Sam shrugs and stands to leave. She can’t lie to Lindsay about the outcome she anticipates for Richie Scott. Instead, she says, “Look on the bright side, Linds. At least you don’t have to jump in the swimming pool today.”
They drive to Acacia Gardens and Sam sits in the car as Lindsay heads into the house to pack. Sam takes the pink phone from her pocket and accesses Lindsay’s Facebook, unfriending and blocking Richie Scott. She switches the phone to silent and checks that no alarms are set to go off. Then she attaches a charging cable and plugs that into a power bank. She pops them all in a plastic ziplock bag and leaves the little package sitting in her door pocket for later.
On her own phone, she texts Neil to let him know that the plan is in motion. She books Lindsay on to a train out of King’s Cross, up to Newcastle. Rail strikes mean that there’s only one train they can take, otherwise Lindsay will have to stay in London tonight and that’s too risky. Sam pulls up Google Maps. Richie will be tracking Lindsay’s phone as soon as the Bristol City match ends, if not before. Plus, she needs to make one stop-off along the way. The timings are certainly tight, but not impossible if they leave now.
Lindsay emerges through the duck-egg door carrying a pink duffel bag and a large teddy bear. When she sees Sam eyeing the toy, Lindsay explains that it’s a childhood favorite that she couldn’t leave behind. Sam smiles, seeing the teddy as a sign that Lindsay is leaving for good this time and intends to never step foot inside Richie Scott’s house again.
Lindsay falls asleep as soon as they hit the M4. Sam hopes that she isn’t severely concussed or damaged after Richie’s latest beating. She tunes the radio to a sports station and listens to the scores come in. Bristol City are two-nil down. Richie will be furious.Good, Sam thinks. She checks the time. It’s getting late. Soon the crowds will flow out of Ashton Gate and he’ll see thatsomething is amiss. The women have a few hours’ head start at most. She prays that Richie doesn’t track Lindsay’s phone before the full-time whistle blows. She pushes her foot down on the accelerator. The little Fiesta rattles as it tops eighty miles per hour.
They hit a huge traffic jam waiting to enter London, and by the time they pull up outside 132 Stafford Terrace, Sam is sweating. She’ll have to be quick or they’ll miss the train, and she knows that, by now, Richie Scott will be after them.
“Where are we?” Lindsay asks, waking up for the first time since Bath and taking in the fine London city street that they’ve stopped in. “This isn’t the train station.” The area is impressive and reminds Sam of Charlotte Mathers’ home. There are flowering hanging baskets and gloss-black railings adorning towering white houses that are worth millions.
“Just dropping something off, Linds. Then I’ll get you to King’s Cross.”
Lindsay glances at her watch and pales.
“The football’s finished, Sam.” Panic suffuses her voice. “Richie will be coming for me. Can’t you do this later? Please, just get me out of here!”
Sam offers a quick word of reassurance but is preoccupied with looking in her car mirrors, waiting for the street to be clear. She pulls a hat and sunglasses on as a rudimentary disguise, but would much rather avoid being seen anywhere near this house. When the street is as empty as it’s going to be, she jumps out of the car, slipping the plastic package from her door pocket. She climbs the steep steps to a black front door with an ornate brass knocker, then pauses, looking around her, before standing on tiptoe and reaching into one of the hanging baskets. If she were a woman of average height, she wouldn’t have a chance, but she manages to push the bag deep into the soil in the basket. She stands back, examining the basket from all angles. Nothing of the package canbe seen. She descends the steps three at a time and jumps back in the car.
“What were you doing that’s so important?” Lindsay asks, her voice shrill.
“Just a quick errand,” Sam replies, then slams the accelerator and skids out of the street.
“You have posh friends,” Lindsay says, relaxing a little now that they’re on the move again.
“Not a friend. Just a lawyer,” Sam states, taking the road toward King’s Cross station. “He’s a rotten guy, to be honest with you.”
Lindsay pulls her teddy bear to her chest. “Aren’t all men rotten?”
“Not all of them, Linds,” Sam says. She has the sudden urge to text Adam Taylor, to ask him to meet her for dinner, or even just a walk around Battersea Park with Toni. She doesn’t have long left in London, but if it’s his weekend off they could do something together. She knows he’d answer on the first ring if she called.
Still, she can’t help picturing how it would be. Perhaps he’d arrive with an expensive bouquet of flowers that she’d have no vase for and that would look completely out of place in her empty lounge. He’d stroke Toni behind the ears and the little scruff would walk treacherously at Adam’s heel instead of hers. She’d take him around the lake and he might say, “This is beautiful, Sam. It’s a shame you’re thinking about moving away from here. We could do this kind of thing more often.”
After the Rosery Gardens, where they’d pretend to be a Victorian couple taking the air, they’d sit on a bench in the Old English Garden and she’d feel the press of his body against hers.
“Newcastle is only three hours away, Sam,” he might say, and she could smile and let her eyes rest on his for long enough to mean something. His hand would reach over and take hold of hers, pretending to rub her cold fingers for warmth, but reallyasking a question. And she might nod and exhale as he leans in, his eyes closing and his lips moving toward—
“There it is!” Lindsay almost yells. “King’s Cross. Shit, Sam! You missed the turning.”
“Sorry!” She indicates and pulls into a side street. “My head was somewhere else.”
“I’m running for my life here, Sam,” Lindsay squeaks. “Please can you concentrate?”
“Sorry, Linds.” She works her way through the traffic until she finds a vacant space along the station’s western wall. She hugs Lindsay and talks her through what to do next, then watches as her friend and her teddy bear vanish into the crowds of King’s Cross.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief, then takes out her phone, her finger hovering over Taylor’s name.
Maybe, she thinks.Maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sam hears about it secondhand, of course. It doesn’t make the evening news, because that’s still being wasted on Andrei Albescu; apparently serial killers are evergreen headlines. She’s eating supper when she receives a text from Adam Taylor. She pausesOnly Fools and Horsesand reads the message several times over:
Julius Windsor (the lawyer with the flamingo tie) has been attacked. We’re looking for Richie Scott—he’s on the run. Thought you’d want to know. See you soon? Axx.
Sam doesn’t reply, but she smiles to herself.
