Michelle, in the meantime, unsettled by her breakfast with the pair of fellow fugitives, found herself taking the quietest route, with the most potential hiding places, back to her caravan, where she intended to hole up for the rest of the day. The only other thing on her agenda was an urgent call to Jeremy. Until Cordwainer was arrested and the other guilty councillors rounded up, she was a moving target. It was not a role she relished.
She stopped dead at the start of the track that led her alongside the camping field. Two burly men stood examining a motorbike that she recognised immediately as Rocky’s. A third emerged from the tent, holding aloft some clothes.
“They’re together. Definitely. You stay here and wait for them. I’ll go and scout round the site. Cordwainer wants them, like, yesterday. All right, lads?”
Michelle scurried backwards. The tough had made no mention of her. Jeremy’s sister had obviously kept her lip faithfully zipped. One day, when all this was over, she was going to send her a bunch of flowers. In the meantime, the wisest course of action seemed to be lying low.
She was almost out of the goon’s line of sight, flitting into the caravan field, when she ran slap-bang into the pair of uniformed officers who were on the lookout for Flipp.
“Oh, sorry,” she muttered.
“Careful,” cautioned the female officer, putting out a hand to steady her.
“Can I just ask you if you’ve seen this woman?” asked her male colleague, producing an old photograph of Flipp, looking much younger and less punky than the girl she had breakfasted with.
“Sorry, no,” Michelle said, looking back over her shoulder, fearing recognition by Cordwainer’s hireling, whom she had frequently served over the bar at the Fairhaven. “Excuse me, got to go.”
“Hang on, what about this man? We think they might be together.”
The policeman thrust a photograph of Rocky into Michelle’s face.
“Really, no,” she blustered, waving the picture away.
Cordwainer’s goon was behind her now; she could hear the clump of his heavy boots on the dirt track.
“Officers,” he said with sardonic courtesy, then he stopped and Michelle’s scalp crawled with dread. He was looking at her, trying to place her face.
“Will that be all, officers?” she muttered, taking to her heels.
“Here, you’re the barmaid from the Fairhaven.” he exclaimed. “Michelle. You’re…Hey. Someone I know is looking for you.”
But Michelle was running now, grateful for the tennis shoes she had put on that morning instead of her usual heels, dodging around and among the caravans with the indignant yells of the heavy behind her.
Somehow she made a break around the back of the pool area and towards the beach, intending to take the quickest route along the shingle to the harbour of the nearby town. Once there, she planned to lurk in one of the many cafés and call Jeremy.
Ahead of her the comically contrasting figures of Rocky and Flipp could be seen pounding the pebbles, hair whipped by the coastal winds.
“Rocky,” she shouted over the blustering gusts. “Rocky. Wait for me.”
But he could not hear her, and it wasn’t until they were in the shelter of the cliffs, on the path to the harbour, that she managed to catch up with them.
“Rocky,” she panted, ignoring the look of fearful annoyance on his face. “Please. Take me with you. Wherever you’re going.”
“Are you mad?” he asked, dragging Flipp roughly along and away from the unwelcome hanger-on. “I’ve got enough to worry about without taking on your troubles. I have to look after number one, and right now, that’s me and Flipp.”
“Please. Cordwainer’s men were there. At your tent. They knew you were staying at the caravan park.”
Rocky stopped and stared. Flipp whimpered.
“Are you sure about that? Cordwainer’s men? Which ones?”
“Oh, I don’t know his name…is it…Darren something?”
“Shit. Darren Redmond. He’s at the campsite?”
“He was following me. I think I managed to lose him.”
“Fucking hell. We’ve got to move fast. Come on.”