At the same time, after nearly ten hours in the van, he was ravenously hungry.
‘Come on, Titus, old son,’ he muttered to himself at one point. ‘A guy has got to eat.’
Half an hour later, just as Vernon was about to put a call into his favourite Indian restaurant to see if they’d bike him a Tandoori king prawn and naan bread, his man made an appearance. The private investigator sat up straight in the driver’s seat. There at the front door, silhouetted by the light from the hall, Titus Savage kissed his wife on the cheek before turning for his 4x4. He had one of those holdalls on wheels with him. It looked heavy, judging by the effort Titus put into heaving it onto the back seat. If Titus was about to head out on business, Vernon would be ready.
The private investigator may have neglected to pack a sandwich, but he had an overnight bag on the back seat and a passport in the glove compartment. Living alone, he could fly at a moment’s notice. The company that hired him were convinced that Titus operated outside the law. Desperate for evidence, and with time running out, they had instructed Vernon to do whatever was necessary. Checking his key was in the ignition, Vernon waited for Titus to pull out onto the road and hoped they were heading somewhere nice. New York or Barcelona. Any place known for its restaurants and street food.
Vernon kept his distance as they made their way out of the city. He had tailed many people throughout the course of his career, and never been spotted by anyone. Titus wasn’t difficult to follow. He was a careful, considered driver. He didn’t once break the speed limit, and slowed long before he passed through a speed trap. In a way, it was just too easy. Vernon drove with one hand on the wheel, sighing to himself every now and then as he braked to keep his distance. Without doubt, Titus was heading for the motorway orbital. The private investigator knew this stretch of road well. He was also well aware that they were about to pass a drive-in. His stomach had been rumbling over the sound of the van’s radio. Having last eaten at breakfast time, he felt weak with hunger. It would take him no time at all to collect a maxi bag of chicken nuggets and a strawberry shake. He’d easily catch up with Titus before he reached the motorway. As the neon sign for the drive-in loomed into view, it seemed to him that there could be no other option. Given that his next meal might not come until he was strapped into an airplane seat, it made sense to fuel up now. Leaving Titus to trundle on, Vernon accelerated off the road and screeched to a halt before the serving hatch. It was, without a doubt, the most exciting thing he’d done all day.
‘Make it snappy,’ he told the youngster serving him. ‘Got a flight to catch.’
A minute after placing his order, with the shake lodged between his thighs and a bucket of nuggets riding alongside him, Vernon fishtailed back onto the road and hit the accelerator. By his reckoning, Titus would be back in his sights within thirty seconds at most.
Twenty miles later, cursing at the top of his voice, Vernon English was forced to join the motorway with no sign of the man he had set out to follow. He wasn’t even sure that Titus had headed in the direction of the airport. All he could do was follow his instinct and drive there any way. Just then, with the shake finished, the last nugget in the bucket at his side tasted like a very bitter pill indeed.
11
Thankfully for the Savages, Lulabelle Hart had been supple and forgiving when they came to fold her into the holdall. From experience, Titus knew that the muscles in a corpse slowly began to stiffen from around the three-hour mark. It took between twelve and twenty-four hours before the body became totally rigid for a while. So long as everything went to plan, as it had on previous occasions, he would be unpacking her with plenty of time to spare. Titus anticipated a little resistance, of course, but he really didn’t want to be breaking a sweat trying to straighten the model’s limbs before letting her go.
Even with rigor mortis in mind, Titus was in no hurry to reach the coast. Rushing always led to mistakes, which was something he had learned at a very early age. It was his late mother who taught him the importance of patience. We take our time in the kitchen and look at the results, she would say. It’s the same when it comes to covering our tracks.
On the way, Titus considered what to do with his son. Ivan was a complicated boy, but this incident in the bathroom was quite a wake-up call. A cry for help, in many ways, he thought to himself on reflection. It left Titus feeling guilty. As a father, had he let him down? Work took up so much of his time, especially lately with the big takeover he had lined up. Still, that was no excuse. If he’d spent the day with Ivan, instead of shutting himself away in his study, then he wouldn’t be driving into the night with a dead diva in the boot.
By the time he arrived at his destination, which took the shape of an empty headland car park, Titus resolved to return a different man. He owed it not just to his son but Sasha, too. He had been a little hard on her about this boy. She had shown maturity in handling the situation, and as her father he needed to acknowledge that. Just then, however, he had a job to do. Titus climbed out of the 4x4, collecting his coat and a scarf from the passenger seat. It was a clear, cool night, with a hint of salt on the breeze. A mothball moon hung over the ocean. The water glittered underneath it, like a silver carpet rolled out from the horizon, but now was not the time to admire the view. Extending the handle to the holdall, Titus made his way across the headland towards the cliff edge.
As a beauty spot, Beachy Head was unbeatable. As a suicide magnet, the towering chalk cliff edge was notorious for drawing the despondent. Given the impact wound to the back of Lulabelle’s Hart’s head, dropping her body onto the rocks way below seemed like the only option available to Titus. She’d pick up many more injuries on her way down, after all, which would cover the real cause of death. At the foot of the cliff, she’d just be another sad statistic. He took no pleasure in considering this. If anything, he felt quite maudlin as he plodded across the grass. Titus was so lost in thought, in fact, dwelling on how he’d failed his son, that for a moment he didn’t register the figure sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. When he finally realised what he was facing, he stopped in his tracks and released his grip on the holdall handle. Then, moving slowly so as not to startle or alarm the young man, Titus stepped wide until he drew alongside him. He guessed the guy was in his early twenties, despite weeping to himself like a lost little boy.
‘It’s a beautiful night,’ said Titus finally, with both hands in his coat pockets. ‘It would be a shame if this was your last.’
The young man looked around with a start. Hurriedly, he wiped the tears from his cheeks. Titus nodded in greeting, and then returned his gaze to the horizon line.
‘Leave me alone,’ he heard him mutter. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘No, but I know why you’re here. You’re a jumper, right?’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘But it’s true.’ Titus turned to face him. ‘And the fact that you can’t even handle hearing the word tells me you don’t really want to take your own life. Right now, the idea is more attractive than the reality.’
The young man choked back a sob. Titus noted the bicycle in the grass behind him, and marked him down as a local.
‘It’s all gone wrong,’ he croaked. ‘Everything.’