He could smell her perfume on his fingers.
He’d be able to smell it in the bedroom too.
He always could.
As he got to his feet, the phone rang.
Eight
‘What’s your name?’
Shanine Connor jumped slightly in her seat as the silence inside the car was suddenly broken.
She glanced across at the driver who took his eyes off the road momentarily and smiled at her.
Her own expression remained blank. Instead, she ran cautious eyes over the driver’s features. He was in his early forties, his face a little on the chubby side, his hair thick and lustrous, although in the gloomy interior of the Astra it was difficult to tell what colour.
The only other light was supplied by the lamps on the M60. There wasn’t much traffic travelling in either
direction, and even when vehicles did pass by on the opposite carriageway, Shanine hardly noticed their headlamps. She was too concerned with checking the wing mirror beside her. Glancing in it every few moments.
Checking.
She was sure she’d seen a dark blue Nissan tuck in behind the Astra about twelve miles back.
She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t still there.
Following?
The Nissan had had plenty of opportunities to overtake, but she was sure it had sat in the inside lane, keeping a respectable distance, sometimes dropping back out of sight, sometimes coming closer.
Wasn’t it?
She held the holdall close to her, one hand resting on the side of the bag where she had secreted the kitchen knife.
The driver had offered to put the holdall in the back seat for her but she’d shaken her head vehemently, preferring to keep it near.
He’d told her his name but she’d forgotten it. He’d been trying to make conversation for the last fifteen miles, ever since they left Manchester. All she could remember was that he’d said he was heading back home to Liverpool but otherwise her attention was elsewhere.
Like on the Nissan that was following?
Following?
She gazed into the wing mirror again and could see no sign of the vehicle.
Her heart began to thud a little faster against her ribs.
‘I said what’s your name?’ the driver repeated, again looking at her.
‘Shanine’ she told him without looking round.
‘That’s a nice name’ he said, tapping on his steering wheel gently, muttering to himself.
The car began to slow down.
‘What’s wrong?’ Shanine asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.
‘Bloody roadworks,’ the driver groaned. ‘It’s going down to one lane. We’ll be at a crawl for the next few miles.’
Shanine shot a glance at the wing mirror.
No sign of the Nissan.
‘They’re always doing something to this road,’ the driver continued. ‘Soft bastards.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘Excuse my French.’
Shanine managed a nervous smile.
‘So why are you leaving Manchester?’ the driver asked. ‘I mean, I can understand why, but I was just curious, like. I mean, I only go there because I have to work there.’
She didn’t answer, preoccupied with what was visible in the wing mirror.
The Astra had slowed right down to around twenty miles an hour now, as the driver guided it between two rows of plastic bollards.
‘You seemed in a hurry to get away,’ he said, grinning. ‘Someone chasing you?’
She turned to face him, the colour draining from her face.
‘What makes you say that?’ she demanded.
He glanced across at her, saw the concern etched across her features.
‘Just joking.’ he said, almost apologetically.
Shanine spotted the Nissan.
The road had opened out into two lanes again, and the Nissan was moving up fast behind the Astra.
They were approaching a slip road, leading to a service area.
‘Can you drop me off there?’ Shanine asked.
‘I can take you all the way to Liverpool if you want.’
‘No’ she said, watching as the Nissan swept past, its rear lights disappearing.
She felt her heart slow its frantic pounding and slumped back in her seat.
‘Where are you going, anyway?’ the driver asked.
‘Drop me on the slip road, you don’t have to drive right up to the service station’ she told him, ignoring the question.
‘Don’t be soft’ he muttered, indicating, guiding the Astra up the incline.
She was reaching for the door handle as soon as he began to slow down.
‘Thanks’ she said, clambering out.
‘I can take you further …’ he began, but she was already out of the car, walking hurriedly towards the Little Chef which lay beyond the petrol station area of the services.
The Astra driver watched her for a moment, then stuck the car in gear and drove on. As he passed he saw her entering the restaurant. She paused at the door and looked anxiously around her before stepping inside.
The driver glanced into his rear-view mirror, wondering about Shanine.
What was she running from?
Boyfriend? Parents?
As he guided the car back onto the slip road that took him back to the motorway, he pondered.
Had he known the truth he might well have been relieved she was no longer in his car.
Nine
Catherine Reed could hear the sound as she turned the key in the door.
A high-pitched beeping noise which came every three seconds. The audio alert on her answering machine. There were messages.
She pushed the door of the flat closed and locked it, pulling the chain across; then she put down her car keys and door key on the small wooden table just inside the hallway.
The drive from Camden Town to her flat in Hammersmith had taken longer than usual. There’d been some sort of security alert in Central London and traffic had been diverted. Cath felt as if she’d been stuck behind the wheel of her Fiat for hours.
She pressed the Play button on the answering machine and the metallic voice announced that she had five messages.
She turned up the volume on the machine and wandered into the sitting room where she kicked off her trainers, sitting on the edge of the sofa as she massaged her feet.
The first message was from a friend, asking if she wanted to meet up for a few drinks in a couple of days’ time.
Cath padded across to the TV set and flicked it on, pressing the mute button on the remote so that just the picture glowed before her.
The second message was a guy called John Linley. She’d met him at the opening
of an art exhibition about a week ago and, for reasons which she couldn’t remember now, she’d given him her number. The message invited her to call back.
Cath shook her head.
She sat looking at the silent TV screen as the messages continued.
A wrong number.
The caller had even waited for the tone to apologise.
On the screen, two politicians were gesturing at each other, their posturing somehow more interesting without the benefit of their empty words.
She changed channels.
Boxing.
Cath pressed another button.
A seventies sit-com - at least she guessed it was, from the way the characters were dressed.
She pressed again.
A Western. She peered at it for a moment, recognised William Holden and Ernest Borgnine and smiled to herself.
“The Wild Bunch,’ she said, chuckling as the ad break caption confirmed her guess.
The fourth message on the machine was from her brother.
Cath got to her feet and walked back to the machine, jabbed the Replay button and listened more carefully to the words.
‘Cath, it’s Frank. Give me a call tomorrow night will you?
‘ need to talk to you. Any time after nine o’clock. Hope you’re well. See you.’