Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [150]
His car wasn’t far away. He’d parked on the pavement just a short distance down the Arnside Road, so he dashed for this as the red-haired woman went round the corner of the inn, where, no doubt, her own car was parked. He fired his car up and waited for her to emerge. No way was she going anywhere at this point without him on her tail.
He counted the seconds. They turned into minutes. What was it? he wondered. Car trouble? Flat tyre? Where the hell was she…?
Finally, a car did emerge from the car park round back of the Crow and Eagle, but this was no hire car and she wasn’t driving it. It was, instead, a sleek copper-coloured antique thing of the sort costing God only knew what, and it was driven by a bloke who looked perfectly at ease in it, not to mention well-heeled, because how else could he have afforded the thing? Another guest at the inn, Zed concluded. The bloke took off towards the north.
About three minutes later, another car emerged and Zed put his vehicle in gear. But this one was driven by a bloke as well, a serious-looking gent with too much dark hair, and he was looking grim and rubbing his head as if he needed to get rid of a migraine.
Then, at last, he saw the woman. But she was on foot. She wasn’t on her mobile this time, but her face was serious and determined. Zed reckoned at first she was on her way to some location nearby and the logical place was the market square, where the cafés made good meeting spots, as did the restaurants and the Chinese takeaways, if it came down to it. But instead of heading there, she went back into the Crow and Eagle.
Zed made his decision in an instant. He switched off the car’s engine and dashed after her. He could, he reckoned, follow her forever. Or he could take the bull by the horns and do some fancy dancing with it.
He pushed through the door of the inn.
MILNTHORPE
CUMBRIA
Deborah was so angry with Simon that she was far beyond seeing red. She was seeing whatever the next colour in the outrage spectrum was supposed to be.
Camera in hand, she’d found her husband with Tommy in the car park. It was, she believed, excellent luck that Tommy was with him. For Tommy was going to be on her side and she knew she was going to need an ally.
She’d given them the information in brief: Nicholas Fairclough waylaying her in the inn, Nicholas Fairclough knowing Scotland Yard was looking into the death of Ian Cresswell, Nicholas Fairclough believing that she— of all people— was the Scotland Yard detective prowling round his life. She said, “There’s only one way he’d’ve reached that conclusion,” at which point she showed them the photo she’d snapped on the previous day. This was of the redheaded man speaking to Fairclough in the market square.
She said, “Right afterwards, Nicholas wanted nothing more to do with me. We were meant to go to Barrow, but that didn’t happen. And then this morning, he was in such a state… You see what this means, don’t you?”
Tommy looked at the picture. Simon did not. Tommy said, “It’s the reporter from The Source, Simon. Barbara described him to me. Huge, red-haired. There can’t be two blokes wandering round Cumbria fitting that description and interested in Fairclough.”
Better and better, Deborah had thought. She’d said, “Tommy, we can use him. Something’s obviously going on with this entire lot of people and he’s onto it or he wouldn’t be up here. Let me make contact with him. He’ll think he’s got an in with the police. We can— ”
“Deborah,” Simon had said. It was that tone, that maddening tone of she-must-be-appeased.
Tommy had added to this, “I don’t know, Deb,” and he looked away for a moment. She couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what she said or thinking about getting out of the car park before she and Simon had the argument he would be anticipating. For Tommy knew Simon better than anyone. He knew what Deborah meant when Simon said it that way. There were reasons for