Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [95]
With twenty-eight miles to go, he turned up the heater. Just a little. No point in freezing, he reckoned.
Twenty-five miles to go, as tail lights suddenly appeared two car lengths in front of him. He swung out into the second lane, round the other car dawdling at sixty. Twenty-three miles to go. He was still in the middle lane and, by now, Victoria didn’t matter. Getting home was all that mattered. Sinking into bed. Drifting into sleep.
Twenty-two miles to go. The tyres sounded like a ticket machine as they bumped over the cat’s eyes between the middle lane and the slow lane. New ticket . . . new ticket . . . new ticket.
Then, like knuckles rubbing on a washboard, the tyres rumbled again on the raised white line between the slow lane and the hard shoulder. First the passenger side tyres, then the driver’s side. All at a perfectly uniform seventy-five miles per hour.
One hand lay in his lap. His eyes were closed and staying closed, not seeing the bridge support rising from the verge ahead. And his other hand rested on the wheel, doing nothing to stop the car’s gentle trickle away from the road.
The bridge dealt the car a glancing blow. Buckling the corner of the front bumper, twisting the front wing inwards. The headlamp shattered, the surrounding chrome bezel springing from its mounting and smacking the windscreen. The car bounced away, back towards the carriageway.
But only for a second. Bryn jerked awake. He heard the crash. And opened his eyes enough to see the road slewing under him. He felt the car careering right. He slammed on the brakes and yanked the wheel left.
The Zodiac left the motorway, front nearside first. It slid on a narrow strip of mud, then bounced through the furrows and deep grass further off road, coming to rest at an unnatural tilt.
Bryn yanked on the inside door handle and stumbled out on to the verge. His shaking hands gripped his mobile and he managed to dial 999. He walked around his car once, then decided he’d seen enough. He sat back inside it and knew he was going to cry. He also knew that it was entirely his own fault.
When his phone beeped and he saw Victoria’s name on the incoming message, he had absolutely no desire to read it. He’d been dragged into more trouble by her than he’d experienced in a lifetime. So he never saw the three little words which said ‘PS I’M DEAD’.
THIRTY-SIX
Mel sat in an armchair in the front room of her flat. Its upholstery was decidedly tired, but she’d been sitting in the same position for hours and the sagging cushions seemed to have wrapped themselves around her. She was warm and feeling cosy here; a comforting place in a worrying home.
Toby was out somewhere. Probably at Mickey Flynn’s, potting Aftershock faster than pool balls.
Her mobile silently vibrated on the arm of her chair: she checked the number rather than simply answering. It was Michael Kincaide. She pressed ‘end’, then switched it off.
It was now time to think, not time to talk.
Kincaide switched off his mobile. He pulled off his tie and plodded upstairs towards his bedroom. His wife was already in bed, either asleep or pretending she was.
‘Jan?’ he whispered. No reaction.
He brushed his teeth, undressed and slipped in beside her. ‘Jan?’ He nudged her between the shoulder blades.
‘What?’
‘Roll over.’
She sighed and turned to face him. ‘I’ve had a long day, Mike. I really don’t feel like anything.’
‘It’s been ages.’
‘Ages since the weekend? Don’t be pathetic,’ she grumbled and turned away again. ‘And next time try something more creative than “Roll over.”’
Marks couldn’t sleep. He was drinking coffee and staring across Parkers Piece at the unlit windows of Goodhew’s flat, just as DC Charles brought in an envelope.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but this has just been delivered and I thought you’d like it straight away.’
Marks stared at it before taking it from the detective. He already knew what it was, just not what it said. ‘I don’t suppose you know if Goodhew’s currently in the building?’
Charles gave a tut.