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“I can’t pretend I slept well last night,” he said. “But what I mostly am is angry. I didn’t like Vitruvious before, but I bloody listened to him whine about being stalked, which only goes to show what a sucker I am. And then the stalker turns up waving a fucking gun.”
He went quiet and concentrated on driving once more, though there was little traffic, and the road was almost straight without roadworks or potholes.
“I thought he was going to kill all of us. I can’t stop thinking about it. You just stood there, talking to him, as if it was no big deal, while he pointed a gun at you. I did nothing.”
“You gave me the distraction I needed,” Charlie said.
“I closed my eyes. I thought he was going to shoot you, and I was too afraid to look. I hid, like a coward.”
28
The right training
Thursday 11am
Outside the car, the fields were green from the recent rain, and the muddy-brown river flowed swiftly, swollen with run-off from the hills. Clouds scudded across the sky, letting the sun break through and light up the turning leaves on the hillside forests. The sides of the road ran with water, but the bigger floods had drained away. It was Wales in autumn, and it was beautiful. Charlie didn’t think of himself as sentimental about his country, but the familiarity kept him grounded. He liked seeing new places—would happily take any opportunity to travel—but he couldn’t imagine living anywhere but here. There was something about the endless variations on the colour green, the hillsides covered in trees and the red kites circling overhead, that slowed his heart rate and calmed his mind when things had been out of control. Things had been out of control for a while now, so he watched the landscape pass and considered what to say to Tom.
“The thing is, we’re all cowards,” Charlie said in the end. “You were stuck in a room with an emotionally unstable man with a gun who had tied you to a chair. There’s no way to feel OK about that. The reason I could stand still and keep talking is down to training, not character. And you didn’t panic, which is down to character. You probably saved my life. All our lives.”
Tom took a hand off the wheel and took hold of Charlie’s good hand.
“Thanks for saying that, even if it’s not true. I’m going to be a real man about it and ignore all the feelings.”
“You’re an artist,” Charlie said. “Aren’t artists allowed to have feelings?”
“In moderation,” Tom replied. “Provided that we can intellectualise them.”
“That’s better than coppers. Coppers aren’t allowed to have feelings at all.”
It seemed to Charlie that they weren’t talking about any old feelings, and that once again he was saying things to Tom that he hadn’t said to anyone else.
“Before I arrived,” Charlie said, changing the subject before he found himself saying anything he might regret, “did either Vitruvious or Kaylan give you any clue about Rico’s death? Because that’s what’s making me angry. Rico died, and one of those two is responsible, but so far, we don’t have a case against either of them.”
Tom frowned. “What do you think happened?” he asked.
“I think one or both of them had the idea of Vitruvious painting Kaylan and Rico as dying refugees, adrift at sea. Kaylan said it was a chance for Vitruvious to get attention to his work. Maybe they were going to talk about the experience of being starving and dehydrated as a publicity stunt to promote the picture. You said Vitruvious is good at getting media attention. I know it sounds bonkers, but Kaylan and Rico were dehydrated, and the post mortem on Rico said he hadn’t eaten for days.”
Charlie sighed. Saying it aloud made the idea sound even more ludicrous.
“And then it went too far, and Rico died?” Tom asked. “An accident?”
“The alternative to an accident doesn’t bear thinking about,” Charlie said. “Unless one of them talks we’ll never know. They’re both going to prison, but neither of them for Rico’s death. No one is going to believe in my stupid painting theory. Vitruvious will probably get bail, dammit, and if he pleads guilty to the fraud, he’ll get a nice open prison as a non-violent offender.”
“So, we have to find the painting,” Tom said. “Or rather, we have to find the sketches. Because if you are right, and Vitruvious was emulating Géricault, studying the dead and dying in order to shock his audience, then there will be sketches. Lots of them. Find the sketches and we’ll have a record of what happened. Remember that he might be a monster, but Vitruvious is a good painter, and good painting is built on good drawing. He will have spent a lot of time drawing his subjects, and maybe photographing them too.” Tom paused, frowning. His speed dropped until the car was dawdling along. A few other cars flew past, engines revving.
“Pull into that picnic area,” Charlie said. “Because you obviously can’t drive and think.”
Tom grinned and turned up a steep track into a gravelled car park with paths leading into the nearby forestry and a couple of ancient picnic tables. He parked. There were trees all around them, mostly conifers, with their intense smell. Dead needles and pine cones littered the ground.
“Let’s walk a bit if you’re up to it,” Tom said.
“Can you walk and think? Because if you can, I’m always up for some fresh air.”
Tom helped him wriggle out of the car without too much pain, and they set off up the nearest path. A few hundred yards from the car, a disintegrating bench gave a view through a gap in the trees, across the river valley to the mountains beyond.
“I know red kites aren’t such a big deal any more,” Tom said, “but I love to watch them, and this is a good spot.” Charlie sat down carefully, but with some relief. Moments later, a fork-tailed raptor drifted into view, floating effortlessly on unseen currents, adjusting its trim by moving a single feather. As they watched silently, the bird was joined by others rising and falling, circling, speeding up and slowing, and always staring intently at the ground below. Charlie could feel the heat from Tom’s body as they looked at the birds, and he himself in their endless movement. He wanted to feel Tom’s arms round him, to tip his head up and find Tom’s lips with his own. Tom leaned closer, and Charlie knew that he wasn’t the only one feeling the possibilities charging the particles in the air between them.
Their lips met and Charlie melted into Tom, pain forgotten in the warmth, and, yes, desire. Tom’s beard felt soft against his own stubbly cheeks, and then Tom’s big hands were cupping his face and his dark eyes were gazing into his own. He broke the kiss and leaned back a little.
