The red trilogy, p.15
The RED Trilogy, page 15
“What on earth is going on here?” the woman demanded when she saw the bandages that had been removed.
“They . . . they were coming off,” Zoë told her. “I was just trying to fix them and—”
“What are you doing in here anyway? Who are you people?” She looked from Duncan to Zoë, then back again.
“We . . . We’re related,” said Duncan, the panic rising in his voice. “Erm, to the . . . To Aunt Matilda,” he finished, sounding like the most guilty man alive. If Zoë had given an Oscar-worthy performance out there, then Duncan’s was worthy of a Razzie.
The nurse, face scrunching up, looked back over her shoulder and said: “I can see I shall have to have a little word with Nurse Bishop and remind her of the visiting hours.”
“It’s not her fault,” Zoë protested, “we only want to—”
“Yes, I can see what you only wanted to do,” said the woman, nodding towards the bandages again. “It’s nearly time for them to be changed again anyway. So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .” Her tone wasn’t quite as harsh as it had been when she’d arrived (maybe thinking that they’d put in a complaint or something) but neither was it welcoming. They should cut their losses and just get out of there.
Duncan was way ahead of her, almost at the entrance of the room—where he waited for his companion. “She’s scary,” he said to Zoë as she joined him and they retraced their steps back up the corridor. Nurse Bishop watched them leave, a worried expression on her face, and all Zoë could do was mouth a ‘sorry’ at her for the bollocking the woman would get.
“So. . . ?” asked Duncan when they’d put enough distance between themselves and Able Ward.
“It was our mark all right,” Zoë told him. “And if that’s the kind of thing it’s capable of . . .” She paused, more because she wasn’t quite sure what to say next rather than for effect. In the end the rest of it got away from her and she just shook her head.
They were coming up on the section with the tables, chairs and vending machines. “Come on,” said Duncan, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”
In spite of herself, Zoë smiled. Maybe he did know women after all.
Maybe there was hope for Duncan yet.
Chapter Six
He sat across from her in the curry house, and couldn’t help staring.
Gazing at the way her golden hair caught the light from those candles, the curve of her mouth, the way her eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled at something. The way she delicately sipped her water.
Stop it . . . Just what. The actual fuck. Do you think. You’re doing?
This wasn’t good. Hunter needed to get a grip. But still he found himself staring, so intently at one point he didn’t even notice Rachael had stopped talking.
“Are you okay?” she asked him after a moment or two.
“What? Yeah . . . sure.” He flashed her an easy smile. “Sure.”
“Are you sure you’re sure?” she asked and grinned back.
Hunter nodded. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t caught her looking over at him a few times, giving him admiring glances. Checking him out. But that was hardly the point . . . Or maybe it was.
Maybe she felt it as well, that connection—call it whatever you wanted—that . . . something he’d felt ever since he’d talked to her that morning. Something in his gut, something undeniable. They’d met before, he was certain of it, and not last Friday night either. Back then he’d hardly noticed her, was too focussed on the mission—the tracking (the losing of his prey). Had, in his head, stopped the creature from taking either of those girls that night, whichever one it had its eye on—maybe both?—but assumed the trouble that had been caused in the process might have scared the beast off. As it turned out, Rachael had become a bit of a fixation for the thing and, having spent several hours with her now himself, Hunter could certainly see why.
No, he told himself again. You should be focussing on the task in hand.
Instead of which he was just delighting in her company, and he got the feeling it was mutual.
He hadn’t meant things to go this way, had kept tabs on Rachael since speaking to her that morning, of course—in case anything should happen—but had only intended to go back to her place later on and talk with her some more about the previous weekend, now that there was no doubt whatsoever about the creature’s involvement. Maybe check out the mother who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, though that had turned out to be his suspicious mind working overtime.
Hunter had pressed the buzzer and explained who he was, had been let in with a curt, “You’d better come up, then,” and found himself face-to-face with said mother. Well, almost face-to-face; he’d had his back to her when she opened the flat door, so he could do a swift mirror-check. He’d become quite adept at this, a quick glance to establish whether the person he was dealing with was human or not. A magician couldn’t have performed sleight of hand as deftly as Hunter.
Rachael’s mother was okay . . . at least as far as the ’shifter thing went. And though he could see a resemblance between the pair, this woman’s features had become distorted by bitterness and regret. “Mrs Daniels,” he’d said as he turned, and she’d pursed her lips at the title—as if any reminder that she was married pained her physically (he’d found out later on from Rachael this was because her father, Kathleen Daniels’ husband, had cut out on them when his daughter was only small).
Unlike Rachael, her mother had insisted on seeing some ID and he’d produced another fake one which she’d scrutinised as closely as a diamond smuggler trying to establish whether his cargo was genuine or not. “SCI?” she’d said. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s a specialist unit, regional and international,” he’d told her. “Dealing with serious crimes.”
“Sounds made up.”
“You can call my commanding officer—speak to her, if you like?” That would give Zoë a ‘thrill’, he felt certain.
But she’d relented at that point, allowing him across the threshold but still keeping a beady eye on Hunter as he entered the living room. “I suppose you’d better take a seat,” she’d told him, calling for Rachael, who appeared just as he was settling down into a chair.
Rachael was wearing a sleeveless blouse and a pair of jeans, had put on make-up, albeit subtle (and he wondered then if that had been for his benefit). He’d taken the hint from that morning and smartened himself up before coming round. Hunter was currently wearing a pair of trousers, a shirt and a tie . . . loosely (all of which helped to portray the image of someone in authority, he hoped). He’d held on to the leather jacket, though, mainly because he was still on the bike.
“Hello Tom,” she’d said.
“Hey,” he’d said back, aware that Rachael’s mother was scrutinising every gesture, every movement: had winced when Rachael had used that name, the one that wasn’t actually his. Hunter didn’t think it was him especially, he’d seen this kind of thing before; Mrs Daniels was simply protective (he couldn’t say he blamed her; he’d only really met Rachael that morning and he wanted to do the same). Hunter was suffering for nothing more than being the wrong sex, copper or otherwise.
He thought about telling Rachael how nice she looked, but decided against it. Apart from anything else, it would look unprofessional—and he wanted, needed, the mother on side. Needed to gain her trust.
“Maybe Tom might like a drink or something?” Rachael had suggested.
He held up his hand. “I’m fine thanks.”
Rachael seemed disappointed by that answer. “Well, I’d quite like one . . . Coffee, if there’s one going?”
“Another?” asked Mrs Daniels, but Rachael had just nodded. “You’ll never sleep tonight.”
“Maybe I don’t really want to,” Rachael answered then, and Hunter got the sense that this girl had had more than her fair share of run-ins with the woman. More than her share of wins, as well.
Mrs Daniels had tipped her head, gone off to what Hunter assumed was the kitchen, because the next thing he heard was the kettle being switched on, the noise as the water started to boil.
“Your mother seems . . .” He hadn’t known quite what to say, or how to describe her without causing offence.
“She’s an acquired taste,” Rachael said as she sat on the couch, curling her legs up beneath her. “But her heart’s in the right place.”
“I’m sure it is.” Hunter found he was staring at her even then; Rachael was a good few years younger than him, it had to be said, and not at all his usual type. But there was just something . . .
Job in hand, he’d reminded himself, and it had been a little easier to focus back then. A little. “Now, getting back to the events of last Saturday, I—”
“How did you come to be in this line of work, Tom?”
He hadn’t been expecting the question—hadn’t been expecting any questions apart from his own—and it threw him, not least because the answer was more complicated than he was willing to go into with her. So he simply said: “I-I guess it’s just in my nature to right wrongs.” There was silence for a moment and he suddenly felt he needed to explain himself a bit more. “I think there has to be a balance. For all the bad things that happen, there needs to be something good. For all the bad . . . people, there should be those who stand against them.”
“So is that what’s happening now,” she asked him directly. “Something good out of something bad?”
He opened his mouth, but before he could get her to clarify what she meant her mother was back with a tray of drinks. She was having trouble walking with it, carrying it, so Tom rose and crossed the room to help her, which she seemed to appreciate. She’d ignored Rachael’s request and made her a tea, along with the rest of them. “Milk, sugar?” she’d asked Tom, but he shook his head.
As they’d sat there he made several attempts to question Rachael, all of which were either sidestepped or interrupted by her mum. “Is this all really necessary?” Mrs Daniels had asked at one point. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”
He could—and that was exactly why he needed to know everything.
In the end, Rachael just stood and announced that she needed some fresh air. “Again?” her mother responded.
“Can . . . can we maybe just go for a walk, Tom?” said Rachael, ignoring the remark. “And you can ask your questions then?”
Hunter had shrugged, said: “Of course. If that’s what you want.”
It definitely hadn’t been what her mother wanted, that was for sure. The woman protested about “going off with strange men” which only confirmed Hunter’s suspicions. “Mike, Will . . . now this one.”
“Tom’s a policeman, Mum.”
“Like that means anything,” she’d replied.
“I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”
Hunter assured Mrs Daniels that she would and she seemed to accept that—grudgingly. “Just don’t keep her out too long,” was her parting shot as Rachael had grabbed her coat and they’d left the flat. “She’s still not up to it.”
Rachael had turned to him and offered, by way of an apology it seemed, “Like I said, acquired taste.”
So they’d walked and they’d talked, about anything except what he’d come here to find out. After a little while, though, Hunter found he didn’t really care. He was enjoying hearing about Rachael’s childhood, her aspirations to be an actress, her ‘bold’ move to the city. She’d prodded him a few more times, trying to get to the bottom of who he was and why he’d chosen this life for himself. All he’d tell her was that, in a way, it had chosen him, and she let the matter drop eventually.
Rachael had insisted on going for a coffee at a place she knew, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Oh, excuse me. It’s not the company, I promise.”
Hunter had laughed. “No worries.”
“Don’t know what’s come over me lately, I get so tired all of a sudden.”
“Well, your mum was right about one thing—you have been through a lot,” he reminded her.
One coffee turned into a couple, which turned into a suggestion that they eat. “I don’t know about you,” said Rachael, “but I’m starving.”
“I could eat,” he’d said to her, but as soon as she’d mentioned food he realised he hadn’t had anything all day again and his stomach made a noise. “Yeah, I could definitely eat. But you should call home first, let your mother know I haven’t abducted you or anything.”
She gave him a ‘do I really have to?’ look, then said: “Was that on the cards, then? Abduction?”
He laughed again and told her to ring. When she said she didn’t have her phone with her—“Very rarely do!”—he’d offered her his mobile. He hadn’t been able to hear everything that was said, but he could tell from the tone of voice that Mrs Daniels was not a happy camper.
“What did she say?” he asked when Rachael was finished.
“She said ‘At least you’re going to be eating something’. But I don’t think she’s very impressed with your work ethics.”
Hunter conceded the point. It must have looked funny, a cop taking the person he was questioning out for a meal, especially when you weren’t the most trusting person in the world. “Would you like me to speak to her?” he asked.
Rachael shook her head. “I’m a grown woman, Tom. I can do what I like . . . I don’t need her permission. Now let’s go and eat.”
Which is how they’d ended up at the curry house, waiting for their food. The smell from the kitchens, he had to admit, was driving him crazy; not even the poppadoms that had been provided were helping. So he concentrated on Rachael instead, which was a mistake. The kind of thoughts he was having about her . . .
Stop this . . . Stop it right now. Not a good idea.
But Rachael was so—
Not HER! a voice in his head screamed. Not Caroline.
She stopped talking and was looking over at him. What had she been talking about? Her work, the old people she looked after, that was it. And that was also his cue to get back on track again. He took a swig of the lager in front of him.
“The old lady that was attacked—Miss Brindle.” Hunter saw her bristle, but pushed on. “She was left in a bit of a state. Did you actually see what happened there?”
Rachael had been nibbling at the corner of a piece of poppadom, but put it back down again quickly. “Talking shop now, are we?”
“It’s what I’m here for,” he reminded Rachael, though he didn’t like the fact he’d upset her.
She sighed. “It’s like I said before, my memory of what happened . . . There are blanks. Big blanks.”
“There was mention of some kind of animal, wasn’t there? That would be consistent with her injuries.”
“I…” Rachael screwed her face up, as if trying to remember. “I’m not sure . . . It’s . . .” She shook her head.
“It’s okay. Don’t push it if it won’t come.” He’d seen this kind of thing before as well, people blocking out what they’d seen. Nevertheless, it was important.
Their dishes arrived, wheeled over by a sycophantic waiter with a broad smile. “Chicken Tikka Rogan Josh,” he announced, placing the steaming bowl down on the table (that was Hunter’s selection) and then, “Lamb curry” (which Rachael had plumped for). The waiter slid away sideways with an “Enjoy your meal” and Hunter held his hand out for Rachael to go ahead and start.
She licked her lips, spooning lumps of lamb onto her plate, while Hunter covered half of his plate in rice. But if Rachael’s sipping at the water had been delicate, then her eating of the meat was at the other end of the scale. Hunter was a little taken aback as the girl opposite attacked the food, shovelling it into her mouth, chewing and then forking more in even before she’d swallowed. She really had been hungry.
When she caught him watching, Rachael slowed up, sipped more water. “Sorry,” she said. “It just looks so . . .” She gave a half-smile. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Hunter tried some of his tikka. “It is nice.”
They ate more or less in silence, but when he thought the time was right Hunter tried a different approach. “Friday night, when we first met . . . if you can call it meeting.”
Rachael nodded, chewing more chunks of lamb.
“There was a guy there, at the Forrester’s Arms.”
“Yeah,” she said, speaking with her mouth full. “Mike . . . My ex. I told you about him.”
“No, no. Another guy. The one he was fighting with.” Rachael suddenly stopped chewing. “Your mum mentioned a name back there: Will. Was that him, or someone else?”
Rachael began chewing again, but more slowly. She took another drink of her water.
“Did you even know that man, Rachael? Have you seen him again?”
More silence.
“I only ask because I think he might still be around. He might be around and he’s definitely a very dangerous—”
Rachael stood up, as quickly as she had done when she’d decided she needed air back at the flat. All the colour had drained from her face. “Would . . . would you excuse me a moment,” she said, then made her way around the table.
“Rachael?” asked Hunter. “Rachael are you all—” But she was already on her way to the toilets.
He watched her disappear, then turned back to the space she’d occupied only moments ago, rubbing his face.
What the fuck are you doing? he asked himself again. Just what the actual fuck. . . ?
* * *
What was she doing?
Rachael didn’t have a clue. Pouring out her life story to some total stranger, a guy she’d only just met today (met him last Friday . . . no, didn’t meet him—saw him and he saw you . . . don’t think about that . . .). Why? Because she felt something, some kind of . . . what? She was attracted to him, of course she was—who wouldn’t be, especially now he’d ditched the denim and was in that shirt. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? She felt like she knew him. Knew him better than she did most of her friends (and where exactly is Steph, by the way?), thought she did at any rate. So what was this then, a reincarnation thing? Rachael didn’t believe in all that nonsense (what about those dreams though, those daydreams . . . those nightmares? What about Red?).
