Two young officers stopped talking as soon as Elise walked in. The only window was broken and choked with vegetation invading from the roof but she could see a stained sun lounger, a sleeping bag, a bucket, and a table spread with letters and bills.
“Never mind bollocking people. That can wait. Let’s get going up here. This was where Charlie was hiding. But who from? And what made him leave? It doesn’t look like he was coming back, does it?”
“No. He had his laptop and passport in his bag.”
“He was going on the run. But he didn’t make it out of the house.”
“Look, there’s lots to get on with here, boss. I’m taking you home. We’ll have more in the morning.”
Elise suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue. She trudged back down, stepping over broken treads and clinging to the banisters as the many faces of Charlie Perry danced in her head: devoted father, local saint, frightened victim, fake. . . .
BEFORE
Forty-six
SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2019
Five days earlier
Charlie
The sun lounger creaked ominously as he turned over and tried to sit up the first time. His watch said two twenty-five. And it was definitely daylight. So Saturday afternoon. Charlie touched his head to check it was still there. He felt like death. His mouth tasted of death. He hadn’t drunk himself to a standstill like that for a while and his bladder felt like it was about to explode. He tried to swing his legs over the side of his makeshift bed and realized he was too late. It already had. He felt the sticky dampness of his trousers against his legs. Smelled it. God, has it really come to this? He needed to get himself together. Get ready. He found the brandy bottle and finished the last of it, slumped backward, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again, the sun was shining on his face and his watch said eight ten and it took him a moment to figure out it must be Sunday. Christ!
He made as if to leap into action but it took him another five minutes to inch and then heave himself upright. He shuffled over to a bucket he’d put under a leak in the roof, peed slowly and intermittently into it, and then rubbed his face to get the blood going.
“Come on, Charlie,” he croaked. “Think.”
He reached for an open bottle of water and glugged it down as he tried to track the lost hours since Friday night. They came back to him in flashes. Lots of flashes. Bright lights. Brandy. A great deal of brandy. And people. Hundreds of people crushing him. Grass. It had smelled so good when he’d lain down on it. And a van. Someone putting him in a van. And falling down on the drive. And the stairs. So many bloody stairs to the attic. No wonder his legs hurt.
And Stuart Bennett.
Oh, God, he’d been there.
Charlie sat back down and swung round on the lounger, staring into the corners of the room as the dread surged through him. He automatically reached for the brandy. An inch would do it. But the bottle had been wrung dry. He closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths.
But he could still see Bennett, scanning the crowd. Charlie hadn’t recognized him straightaway. But when Bennett had turned his way, he’d seen the snake tattoo on his neck and thought he was going to be sick.
Bennett hadn’t stuck to the plan. Charlie’s plan. He’d hunted him down to Ebbing.
Charlie had ducked down immediately and disappeared into the trees on the edge of the arena and waited. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, paralyzed by fear, waiting for retribution to arrive out of the shadows. It played like a recurring nightmare in his head but he’d managed to get away from Bennett. Get home. That was the main thing. Now Charlie had to get things back on track.
He looked round the dump he called his satellite office. The door had been papered over at some point and he’d almost missed it on his hunt for work space. He’d been intrigued enough to trudge downstairs to fetch a screwdriver to force it open. But if he’d been expecting a comfortable sanctuary, he’d been disappointed—it’d been as empty and decrepit as he felt.
Flaps of ancient wallpaper hung down indecently and ropes of vegetation were growing in the window, where glass used to be. There was no power—the electricity board had cut them off. But still, it was the perfect hiding place: out of sight and range of Pauline’s voice—and anyone else who was looking for him. He’d kept quiet about it—telling Pauline he was working in the shed—and discreetly lugged garden furniture up there: a picnic table for a desk, a folding chair, and the faded orange lounger for siestas. She’d never been interested enough to seek him out. Out of sight, out of mind.