Out of Reach Read online

“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, Thomas,” Gilmore said slowly. “Come back in two days. I’ll taper Derek’s medication so that you can get some sensible answers.”

  Schaefer considered his options. With the police after him, he might not have two days. He’d just have to be smart and stay free. There were other avenues he could explore while Gilmore sobered up the boy. Schaefer nodded.

  “Two days,” he said flatly.

  Schaefer left the room, and found Charlie waiting in the corridor.

  “Did you get what you needed?” she asked.

  “No,” Schaefer replied. “But I will.”

  “I’ll show you out,” Charlie said as she set off back the way they had come.

  Schaefer followed her to the main entrance, jumped in the taxi that he’d taken from the train station, and began his journey back to London.

  *

  Schaefer had debated whether to spend the night at the storage warehouse, the pub, or on the street. In the end, he opted for the pub. Security guards had a dangerous tendency to fancy themselves as amateur cops, and the night watchman was more likely to be tapped in to local police operations than any bar staff in a pub on the other side of town. There was nothing to officially tie Schaefer to the Royal Inn on the Park, and unless the police had already surveilled him, there was no reason for them to search for him there.

  It was late evening when he arrived, and the place was busy. Tilly served him the familiar mix of pity and disapproval, until at some point, when he was drunk beyond memory, he staggered upstairs and passed out in the Great Room.

  Thunder. No, something else. Schaefer’s senses snapped together and he realised someone was banging on the door. His tongue was dry and furry, and his head pounded, which meant it must be morning. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes he could see sunlight trying to force its way into the room. Schaefer pulled himself up and staggered over to the door. He paused before opening it, but told himself that the police wouldn’t have bothered to knock. Schaefer pulled the door back to reveal the pub’s cleaner, Natasha, standing in the corridor.

  “Phone,” she said with a surly simplicity, before shuffling off.

  Schaefer wobbled his way downstairs and crossed the empty pub to pick up the phone that was behind the bar.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr Schaefer, thank God I found you,” came a woman’s voice.

  “Who is this?” Schaefer asked, suddenly on edge.

  “It’s Bernice. Ellen Ovitz’s assistant. We’ve been trying to find you since yesterday, but your number just rings out.”

  “I lost my phone,” Schaefer lied.

  “Ellen needs to see you, Mr Schaefer. It’s important.”

  It must be, Schaefer thought to himself. After the way their last meeting ended, Schaefer had never expected to see Ellen Ovitz ever again.

  “I’ll be there in about an hour,” Schaefer replied, before putting the phone down.

  *

  The jade dragon watched him from the windowsill. Schaefer sat opposite Ellen Ovitz and waited. He hadn’t apologised, she had barely said hello. Bernice had shown him into the room and backed out to leave the two of them bristling at each other. Schaefer was damned if he was going to speak first.

  “I’m glad Bernice found you, Thomas,” Ellen broke the silence. “I have something important to tell you. Before we continue, I need to know exactly what Edward Lomas said to you.”

  “He said the man from MI5 was evil,” Schaefer replied.

  “About me. Exactly what did he say about me?”

  “He said I should listen to the messenger.”

  “Did he mention my name?” Ellen asked earnestly.

  Schaefer thought carefully, recalling the old man’s last words.

  “No,” he said at last. “He said it was someone who could guide me to the light.”

  Ellen nodded her head solemnly.

  “It’s not me,” she said. “The messenger is someone else.”

  “It has to be,” Schaefer protested. “I don’t know any other…”

  “Gifted people,” Ellen suggested, staving off a less polite description. “It’s not me, Thomas. I’ve sought guidance on the matter. The messenger Edward Lomas spoke of is someone gifted, someone worthy. Someone you would not expect to give you such a message. It is someone you have shared much with. A person you trust.”

  Schaefer considered the handful of people who would fall into that category, and a name suddenly forced its way to the forefront of his mind.

  “Sally,” he said.

  Ellen looked puzzled.

  “Katie Blake’s mother,” Schaefer explained. “We, well, she found out about me. I told her what happened and we…”

  “I see,” Ellen said. “You need to bring her here, Thomas. As soon as possible. Take my car.”

  *

  It took Schaefer fifteen minutes to get to Sally Blake’s house, but when he arrived, she wasn’t there. He returned to Ellen’s immaculate classic Mercedes, and decided he needed to rejoin the 21st Century. Schaefer drove to Norwood High Street and purchased a new mobile phone and car charger. He was back at Sally’s house within twenty minutes. He powered up his new phone and dialled a number from memory. It rang out, so Schaefer dialled again. On the third attempt, he got through.

  “Hello?” Baker said.

  “It’s Schaefer.”

  Cold silence at the other end of the line.

  “I got a new number. You’ll need it…”

  “Well, I’ve got it now. You’ll hear from me soon,” Baker said, before hanging up.

  A dead line. A dead relationship. But Schaefer wasn’t going to lament the loss of Baker; he had bigger things to worry about. He sat outside Sally’s house for over two hours before she finally showed up. In the harsh, grey light of day, she looked decidedly plain. Her eyes were rimmed red, and weighed down with bluish bags that even the best concealer couldn’t hide. And yet, Schaefer couldn’t help but find her attractive. Her vulnerability and their shared pain forged a connection that was more seductive than any fleshy temptation. Sally’s face fell when Schaefer stepped from the car, and he instantly knew that there was something wrong. Her eyes showed fear and her mouth spoke lies.

  “Mr Schaefer, good to see you.”

  “I’ve got a lead,” Schaefer said. “I need you to come with me.”

  “I can’t,” Sally replied, trying her best not to look at him. “Marcie’s inside. She’s waiting for me.”

  “There’s no one home,” Schaefer observed. “I’ve been here a while.”

  “She’s coming,” Sally lied. “She’ll be here any minute.”

  She tried to push past Schaefer, but he grabbed her arm and held it fast.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded to know. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “Let go of me!” Sally exclaimed, as she tried to pull her arm free.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Schaefer protested, holding her firmly. “I’m the only hope you’ve got of ever seeing Katie again.”

  The slap was sudden and hard. Schaefer was taken aback and released Sally, who made no move to run. She stared at him with righteous fury.

  “I spent the morning with the police, Schaefer. I went in for an update on their investigation, but we spent almost the whole time talking about you,” she said angrily. “You’re wanted in connection with the murder of a policeman!”

  Schaefer’s mind reeled. Sally was no longer just a potentially valuable source of information; she was also a threat. The moment he released her, she’d phone the police. Schaefer wondered why he’d used the word release.

  “Murder!” Sally spat. “They told me you’re a homeless drunk who goes around beating people up. That you’re borderline insane, that you won’t listen to anyone who tells you the truth – that your daughter’s dead. She’s dead, Schaefer, dead!”

  Sally was screaming by now. Schaefer felt no anger, merely practical necessity. Further commotion would attract the unwanted attention of Sa
lly’s neighbours, and there was only one solution. Schaefer punched Sally square in the jaw. A look of shock flashed across her face for a split-second, before her eyes rolled back in her head. Schaefer caught her before she hit the pavement. He moved quickly, dragging her to the Mercedes and laying her across the back seat. As he climbed into the car, Schaefer checked the street, which was clear in both directions; no obvious witnesses. He started the engine, which roared into life reassuringly. As he pulled away, Schaefer’s mind raced, trying to figure a way out of the mess he found himself in.

  *

  The Mercedes slid into its spot right outside Ellen’s house, and Schaefer hurried out to close the black gates that guarded the driveway. By the time he returned to the car, Bernice was at the front door.

  “Did you find her?” she asked. Her face fell when she saw Schaefer lift the unconscious Sally out of the car. Before Bernice could say anything, Schaefer carried Sally across the threshold. Ellen was fussing over her cats in the pantry at the other end of the hall. Her expression changed from motherly indulgence to thunderous rage the moment she saw Schaefer.

  “What have you done?” she exclaimed. The purple swelling that covered the right side of Sally’s face needed no explanation.

  “You told me to get her,” Schaefer protested. “She wasn’t going to come any other way.”

  “Take her upstairs to the Pink Bedroom,” Ellen commanded. “Bernice and I will look after her.”

  Schaefer climbed two flights of stairs and crossed a landing that was crowded with fluffy toys and shelves that were covered with more fine china figurines. He took Sally into the second bedroom, which was dominated by an ancient double bed. Schaefer gently placed Sally on the soft quilt.

  “I’m sorry,” Schaefer said quietly.

  “She probably isn’t that interested in anything you’ve got to say,” Ellen said tersely, as she entered the room. Bernice followed in her wake, carrying a first aid kit.

  “Leave her to us,” Ellen instructed. “I’m going to give her a healing, and I don’t want you messing it up with your bad energy.”

  “Where…” Schaefer began.

  “Downstairs,” Ellen cut him off. “You can wait in the waiting room. That’s what it’s there for.”

  Schaefer backed out of the room, as Ellen laid hands upon Sally. Schaefer had been healed by Ellen once, long ago, when he had been at his weakest and most desperate to believe in her power. He hadn’t enjoyed the strange sensation of Ellen’s hands burning with a cool flame, and couldn’t cope with the loss of control that came with the healing. At the time, Schaefer had been convinced he’d travelled to a place without space or time, where his sense of self was lost in communion with something far bigger. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, Schaefer knew that he had simply succumbed to sleep and experienced some strange dreams. Now the idea that the body could be healed by the power of another’s will seemed ridiculous, but, given the circumstances, Schaefer was not about to share that thought. Bernice gave Schaefer a sorry look as she slowly shut the door in his face.

  *

  Three hours into his wait and the clock struck six. Ellen had created a small waiting room on the same side of the house as her consulting room. It was a tiny space with a small two-seat sofa, a brass coffee table and some large potted plants. There were a stack of magazines on the table to cater to almost every interest, but Schaefer had ignored them, and instead focused on his immediate problems. It would take some very fast talking to convince Sally not to call the police, and she was bound to share the news that Schaefer was on the run from a murder charge with Ellen and Bernice. Schaefer only had two reasons to hope. The first was grounded in very real detective work; Baker would trace the two MI5 men who killed Edward Lomas. The second was the false hope that the message Ellen was convinced Sally would give him would be of some value.

  Schaefer’s phone rang at six-fifteen, and he recognised the number.

  “Yeah,” Schaefer said.

  “It’s me,” Baker replied. “Ranoush. Seven-thirty.”

  Baker hung up without saying anything else.

  Schaefer checked the clock. He had just over an hour to get into central London. He walked up the back stairs and crossed the landing to find Bernice sitting outside the Pink Bedroom.

  “Ellen’s had to go very deep. She says your friend’s spirit is badly damaged,” Bernice offered by way of explanation.

  “I’ve got to go,” Schaefer said. “Something urgent. I’ll be as quick as I can. If she wakes up before I get back, ask Ellen to give me a call. I’ll leave my new number on the pad downstairs.”

  “I don’t think she’d want you to go, Mr Schaefer.”

  “I know. But then I never do what she wants,” Schaefer said with a wistful smile. “I’m going to borrow the car again. I’ll let you decide whether you want to tell her that.”

  Schaefer left Bernice looking deeply troubled. He hurried downstairs and scrawled his mobile number on the pad by the phone in the dining room. He grabbed the car keys from the bowl on the sideboard and made a swift exit. Schaefer shut the heavy front door firmly behind him, and felt far more confident of what lay ahead of him than what he’d left behind. A lover who suspected him of murder and a psychic convinced in messages from beyond were uncomfortable territory. If, as he hoped, Baker was armed with a couple of names and addresses, Schaefer would be in his element. Schaefer opened the gates, jumped in the Mercedes, gunned the engine and turned left, heading for the twinkling lights of the city.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Schaefer parked the car in a bay on Portman Square and walked the four blocks to Edgware Road. He hadn’t wanted to risk public transport, and had to assume that as a suspected cop killer his mugshot was in the hands of every police officer in London. Schaefer knew that the odds were stacking against him with every passing hour, but he clung to the hope that if he could find Shark Eyes, well, then he just might have a chance. Schaefer also had to assume that Baker would be aware that the police were after him. That put the fat man in a decisive position; he held Schaefer’s fate in his hands. If he wanted to curry favour with the law, he could turn Schaefer in. Nothing overt, all very coincidental; a passing policeman happens to spot Schaefer heading into their meeting place, and calls for back up. Schaefer’s busted on the way out, and Baker gets to slink away without a stain on his character. Baker had to know that if anything happened to Schaefer he would suspect that the fat man had somehow been involved. After their last meeting, Baker had made it clear he wanted Schaefer out of his life. If Schaefer was arrested anywhere near the man, he would ensure that Baker suffered – and Baker had to know that. So, that’s what it came down to, Schaefer’s only hope that Baker didn’t betray him hinged upon the strength of Baker’s desire to be rid of him. The enmity of an old ally was his best guarantee of staying free.

  Schaefer had stayed east of Edgware Road to avoid the discreet police surveillance operation that was permanently in force around Connaught Square to protect a discredited former Prime Minister. He walked half way up and down Edgware Road, not once, but twice, checking the rooftops, windows, and doorways for any tell-tale signs of surveillance. When he was satisfied, Schaefer honed in on the venue. Ranoush Juice was a small shawarma bar on the west side of Edgware Road, near the junction with Connaught Street. The garish pink and orange sign might have suggested a run-down dive, but the place actually served one of the best sandwiches in London and was Baker’s dining establishment of choice. Schaefer had watched the fat man scoff Ranoush’s signature sandwiches on many occasions. Schaefer checked the surrounding shops and restaurants as he moved in. There were no obvious signs of impending capture, so he continued on. He could see Baker through the glass doors. The fat man sat at a table near the back, and was mid-way through a shawarma wrap. He stiffened as he saw Schaefer approach. The automatic doors opened and Schaefer stepped into an enclave of Lebanon in the heart of London. Arabic music played from recessed speakers and the half-dozen or so customers c
onversed in the unfamiliar guttural tones. The air was rich with aromatic spices and the smell of sweet roasted meat. Like experts in any field, the two chefs behind the counter maintained an air of haughty detachment and didn’t even acknowledge Schaefer’s entrance. Instead, they focused on fulfilling an order for one of their sister restaurants. The skinny waiter clad in a black and white nylon uniform waited for three foil tubs to be filled with lamb carved off the vertical spit. Schaefer ignored the cashier and the hovering waitress and joined Baker at his feast.

  “I didn’t know how long I should wait,” Baker said between mouthfuls. “Seems a lot of people want to talk to you.”

  So, Baker knew. Schaefer found some comfort in the knowledge that the fat man wouldn’t have raised the subject if he planned to betray him.

  “It’s a frame up. Probably the same guys who killed Lomas,” Schaefer explained.

  “Hey, as long as nobody clocks us together, none of this is any of my problem,” Baker shrugged. He took another mouthful of juicy sandwich. The white sauce ran down his chin and dropped onto the table in front of him.

  “How’s Billy?” Schaefer asked.

  Baker stared coldly and simply nodded as he chewed his food.

  “You like to eat?” the waitress asked Schaefer. She was in her early forties with a scraggly blonde bob, smoker’s lines around her mouth, and sad eyes that had once dreamed of bigger things. “Sandwich? Chips?”

  “Nothing,” Schaefer replied. “I’m not hungry.”

  The waitress’s face fell; this one was going to be a problem. She looked to the cashier for guidance, but the hard-faced man was eyeing up a group of girls that had just walked in.

  “You must eat,” the waitress protested.

  “He’ll have some chips. And a sandwich,” Baker added as an afterthought. As the relieved waitress hurried away to fill the order, Baker chastised Schaefer, “They know me here. So don’t go being difficult.”

  Schaefer watched Baker use a tiny napkin to mop most of the sauce off his chin, before he started to unwrap his next sandwich.

  “I found your people,” Baker said, giving Schaefer a view of some half-chewed meat. Baker produced an envelope folder that he’d kept concealed on his lap. It was thin and contained a few pieces of paper, and some photographs.