50
Lucy looks from Rachel to Anna, back to Rachel. Shock moves swiftly to decision – the women don’t discuss it for long.
‘You can back out now,’ Rachel says to Anna. ‘This isn’t your problem. It might be dangerous.’
‘I know I could,’ Anna says. ‘But Tom was kind to me. I feel as if I’m involved. I’m not running away. Marie needs to be found. It’s too far for Lucy to go on her own.’
It’s true, it’s imperative that they track Marie down, and fast. There’s no alternative, extreme as it is. Telling the police that the convicted killer may be on the loose is out of the question. They’ll only dismiss it out of hand. The story is so outlandish, it’ll be met with derision. Edgar has made sure of that, the levels of secrecy around his project impenetrable. She should be up north – there’s no easy way she could have escaped, but something dark is afoot in Oxford. The house fire is evidence enough of that. Either they wait here for her, sitting ducks, or they take the fight out to her.
Lucy knows what she’d prefer, every time. And by the mulish set in Anna’s jaw, Rachel’s too, they feel the same.
Of course, however much suspicion attaches to Marie, Edgar himself isn’t entirely off the hook for the fire. There’s still some reason to suspect him – he did have a motive to keep Victor from meddling. To keep evidence of his continued dealings with Marie quiet, too. Sure, he could have taken the notebook and destroyed it but soon enough, Victor would have noticed the lack of activity, started to ask questions. Edgar’s been psychologically mistreating these women for years – how far would he go to keep his reputation clean? It’s no wonder he didn’t want anyone to see that notebook.
So they can’t leave Edgar on his own. He needs to be contained until they can find out what’s going on. The only argument is whether it’s safe to leave Rachel alone with him. She’s adamant that she can handle it.
‘It’s only for a couple of days. I can manage. He’s going to be completely wiped out with a hangover all tomorrow – not in any fit state to kill me.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Marie’s the convicted killer here. You’re the ones who will need to watch out.’
Her tone is almost jovial, but no one laughs.
Now Lucy is sitting behind the wheel of Rachel’s car, Talking Heads on the radio. How did she get here? Rachel tried persuading Anna to drive, but she refused point blank, pale as paper as she said no, not immediately. She’d have to get used to the idea first.
‘It’ll be a lot for Lucy,’ Rachel said, not letting up the pressure. Lucy took one look at the fear on Anna’s face and told Rachel to lay off.
‘They do these distances in their sleep in the States,’ she’d said, taking the keys from Rachel’s hand.
They’re on the M6, heading north, the address of a shop in Gairloch written on a piece of paper. Rachel has found emails between Edgar and the Scottish grocery store, lists of provisions to be delivered to the safe house every week. The level of detail is staggering. Lucy can’t get her head round how devious he’s been; faking research grant applications, writing up findings, faking records of probation officers and employees who don’t even exist, moving funds over to his own account incrementally so as not to arouse suspicion that what he’s actually done with these two serving prisoners is stick them without supervision or infrastructure into the middle of nowhere, watched by numerous cameras for his private entertainment.
The corruption of power here has been absolute.
And to think that such a short time ago, Lucy was lying in a bed in Cambridge with this man, feeling as if all her Saturdays had come at once. So stupid. Exactly the kind of idiot she’s always despised, falling for her teacher like that.
Anna is dozing, her head flopped against the window of the passenger door as the miles roll by. The sky slowly lightens to grey. No sunrise to be seen today, no scattering of pink clouds, a glorious rising of orange into blue. It’s overcast, the colours dulled, muted, although the changing leaves on the trees along the verge offer some respite, a forest fire of amber and rust tones.
There’s been no time to make a proper plan. They’re going to have to rely on their wits. At least Anna’s years in prison have sharpened her instincts, given her experience of looking after herself, something Lucy knows she herself lacks, at least to the same extent. Between them, though, she hopes they’ll work it out.
And hope is all she’s got to go on. Hope that the journey will go smoothly, hope that they can locate the mysterious safe house. Hope that Marie is still there, not down in Oxford, wreaking havoc, as they fear she may be.
Right now, her most fervent hope is that the car is up to the trip. The engine’s been making banging noises for a while, and there’s a smell of hot metal leaking into the interior, almost like something is burning.
Not that she wants to think about it, but Lucy has a lurking sense of unease about whether she’s even legally driving the car. Rachel had assured her that she was covered by her insurance, and Lucy chose not to enquire too deeply. If they break down, it could be awkward.
The traffic is building up, rush hour nearing as they approach Manchester. Lorry after lorry, banks of them, the wheels as big as the Mini they’re driving. The smell of burning rubber is growing. Lucy’s nervous. She’s in the middle lane, no gap to either side of her, when she feels the power of the engine start to die. Her foot’s flat on the accelerator. Nothing.
She flicks the hazard lights on, hoping to God she’ll be able to steer the car on to the hard shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’ Anna startles awake.
‘The car’s dying,’ Lucy says, her heart pounding hard, hands icy cold as she clutches the steering wheel. The car behind is honking and she’s got about thirty seconds max before she loses all momentum and the car comes to a halt in the middle of the motorway.
She’s about to brace, ready for impact, when a truck driver in the lane next to them finally notices there’s an issue and brakes so that she has space to steer through a gap and on to the hard shoulder, where the car judders to a halt, smoke emerging from the bonnet.
It’s not a hard shoulder, though. It’s a smart motorway, the lane sometimes operational. And it could become operational now – at any moment.
‘Get your door open, get out now,’ Lucy screams at Anna, who blinks, still dopey from her sleep. ‘Now!’
At last, Anna clocks what’s happening and flings her door open, jumping out of the car with her holdall, just about managing to jump over the barrier to safety on the other side. Lucy is about to follow her, her hands shaking so much it takes her what feels like hours to undo her seatbelt. She sits waiting for a momentary break in the traffic so she can get out more safely, but the stream of cars is relentless. At last she climbs over to the passenger side and as she exits the car, there’s a screech of tyres, and—
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