Pauline Rowson: In for the Kill

‘It’s a point of view.’

‘And one you don’t share?’ She gazed at me curiously. I saw amusement in her sapphire blue eyes.

‘No,’ I replied. My problems were important now because I had to live now and not in the past or the future. Someone other than myself had rewritten my future because he had radically altered my past. I had to know why. I had to set the record straight not only for myself but more importantly for the future of my boys, and their children.

She looked as if she wanted to challenge me, but something in my expression must have made her reconsider.

Abruptly she said, ‘Well, I mustn’t disturb you.’

With a smile she was gone. The church felt cold and dark after she had left as though she had taken the sunshine with her. I closed the heavy oak door behind me annoyed with myself for being so inept. The smooth-talking easy-going Alex Albury had evaporated over the last few years, leaving a tongue-tied idiot in his place.

As I walked back across the marsh and through the woods to Bembridge I examined her words.

It was as though there were a subtext to her conversation. Was it some kind of warning? Or was I just being paranoid? I couldn’t be blamed for having a persecution complex. Perhaps she really was a historian and the meeting pure coincidence. I had to get a grip on myself. I couldn’t see suspicion everywhere I looked.

I had reached the airfield again when I heard the throb of an engine behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that a light aircraft was just coming into land. I picked up my pace. I had time to reach safety.

The aeroplane throttled back. I looked again in its direction, more anxiously this time. It seemed to be approaching with alarming speed.

I walked faster, but it was getting nearer. It was closing rapidly on me. Jesus!

I broke into a run cricking my neck over my shoulder. It was heading straight for me.

Couldn’t the bloody idiot see me? But then my blood ran cold, of course he could. I was the prey.

I swerved but still it came. The sweat was pouring down my face. My breath was coming in hisses and gasps. My feet were striking against the hard hummocky turf. Desperately I tried to keep my balance, the uneven surface jarring my knees and twisting my ankles. The hedgerow and safety seemed as far away as ever.

Suddenly the throb of the engine was in my ears, inside my head. It was so loud that it must be on top of me. I dropped to the ground flattening my face in the wet grass. It swooped over me with a roar, almost brushing my hair. I didn’t have a moment to lose, certainly not to lie here panting. I sprang up and tore across the remaining strip of grass.

The aeroplane was flying in the direction of the harbour across the bird sanctuary. It dipped its wings as it turned. It was coming back, but I would be out of its reach by then. Already my calf muscles were telling me I was climbing the hill to the windmill and safety. The pilot must have seen this because the aeroplane turned round and headed out to sea.

I walked quickly back through the village and along the Embankment, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. My head was spinning with what had just happened. Had the pilot intended killing me? It would have been a clumsy way to do so and would probably have resulted in his own death. I didn’t think even the most desperate of men would commit suicide over me. But why attempt to frighten or injure me? The answer was simple; it was a warning, just like that woman’s in the church. Forget the past. Do nothing and you’ll be allowed to live. But doing nothing wasn’t a choice I had. No amount of warnings was going to frighten me off. I had been out of prison less than twelve hours and already Andover was running scared. That was good.

I let myself into the houseboat feeling optimistic. Joe Bristow had been wrong. Andover hadn’t flown the country. He was right here in England, perhaps even on the Isle of Wight. Now all I had to do was find him.

CHAPTER 2

I rose early the next morning after a restless night. The houseboat had seemed eerily quiet; I had missed the sound of men snoring and coughing, the prison warders’ footsteps along the corridors, the slamming of doors and the rattling of keys.

I took a quick shower unable to adjust to the fact that I could stay as long as I wanted under scalding hot water. Then, after sitting with a coffee and watching the sun rise over the harbour, I stirred myself and took a long walk around the shore to Culver Cliff. Here I looked out upon the world. The sea sparkled and shimmered beneath me in the crisp, April morning, but instead of making me feel happy it had the opposite effect. My heart was once again heavy with the thought of all the mornings I had lost at the hand of Andover. I couldn’t feel at peace with myself. Andover and the poison of prison had seeped its way into my soul and had made everything sour. Time to do something.

The world would have woken up by now I thought, consulting my watch.

Bembridge library was open. The librarians were busy with a couple of grey haired women who looked vaguely familiar, my mother’s old friends I seemed to recall. I scuttled past them, my head low, cursing Andover silently for forcing me to behave like this. One day, I vowed, I would hold my head up high and not feel ashamed.

I looked up Clive Westnam on the Internet and found references in various articles to my court case and the embezzlement. There didn’t seem to be anything I hadn’t read before, and certainly nothing that wasn’t already in Joe’s reports, which I had studied again last night. The references seemed to stop about two years ago.

That had been when three judges had ruled that my sentence would stand. It was the second and final time they had refused my leave to appeal.

I found the Manover Plastics website and saw that Westnam was no longer its chief executive.

I was surprised. Why hadn’t Joe told me he’d left the company? His final report had been in January last year. Perhaps Westnam had left Manover after then. Where was he now?

I did a search for Roger Brookes. Again there were many references in articles to the fraud, all of which I had in my press cuttings file, including the one that told me Brookes had sold his travel agency business to Sunglow almost two years ago. I could find no other reference to him after that. Joe had provided me with his address in Gloucestershire. I would check if he was still living there and then I would pay him a visit. It was against the terms of my licence but I had to chance it. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to go haring off to Gloucestershire without speaking to Joe first.

I found a call box. Joe’s secretary said he wouldn’t be in until Tuesday. Slightly irritated I rang directory enquiries and got the number for Manover Plastics. The lady in human resources said she had no idea where Mr Westnam was. I got the feeling that even if she did know she wouldn’t have told me.

I replaced the phone, feeling tension knot my stomach. The aeroplane incident had made me think that I needed to move quickly. Perhaps one of the business journalists who had written about Manover Plastics could tell me where its ex chief executive was, but I was reluctant to contact them. The first sniff of a story and my past could be emblazoned across the newspapers again.

There was no way I wanted that.

I popped into the newsagents and bought the local weekly newspaper. Idly I scanned it and then drew up with a start. Staring at me from the front page was the name of the man I hated almost as much as Andover: DCI Clipton. What was more he was dead. I couldn’t believe it.

Avidly I read the small stop-press article, ignoring the fact that I was standing in the middle of the pavement and people were jostling to get around me.