
He pulled the door to gently behind him but did not close it.
He had to work out where the bins might be. Two false tries, and then he found them, under a wooden overhang next to the wood store, and accessible by the dust cart beside the back entrance. There were three bins, one for garden refuse and two others. So far as he knew, there had not been a collection in the last three days. Waste disposal of any kind is never a quiet operation but still might well not have been heard from upstairs and right round on the other side. He lifted the lid of the first black bin. It was full to the top, the lid barely closing. The second was not much emptier which meant collection was imminent.
The watch and newspapers would have gone into a recycling sack and there were several.
The top bag was obviously full of plastic bottles and boxes. The next was extremely heavy. He felt about and his hand touched what felt like something made of metal. Even the owl had fallen silent now.
He hauled out the bag and saw not a bag but a large cardboard box underneath it, full to the top with papers. It would not be difficult to sort through them, though it would take time to pick each newspaper up, shake it, put it to one side, take up the next. He was about to bend down and make a start when he was half blinded by a bright blue-white light shining directly into his eyes.
‘Have you lost something, Johnno?’