Gone in the Night

He screamed and slammed on the brake, wrenched the steering wheel first one way, then the other.

The Land Rover lurched across the road, hitting the hedge on one side. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard the side of the vehicle being scratched by thorns, twigs, branches. Then, before he could think any more, the Land Rover was thrust, skidding, to the other side of the road.

A tree loomed in front of him. Once more he hit the brake.

He felt himself being propelled forward. Tried to throw himself across the seats. Slammed into the dashboard. His head thrown backwards then forwards. He was weightless. Felt a shower of glass. Time stretched, contracted, stretched again. Something trickled down the side of his face and into the corner of his mouth.

Rick’s last thought was of his sister.

The deer, unharmed, trotted off into the forest.

CHAPTER THREE

DAY ONE: EVENING

The sky was alive with a shower of red and green and yellow sparks as one rocket after another exploded in the night air. Beyond the lake, Catherine wheels crackled and whistled and Roman candles fizzed and hummed. Watching from behind the French windows, men and women in party clothes holding champagne glasses oo-ed and ah-ed their appreciation, grateful the wind had died down so they could enjoy the display. Alex Devlin sipped her warm tap water and wished she was at home, tucked up in bed with her hot water bottle.

‘Enjoying the fireworks?’

Alex turned to see a man looking down at her, a smile on his face. Mid-forties, she reckoned, swept-back black hair with wings of grey. Soft crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Laughter lines by his mouth. Could be anger lines, of course. All this she registered in a couple of seconds.

‘They’re very impressive,’ she said, carefully.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Does that mean “impressive but a waste of money”?’

A smile tugged at the corners of Alex’s mouth. ‘You may say that, I couldn’t possibly comment.’ She turned back to watch more of the display. More rockets exploding in the air. She could feel the man’s eyes on her.

‘I saw you earlier. With someone. It looked as though you were having an argument.’

‘Really?’ She wasn’t sure how to react. She wanted to ask why he was watching her and what business it was of his, but she didn’t.

‘I know it’s none of my business …’

Ah.

‘But I was watching you …’

Right.

‘Only because I was worried …’

Of course you were.

‘Worried?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t like to see couples arguing. It can lead to all sorts of things.’

‘“All sorts of things”?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m digging myself into a hole, aren’t I?’ He smiled wryly.

Alex laughed, the tension slipping from her shoulders. ‘Just a bit.’

‘Tell me.’

‘What?’

‘About the man you were arguing with.’

‘Why?’

‘So I know who I’m competing with.’

‘“Competing with”?’ Alex still tried not to smile. The arrogance of the man. She turned to look at him properly. Beautifully cut suit, blue tie, blue handkerchief poking out from the breast pocket, but yes, grey eyes. Wolfish.

‘Drink?’

‘Drink?’ She was confused at the sudden change of subject.

He nodded to her empty glass. ‘More champagne?’

‘I’m drinking water.’

‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you? You look as though you might need a glass.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t look that shaken, surely. Still, she did feel as though she could do with some alcohol at this particular moment. Sod it. ‘Okay. Why not?’ Now she did allow herself to smile fully at him.

He clicked his fingers and a woman, impeccably dressed in a white shirt and tight black skirt, glided towards them, bearing a tray at shoulder height. Alex wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be impressed or not. She wasn’t. In fact, after the evening she’d had, it would take more than an imperious clicking of fingers and a solemn waitress bearing booze to impress.

The woman handed her a glass; Alex drank deeply, hardly appreciating its coldness and the pop of bubbles on her tongue.

‘Looks like you needed that,’ he said.

‘I did. Thank you.’ She took a more delicate sip, wanting to savour it this time.

‘Who was he?’ The man leaned against the window. The fireworks had ended.

Alex sighed. ‘He was a friend who wanted to be more than a friend.’

He was David Gordon, the head of a charity for the homeless in East Anglia, who had invited her along to the event at Riders’ Farm – an event not in aid of his charity, but for one concerned with refugees. He liked to pick up ideas, he told her. Also, he said, the Riders were big donors to Fight for the Homeless and it behoved him to be there. Alex thought at the time his use of the word ‘behoved’ was rather sweet and old-fashioned.

She had found David an interesting person to interview for The Post. He had come into money and had decided to put it to good use. He wanted to make the lives of homeless people more normal, he had told her earnestly. To fight the root causes of homelessness. It was no good merely giving money to beggars on the street, you had to put that money to good use. To fight drugs, robber landlords, the benefits system. And to that end he had set up a hostel in Norwich and another in Ipswich where people could go and not have to account for themselves in any way, but would be helped with whatever problem they had. No one would ask them questions.

Finding out about David’s hopes and ambitions had been the sort of freelance job she liked best. A good subject, an interesting cause. She’d enjoyed herself, so when he’d asked her to join him at the function at the Riders’ farm, she’d agreed. She’d heard that the event at the rather splendid farm was the place to be seen. Not that she was interested in being seen as such, but there could be some people here who would make good subjects for future features she enjoyed writing. And she might even get a news story of some sort out of it. She badly wanted to up her news credibility with Heath Maitland, the news editor at The Post.

The evening had started off so well, with David taking her to a delicious early supper at the nearby Dog and Partridge.

The party was well underway by the time they arrived at Riders’ Farm. Alex could hear the strains of a jazz band as they walked towards the large oak front door up the path lit by dozens of bamboo garden torches and strings of fairy lights hanging from the bare branches of trees.

At first David had been the very model of attentiveness, making his way through the packed rooms, introducing her to all sorts of people from the chief executive of a local hospice to the raddled drummer of a famous band of old rockers. The great and the good were in evidence everywhere. Suffolk’s Assistant Chief Constable was chatting to a prominent surgeon from Ipswich Hospital. The Chief Fire Officer was listening to the Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk – a post currently held by a countess. And the canapés were delicious and the champagne cold.

‘When do I get to meet the Riders?’ Alex asked, after spending several minutes in the company of the pompous High Sheriff of Suffolk, complete with the gold medallions of office, who was telling her how the city council was about to adopt a zero-tolerance policy towards beggars on the streets.

She couldn’t wait to get away.

‘There’s Marianne, the matriarch, I guess you’d call her.’ David nodded across the room.

Marianne Rider was tall and elegant, wearing a crimson dress that was nipped in at the waist and fell to the floor. Her silver hair was carefully twisted in a chignon and diamonds glinted in her ears. As if she knew she was being looked at, Marianne Rider turned and stared at Alex. The woman’s face was tastefully wrinkled, though the number of lines around her mouth denoted a heavy smoker. Her lipstick matched her dress. A silver necklace glinted across her collarbone. She didn’t smile. She turned back to continue talking to the man next to her.

Alex almost shivered. She felt snubbed. Marianne Rider did not look a cosy sort of person.

‘And that’s her husband next to her, Joe Rider,’ said David.

Joe Rider was as tall as his wife and stood dutifully nodding at whatever she was saying while sipping from a glass. His dark navy suit was stretched across his paunch. He was sweating slightly, and he ran his fingers around the inside of his collar as if it was restricting his breathing.

‘I can’t see the three sons, but they must be around somewhere,’ said David. ‘Apparently Marianne likes the family to present a united front, so they always have to come to these events with their wives.’

‘Wives? You make it sound as though they’ve got several each.’

David laughed. ‘One of the sons is on his third wife, but I don’t think all three have to attend. Still, I’ll introduce you when I see them.’ He tried to sound casual, but Alex could hear the excitement in his voice. She didn’t like to tell him that she had done a bit of research before the evening and knew a little about the Riders. They were an old farming family who owned a lot of land in Suffolk, an awful lot of land, including an island off the coast. An island about which there were all sorts of stories, stories of strange lights and noises at night. Screams carrying over cold air. Bodies washed up on beaches. Local people said the island was haunted.

‘… diversification. Are you listening to me, Alex?’ David stared at her with irritation.

‘Sorry.’ She tried to look contrite.

‘What I was saying was that they have diversified and done very well out of it. They have “forest lodges for the backwoodsman” on some of their land.’

‘For townies to “experience” the countryside, I suppose,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘Yes, I read about that.’

‘There’s also a centre for holistic therapy, complete with yurts, and a couple of barns that can be used for corporate events or as wedding venues. Of the three sons, Simon, the youngest, is married, and has a degree in chemistry or something. The eldest, Lewis, is on his third wife as I said, and the middle son, Jamie, has just got divorced. There we are. A potted history.’

Alex wondered if she was meant to give him a round of applause.

The evening continued. Alex was now drinking water, much to David’s annoyance.

‘I need to keep a clear head, David,’ she told him more than once. ‘I’ve got to do an interview in the morning.’

‘But you shouldn’t waste all this,’ he said, sweeping his arm around the room.

‘I’m not, I’m enjoying talking to people.’ Some, anyway.

‘But—’

It was almost as if David wanted to get her drunk.

And just before the fireworks started he had manoeuvred her into the cold air of the garden for ‘a walk to clear their heads’.

‘My head is perfectly clear, thanks, David.’

‘Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.’

He was beginning to get a little bit annoying. She took a deep breath, she really didn’t want to ruin the evening. ‘What do you mean? I’m not a spoilsport, and anyway, it’s bloody cold out here.’ She rubbed her arms, trying to get rid of goosebumps. She tried to smile at him. ‘Come on, let’s go back into the warm.’ There was something about the way David was looking at her that was making her nervous.

He lunged towards her.

Startled, Alex jerked her head back. David stumbled, and she tried – and failed – to suppress a giggle. Then she saw his face: puce and furious.

‘David, I—’ she said, searching frantically for words to let him down gently, knowing her laugh had been cruel.

He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her towards him and managing to plant a wet kiss on her mouth.

‘No, David.’ She wriggled out of his grip, resisting the desire to wipe the back of her hand across her lips.

‘Why not? Aren’t I good enough for you?’ He flushed, his lips wet and flabby.

‘Don’t be silly. I see you as a friend, that’s all.’ She tried a smile. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now.’

‘With me?’

‘With anyone. I am sorry, David.’

‘You led me on.’ His face was suffused with anger, the veins in his neck like cords of rope.

Alex was taken aback. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You did.’ He thrust his chin forward, hands in fists.

Had she? Not to her knowledge. ‘David—’

‘Oh, forget it, you’re just like all the others.’ He marched off, leaving Alex even more confused. That had come out of absolutely bloody nowhere and there was no way she had ‘led him on’, as he put it. She really didn’t have any desire for a relationship at the moment. She’d been there, tried that.

‘It was David Gordon, wasn’t it?’

The man’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Fight for the Homeless charity?’

‘You were spying on me,’ she said mildly. ‘David and I were outside when we argued.’

The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Caught. I promise I wasn’t being pervy, I was merely looking out of the window when I saw the pair of you.’ He shook his head. ‘Arguing. Is that what you call it nowadays. Poor David. Never has much luck.’

‘I don’t think luck comes into it. I hadn’t encouraged him at all when he—’ She stopped. What was she doing explaining herself to a stranger? He had no right to know anything about her. She was irritated with herself. She put her glass down on a tray being carried by a passing waiter. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must leave.’

He put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Wait. Do you have to?’

‘Yes. I have to be up in the morning for a radio interview.’ She looked at his hand. He let it drop.

‘How intriguing.’

‘Not really.’ She gave him a brief smile as she turned to go.

‘Stay.’

She looked at him. ‘I really do have to get home.’

‘I’m Jamie Rider,’ he said as if she hadn’t spoken. He put out his hand.

Alex took it. She had known it was Jamie Rider, although he was far more impressive in real life than the photos she had found of him had led her to believe.

‘Alex Devlin,’ she said, shaking his hand.

His grip was warm and firm. ‘The journalist.’

‘Oh dear. You said it like it was a cross I had to bear.’ She laughed, lightly.

He laughed. ‘Not at all. Your book is like a bible for my mother.’

She gave a wry smile. The book. All the profiles she had put together about interesting people, the stories she had written about the danger of suicide forums on the Internet, the investigations she had done into dodgy business practices, all this counted for nothing against a book she had been commissioned to write after an article of hers had appeared in the paper about extreme couponing. The art of collecting coupons and vouchers and spending them well was a very popular subject. Popular enough to write a book about and for the book to get onto the bestseller lists. Popular enough to give her the cash to put a deposit down on a waterfront apartment in Woodbridge.

‘That’s good to hear,’ she said, thinking he was either having her on or was trying to ingratiate himself with her. After all, what possible pleasure would the imposing and somewhat terrifying Marianne Rider take in cutting out coupons from newspapers? It didn’t go with the red dress and frosty look.

‘Perhaps you could sign it for her some time?’

‘Of course.’ Really? she thought. ‘And you. What’s your niche on the farm? The backwoodsman lodges, the yurts or the haunted island?’

Jamie Rider threw back his head and laughed. ‘You make us sound like a family of weirdos.’

Alex raised an eyebrow.

‘Ah. You think we are a family of weirdos.’ He nodded. ‘Fair enough. But I don’t have anything to do with any of those projects. Never have. I’m far too boring. I work in the city.’

‘Banking,’ said Alex.

‘You’ve been doing your research. I’m impressed.’ He didn’t look impressed. ‘Yes, banking. Very dull.’

‘Not at all,’ she replied, trying to sound politely convincing. ‘I’m sure it has its own delights.’

Again he laughed, and Alex found she enjoyed hearing it. It made her smile. ‘But now,’ she looked at her watch, ‘I really must be going.’

‘No. The night is still young.’ He frowned. ‘You can’t disappear like some sort of Cinderella, not when I’ve just found you.’

‘I have been here all the time, and I’m afraid I must disappear. So, please excuse me.’

‘Can I give you a lift? I mean, since you and David …’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’

‘But the roads.’

‘I know the roads. And maybe I brought my car.’

‘Maybe you did, but you have been downing the champagne. And, if – as I imagine you did – you came as David Gordon’s guest, then you will have lost that lift home.’

‘Not necessarily. I’m sure he would take me home if I asked.’ Actually, she was bloody sure he wouldn’t. ‘In any case, the fresh air will do me good.’ She was enjoying the banter but she really did want to get home to her bed so she was fresh for the radio interview in the morning. Besides, she didn’t want or need any complications in her life, and Jamie Rider looked as though he could be a very big complication, if she let him in. No, she would go outside and order a taxi.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could see you another time? Show you around the farm? Book you in to realign your chakra?’

‘Maybe.’ She smiled, graciously, she hoped.

Chakra indeed. It really was time to leave.

CHAPTER FOUR

DAY ONE: LATE EVENING

Cora didn’t see the two men until it was too late.

Normally, she would catch the last bus home after an evening shift at the hospital, but tonight she had worked late thanks to an emergency admission and so she’d missed it, but a colleague gave her a lift part of the way, dropping her on Unthank Road – not too far for her to walk. However, this was Norwich, and there weren’t many people out late at night in that part of the city, which was well away from the nightclubs and the pubs the students frequented, so she hurried along, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Once or twice the hairs stood up on the back of her neck and she looked over her shoulder, convinced she was being followed, but she saw nobody.

She decided to take a shortcut through Chapelfield Gardens that was lit in part by sickly yellow sodium lights. A couple meandered along in front of her, hand-in-hand. She passed a group of four men, swaying with booze. They called out to her; she ignored them.

Two men stepped out of the dark in front of her. She stopped, smiled.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, pleasantly, hoping they would stand aside.

They didn’t.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, more loudly now, her heart fluttering in her chest. This was not a good situation. Still they didn’t move. She glanced around, wondering if she could shout for help, but the gardens were now empty. The two men moved smoothly to flank her either side, pressing her between their bodies. Both were much taller than she was.

‘Cora,’ one of them said without looking at her, ‘you shouldn’t be walking around on your own.’

‘Especially not here,’ said the other. ‘In a deserted park an’ all.’

‘Have you been following me?’ Her mouth was dry. Fuck it, she’d been right.

Man Number One, who was thickset with rubbery lips, smiled at her. ‘Since you left the hospital,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘We’d been waiting for you to leave. Though you didn’t make it easy, missing your bus and everything. Good job we had our car parked nearby. Especially as parking can be hell at NHS places, don’t you find?’

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Cora said, keeping her voice low and even as if she were talking to a frightened child, ‘but I would advise you to get out of my way.’

‘Or what, Cora?’

His lips were wet with saliva; it was all Cora could do not to shiver.

Then the two men began to hustle her along the path so fast that her feet were barely touching the ground. Her heart began to beat even faster.

‘What are you doing?’ She tried to wriggle free, but the two men merely gripped one of her arms each and carried on walking. All she could hope for was that they would pass someone and she could shout for help.

The group of drunks. There they were, ahead of her.

‘Help,’ she shouted, though it came out more like a whisper.

She gathered her breath, opened her mouth. One of the men punched her in the stomach. She bent over, winded.

‘All right, mate?’ she heard one of the drunks say as they hurried by.

‘All right,’ said Man Number One. ‘A few too many. Y’know.’ He laughed.

‘Fuckin’ do,’ said the drunk. They all laughed. Cora was still trying to catch her breath.

‘Look, Cora love,’ said the skinny man on her left, as they turned out of the gardens and began to walk down the road. ‘We don’t mean you no harm. Not intentionally, anyway. This is just a little warning.’

‘A warning, that’s right,’ said Man Number One, squeezing her shoulder hard. ‘Stop poking around, asking questions.’

‘Yeah, poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘Looking for Rick, you mean?’ she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach hurt. ‘Is that what it’s about?’ It was all she could think of.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why shouldn’t I look for Rick?’

‘It’s not just that. Boss reckons you interfere too much and people’ll start talking.’

‘Listening, you mean.’ Anger made her bold. ‘They might just start listening.’ She tried to shake them off, but they held on even tighter. Rain had begun to fall.

‘Whatever.’

‘Who’s your boss? One of the Riders? Which one?’

Her question was met with laughter. She knew she was right.

They were now in an alleyway at the back of a row of shops – Topshop, she thought. MacDonald’s. No one to hear her.

‘Boss knows you like chatting to the homeless,’ said Skinny Man, dragging her towards one of the large grey industrial wheelie bins, ‘so we thought you could spend a bit of time being in their gaff.’

Okay, she thought, so they were going to dump her in a bin to make a point. To frighten her. And they’d done that all right. She was frightened. And getting cold from the rain. But at least she could climb out of the bin when the men had gone.

All at once Man Number One grabbed her arms and jerked them behind her back, wrapping gaffer tape around her wrists. Before she could scream, Skinny Man had slapped tape over her mouth, wrapping more tape around her head. Fear coiled in her stomach. Man Number One pushed her and she fell heavily on to the ground, banging her head on the hard concrete. Her vision went black for a moment and she felt sick. Then more tape was wrapped around her legs from her knees to her ankles, before she heard one of them push open the lid of the wheelie bin, and then she was tossed inside like a piece of rubbish.

‘Take this as a warning,’ Skinny Man said, smiling down at her.

The lid slammed shut.

The smell hit her first. The sweet tang of rotting food. Fried onions. Mouldy old rags. Body odour – from old clothes? Chips. The sourness of beer. There would be maggots, she knew there would be maggots. Fat. Crawling. Wriggling. She was lying on cans. Bottles. Cardboard containers. Lying on all sorts of rubbish. Slime. In the dark. Terror rose in her throat. Bile too. No, she must not be sick. Not be sick.

Another thought: would the bin be emptied tonight? Her terror grew so it was almost uncontainable. She could scarcely breathe. She had heard about this. Knew it had happened to homeless people, or drunks who thought they’d found somewhere safe for the night. And then the bin lorry came along, scooped up the bin and emptied it into the lorry where the contents were crushed before being taken to the landfill site. Her body would never be found. She would never be able to help Rick. To bring those who deserved it to justice.