“So what are we waiting for?” said River, climbing back into the car.
They were waiting for Coe to finish plotting his course, which he did in silence, standing in the cold.
Shirley was scrumpling up the foam sheeting. “Last night must be the most action Ho’s back seat’s ever seen,” she said.
“It’s the most I’ve seen in a while,” River admitted.
“You’d better not have been doing anything while I was asleep,” said Shirley. “Because if you did, and I find out, you’re a dead man.”
“Trust me,” River said. “Even if I had a list, you wouldn’t be on it.”
Coe got into the driver’s seat.
“And that goes double for him,” said Shirley. “You messed with him in the night, he’ll be pissed. And he hasn’t killed anyone in ages.”
“Far as you know,” Coe said.
“. . . Was that a joke?”
“I don’t do jokes.”
“Could we get a move on?”
Coe started the car. “I have a plan,” he said.
Coming from anyone else that would be reassuring, but like Shirley said, Coe hadn’t killed anyone in a while, and it wasn’t clear to River that that wasn’t simple lack of opportunity. Last time he’d found himself in a village setting Coe had face-painted a pavement. The face belonged to a terrorist, true, but it had been an over-the-top reaction that didn’t say much for the man’s mental handbrake. And here they were out of town again. It was possible, River reflected, that Coe followed the rock-star-on-tour guideline, and thought nothing counted outside the M25. In which case, it was as well the only gun they had was in River’s pocket.
“Gunna tell us what it is?” Shirley asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if we find Louisa’s body, it’s moot,” said Coe, and put the car into gear.
The ploughed road was rocky going, but at least they were on the move once more.
As they left the lorry driver waved a two-fingered salute, but River decided not to mention this to Shirley.
There were better ways of waking, but at least this was waking . . . The man last night had had a gun. That’s what Emma had said, and she was all kinds of reliable, being a former cop, a former Dog, and a woman who took no shit. So the man last night had had a gun, which indicated intent: had he caught them, they’d not be waking at all. Louisa had already known that finding Lucas had led her into dangerous water, but she’d hoped it reasonably shallow. How wrong could you get?
Emma had left the man in the churchyard, and the three of them had run through the town, crossing the deserted main road and heading towards the estuary: no plan involved. The air was heavy with unreality. Snow had made everything strange, casting the town back centuries, and everyone had taken shelter—everyone bar a cat on a wall, its hateful eyes glinting.
There were footpaths by the estuary, with enough tree cover to be free from snow. A sign by an open gate warned of possible flooding, but this seemed more acceptable than an armed man. Who wasn’t on their trail yet—behind them was only the cat, now a black shape in the middle of the road, picking its way townward with slow, exaggerated steps. And then they were among the trees, and the road might as well have been miles away; a distant glow from an alien settlement.
A car chose that moment to chug slowly along the High Street, its engine a reminder of a different age, which hadn’t yet come to pass.
They were still running, Lucas in front, Emma at the rear; deliberately, Louisa knew. She was in good shape, could have outrun either, but this was Emma being a cop again, taking others under her wing. Which irritated Louisa, but not as much as the memory of Emma telling her to run, and Louisa doing just that. Not waiting to help. Not bringing the bad guy down together. Just running, as if she were afraid the two of them acting in concert would be less effective than Emma solo. As if she were afraid.
But she hadn’t been afraid last night, she reminded herself. She’d taken on a carful of bad actors, armed with only a wrench.
By the water’s edge, just visible through the trees, were boats; dim heaps in the darkness which might have lain there years. Lucas was sprinting ahead—and then wasn’t; dropped from sight as if down a hole, which was more or less what had happened.
When she reached him he was already scrambling to his feet, but something in his eyes made her turn away, knowing he’d not want her to see him sob.
Emma arrived.
“Any sign?” Louisa asked.
“I think we left him in the town.”
But it wasn’t a big town, and there weren’t many places the three of them could be.
“What should we do?” said Lucas.
He was very young suddenly; a twelve-year-old, too small for his boots. Mud on his face.
“Police,” said Emma.
Louisa touched her elbow. “No. Trust me.”
“Yeah, I tried that. And look where we are.”
Lucas said, “What’s that?” and pointed into the trees.
