Chapter 53
Joe’s exit from Dow Bank House had been surprisingly unproblematic.
He’d imagined all sorts of scenarios where they wouldn’t let him leave.
Before doing so, he’d peered up at the grand staircase and imagined himself hurtling down, headfirst, from the top, smashing into the Italian marble below.
As he’d walked to his car and two burly blokes in military-style gilets peered at him from under caps, he’d suffered a vivid visualisation of what Angelina might have felt as she met her end.
He didn’t know for sure but he assumed she’d put up a fight.
The police investigation was ongoing. Angie gave her life for what she knew.
That’s what they all risked.
The short drive down the long private road that led to the gates felt like an eternity.
Did they believe him?
Now, as he drove from Rydal towards Ambleside, he remained unmolested, and still alive. He could hardly believe it.
So far, so good.
Sandy had been true to her word. The detective had come, and now she’d discover the truth and they’d both be safe.
Or at least that was the plan. He had no insurance, only that he’d involved the police.
Ambleside was a walker’s paradise, and cheap. The Airbnb was hidden away, and he’d rented it months ago. He kept moving to avoid exposure.
Joe knew how to stay offline.
The drive into Ambleside was claggy and frustrating but thoughts of what he would say on his next episode of the DiggerMan podcast kept him distracted amidst the traffic. It was already part recorded and this one featured Jamie Robbins himself.
From the grave.
The same grave of his unborn child.
Stop it.
He focused on the podcast.
A reveal was so called for a reason: it gave information to the public that was shocking because it had been concealed. Pure and simple.
The problem was that those who wished important information to be hidden were usually the ones who profited from its secrecy.
So, he was careful.
And that’s why he’d chosen to play both sides.
And he’d promised them what Angie hid in the caves.
Problem was he couldn’t find it.
The flat was anonymous. All the kit was rapidly dismantled.
The surfaces were easily wipeable, and the neighbours weren’t the sort to give evidence to the coppers.
The street was a long row of terraces, forgotten by time, and all the windows were either covered with drapes or full of flyers for climbing experiences and clubs.
He set up his monitors, mics, headphones and soundproofing equipment easily. He’d done it a thousand times before.
He ran through his notes a few times before he started. He took a deep breath and then warmed up his lips and mouth.
‘Bladder, bone, belly, blubber.’
He repeated the mantra a few times, making sure to enunciate the vowels and consonants. He exercised his mouth and put his head back and gargled, warming up his throat.
He began.
Then the lights went out and his screens went blank.
He froze.
The blinds were blackout, and the room was plunged into instant darkness, despite it being only late afternoon.
He tapped the mic, but it was dead. He checked the feeds behind the screens, and they seemed fine, then his eyes began to accustom, and he looked around the room.
There was no movement, no sound and no shift in energy.
He heard the traffic outside and a heated argument in the distance. His eyes adjusted and a sliver of light caused a shadow to dance across the first-floor window, and he slipped out of his seat and went to it and held the curtain back.
A sinking feeling crept through his guts, and he rooted around the room for his mobile phone.
He found his phone and saw he had reception and Wi-Fi.
Damn.
That’s how they’d traced him.
He hadn’t turned off his phone. What an idiot. He’d made a vital mistake because he was rattled.
He had no idea if the copper was toying with him when she told him about Angelina’s baby. His baby. He was going to be a father.
He had a decision to make, and quickly. Either call somebody to alert them or switch off his phone and disappear, risking oblivion. He wrote a text to a trusted friend but then quickly deleted it. The indecision galled him. He wasn’t used to it.
But it was too late. He couldn’t get his thumbnail to slip the button up to turn it off, because he heard somebody in the hall and his hands suddenly turned greasy with panic.
The door handle turned, and he looked around him, in no doubt about what was going on.
He went to the window and opened it, peering down into the alley below to see how far the drop to the street was.
It was too far; he’d twist his ankle at the very least, and worse if he landed badly.
He thought about Jamie’s smashed body on the atrium floor and Sandy wailing over him. The prospect of pain immobilised him.
The only other option was to hide.
But that was pathetic. If the person on the other side of the door was sent by the same people who’d killed Jamie Robbins for speaking out, he’d have to fight.
But he was only a keyboard warrior not a real one.
Inside his head he said a silent apology to Jamie.
And to Angelina. And his dead unborn child.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
He crouched under the table and pulled a rug his way to cover his body.
All his kit was on top of it, and he made a last-minute decision.
He crept out from under the table just as the door opened fully and a figure stood in the doorway.
He removed a USB from the main MacBook and swallowed it, as the light flipped on and he covered his eyes, then he felt something slam into his head and he hit the floor like one of the wrestlers Jamie used to show him on WWE network.
They’d laughed at them, but the serious side was too awful to ignore.
He’d written a piece on the drugs they took to make them look that big. Drugs endorsed by Hampton-Dent.
As the blows came thick and fast down on his body, all he could think of was Angelina’s face and the last thing he said to her.
‘I won’t let anything hurt you,’ he’d promised. Hoping she’d tell him where it was. Then the look Jamie gave him the last time he saw him, rifling through his stuff in his room at the Heron Hall Hotel.
The look of a broken promise.
Betrayal.
As his head hit the floor, curiously he felt no pain. He’d gone numb with submission. Anaesthetised by guilt.
And now he was happy he’d never found what Angelina had hidden because his death would be worth nothing to them.