The Girl Who Stole the Apple

* * *

Elgar never overslept. Or so he liked to tell people when they asked. Of course, people rarely asked. On this particular morning, however, he didn’t wake up until well after nine. When he checked his mobile for the time, his first thought was that it was wrong, but instinct and the brightness of the light through a crack in the curtains told him otherwise.

He swore, sat up and listened. All was silent upstairs. Downstairs a radio played some music. BBC Radio 2 he suspected.

He padded to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He looked at a man well past his prime, almost old. Greasy hair now flecked with silver. Eyes dark, as though he hadn’t slept. Dry, creased skin, tinged yellow. He touched the stubble on his chin and told himself (not for the first time) that he really ought to call it a day. Cash in his chips and retire to a little cottage near a river where he could indulge his love of fishing. Walk to the pub each evening for a couple of pints and to chew the fat. Maybe get himself into the darts team. He thought about all this and grimaced. The stuff of fantasy. It was more likely he would end up in a grotty bolt-hole on the edge of Birmingham with flyovers and car emissions for company.

Fifteen minutes later, he entered the kitchen area, shaved, showered and dressed. Two faces turned to look at him — one with an expression of unknowing blankness, the other with one of disdain.

‘Not sure that it worked,’ Bridget said.

‘What?’

‘The beauty sleep treatment.’ She sniggered as if she was a schoolgirl just arrived from rural Ireland. But Elgar knew that she had grown up on the streets of Belfast and had the unrelenting viciousness to prove it.

He ignored her, said ‘Good morning’ to Arthur and switched on the kettle. Two slices of toast and a mug of strong tea later, he sat down at the table.

‘Who are you?’ The vacant face peered at him.

‘I’m your carer,’ he said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Elgar certainly felt more like a carer than a captor. As far as he could make out, Arthur had pretty much lost his short-term memory, but Elgar couldn’t be absolutely sure. There were times when he wondered if the old man wasn’t more on the ball than he appeared to be. Acting dumb and playing safe. Elgar understood that. Playing safe was embedded deep in his own psyche. Hence his current anxiety. His own name was an unusual and memorable one, not like John or Stephen. It was quite likely that when all Arthur’s other memories of his capture had disappeared, the name Elgar might remain stuck in his brain, waiting to emerge when the police interviewed him.

If the police interviewed him. Elgar knew that as far as Bridget was concerned, Arthur was a loose end that would have to be tidied up when the operation was complete. He himself saw things differently. Arthur was a senile old man who could safely be left in some deserted lay-by to be rescued by a Good Samaritan. Killing him would be like killing his own father. He couldn’t do it, even if Bridget could.

‘I’d like to go to the toilet.’

‘Over there.’ Elgar pointed across the room and bit into his toast.

‘Bowman rang,’ Bridget said as soon as Arthur had gone.

‘And?’ Elgar sipped at his tea. He liked the combination of strong tea and sharp marmalade. It was a good way to start the day.

‘Maggie’s on the move.’

Elgar bit off another piece of toast and waited for her to continue. But she said nothing. He looked at her and wondered what it would be like to ram her face into a vat of marmalade, just to make a sticky point. He almost smiled. ‘Where’s she going? And what about Sam?’

‘She’s given Sam the old heave ho. Taken the car and the kid and headed south along the M5. Stopped for fuel at the services earlier on this morning, bought breakfast, headed south again. After that . . .’ Bridget paused, savouring the moment, ‘After that she and the kid disappeared from view.’

Elgar had been about to stuff toast into his mouth, but hand and toast stopped, hovering above the edge of the table. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretty straightforward, isn’t it?’ she sneered. ‘No sign of the car on the cameras since she left the services. So she must have turned off the motorway and then either hidden the car or swapped cars or changed the plates. Comprendez?’

Elgar felt the anger rising inside. He tried not to show it. He gave what he hoped was a good-natured shrug. ‘So she could be anywhere.’

‘Not anywhere.’ Another sneer. Another grudge for Elgar to harbour alongside all the others.

Elgar pushed the toast into his mouth and chewed. Suddenly the marmalade tasted like bile. He looked across at Bridget, doing his best to look bored.

‘Are you going to explain what you mean exactly?’ he said.

‘We have a tracking device in the car.’

‘We?’

‘We, as in Bowman and us. Not as in Reid and the other plods who also report to Bowman.’ She paused. Elgar waited. In the silence Arthur could be heard, straining and swearing. ‘The girl is carrying a bracelet with a transmitter hidden in it. So we don’t need ANPR to keep tabs on them. All we need is this.’

Bridget flipped open the tablet which was lying on the table in front of her and busied herself with it.

‘So where exactly is she?’