The Girl Who Stole the Apple

‘Why did you go to the quarry, Maggie?’ That was Bowman. Elgar recognised that calm, reasonable tone. It was a danger sign. When he was calm, quiet and reasonable, that was the time to beware.

‘It’s a lovely day. Beth and I went there for a picnic.’

‘Like you and Ellie once did?’

Was that a guess? Or did he know that for a fact? Elgar opened his eyes, relieved that the nausea had subsided somewhat. He flexed his fingers, focusing on them in an attempt to distract himself from his leg.

‘Like my father and I did when I was a child.’ Maggie wasn’t crumbling or backing down. She had dropped her voice, mimicking Bowman, and she stared back at him, unblinking. Elgar wondered if she was scared. She ought to be. But if she was, she was hiding it very effectively.

‘Ah! Very cute. A trip down memory lane, was it? For old time’s sake?’

She nodded.

‘Don’t make me laugh.’ Bowman hissed the words through barely parted lips. He sat there in the armchair, returning her gaze. Elgar couldn’t help but see him as a cobra, waiting to strike. Mesmerising and deadly.

‘I don’t suppose you ever laugh,’ she replied. Elgar tried not to smile. This woman could give as good as she got. She was not to be underestimated, he told himself again. He had done precisely that, and now he was missing a big toe. But he doubted that Bowman would make the same mistake.

Silence. If Bowman was a cobra, maybe she was a mongoose, waiting her turn to strike. He remembered watching a duel between a cobra and a mongoose on some wildlife programme, but he couldn’t remember which of animal had won.

Bowman shifted in his chair, sitting more upright and casting the briefest of glances up at Sam.

‘Bring Beth down here,’ he ordered.

Elgar saw Maggie start as she too glanced at Sam. He noted the alarm in her face and the tightening of her hands. Bowman had found her weak spot.

No one moved or said a thing. Impasse. Was this the still before the storm, the moment before all hell broke loose? Even Sam, standing rigid in the shadows, seemed to be considering whether to obey Bowman.

‘Now!’ Bowman snapped.

Sam grunted. He started to move, across the room and up the stairs.

‘Beth!’ he called as he got to the top. Elgar heard him open one door, then another. Sam called the girl’s name again. He swore.

Elgar glanced sideways and saw Bowman pick up his gun. He pointed it towards Maggie. ‘Don’t even think of moving, darling.’

Then there was a heavy clumping of feet as Sam came down the stairs much quicker than he had gone up.

‘She’s scarpered.’ His face was red with fury. ‘The girl’s escaped out the back window. God only knows where she is.’

‘We’ll have to do this without her.’ Bowman rose to his feet and edged round to the side of the sofa, his eyes and gun fixed on Maggie. ‘Tell me what I need to know and you are free to go, you and the girl — if you can find her. Otherwise I’ll kill you first and then I’ll find her and kill her.’

Maggie stood up. ‘You’d kill a little girl, would you? To cover your back?’ Elgar watched with fascination. She was a tough cookie, there was no doubt of that. ‘What sort of man are you?’

‘Sit down, Maggie.’ Bowman spoke one syllable at a time. He was pointing the gun straight at her. ‘Nobody need get hurt. As long as you cooperate.’

For three or four seconds, there was stalemate. Then Maggie lowered herself back into the chair.

‘Let me do it.’ Elgar held out his hand. Bowman looked at him. Elgar continued, ‘She blew my toe off, so I’ll blow her toe off, and then I’ll put one through her kneecap if she doesn’t cooperate and then . . .’ He paused as a grin spread across his face. ‘Well, I’ll find some other part of her to blow off until she does spill the beans.’

Bowman frowned. He looked down at the gun in his hand and across the room at Maggie.

Elgar snarled. ‘For God’s sake, give me the gun. Do we have the time to piss about?’

Bowman opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind. He gave Elgar the gun.

Elgar hefted it in his hand. It was too light and small for him, but at this range it was more than adequate. He lifted the gun and fired. He was aiming to miss, but whether it was the pain that had started to shoot up his leg again or the unfamiliar gun, the bullet scraped the side of Maggie’s left shoulder. She screamed and slapped her right hand over it. ‘I haven’t got the damned memory stick! I threw it in the lake in the quarry. You’ll never find it.’

‘Liar!’ It was Bowman, his face taut with rage. ‘Why would you have thrown it in the lake?’