She squeezed my arm. “Maybe you’re right about the first step at least. We could try to find out what happened. We don’t yet know the full circumstances. Perhaps it was self-defense. But if my dad’s theory is right about people wanting to kill you to preserve HomEvo’s business reputation, we’re going into the lion’s den. Collectively, most of the company’s shareholders own that village. Are you sure this is worth it?”
“If I don’t face them, I’ll be looking over my shoulder forever. I’m up for a little confrontation if you are.”
“Always. But let’s keep the antidote syringes handy.”
THIRTY
I rented a comfortable sedan because I didn’t want a long drive in Christmas’s noisy coupe with its hard suspension and cramped space. The rental company brought the car round right away.
Christmas packed clothes and other essentials in a carryall. I watched her unlock a concealed draw in the base of her bookcase. Inside were two black nine-millimeter pistols and a smaller pistol which she strapped to her ankle, covering it with her mid-calf boot saying, “Same caliber, fewer rounds. For emergencies.”
The arsenal of weapons made me think that she might unleash the violence that Babyhead had predicted; problem-solving with bullets. “Are you sure you need all of those?”
“You know the old saying; two guns in the hand are worth two birds in the bag.”
“That’s not how that saying goes.”
“It does when I’m the girl holding the guns.”
I decided not to argue.
Christmas put one of the larger pistols in her hip holster and the other in her jacket pocket on the other side. She put two spare magazines for the pistols in her other pockets and strapped a hunting knife in a scabbard under her jacket. Smoothing her clothes over the weaponry she said, “Right, I’m ready then.”
“I’m going to bring a pen, paper and compass.”
“You do that. We can leave notes and directions for anyone we don’t have time to shoot,” she said gleefully.
I made sure I had venom and nerve agent antidotes and adrenaline shots in my jacket. Christmas brought the spare injectors and put them in her carryall.
I drove. By ten o’clock we were on the M40 from London to Birmingham in a quiet car that smelt of new plastic and durable fabrics instead of the damp carpet and hot oil from Christmas’s roaring ground-hugging coupe. In two hours we reached Birmingham. Skirting the city to the east, we continued north, taking the M6 expressway to Cumbria. Another two hours and we left the expressway for smaller roads. Soon we were on narrow country lanes, passing through damp-smelling woodland, farmland scented with animal dung and quaint tourist-friendly villages.
We drew near to Limewood, passing beside the barbed wire fencing and the yellow and black warning notices of the desolate military firing range. From her tablet, Christmas read news stories to me about the firing range. Several times each week for almost a century, soldiers, artillery, tanks and aircraft had dropped or fired missiles and shells into its natural beauty. A very small fraction of this ordnance had failed to explode. Over time this had led to thousands of unexploded bombs and shells, embedded within its peat moss, grass and heather, making it uninhabitable and unfarmable.
The Limewood village council had recently bought all ten square miles of the range for the price of a pair of large London houses. As we reached the end of the range nearest to the village, we saw that it had been levelled. It seemed that this area had somehow been made safe. An estate of large houses was being built. Brick walls and scaffolding were being erected by young apprentices and school-age laborers, rather than the sturdy east European workers common elsewhere. Many of them were women.
At the village proper we reached an estate of traditionally styled homes with slate roofs, pan-tiled upper stories and red-brick walls below. The well-established trees and gardens, lichen on the roof, and ivy on the walls suggested they’d been built decades earlier. They were big houses. Most of them had a central doorway flanked by room-wide windows on each side, an upper floor of perhaps four rooms at the front and wide dormer windows in the roofs. I guessed at between eight and twelve bedrooms in each. Perhaps more if the rooms were smaller. The garages were double-width or bigger.
“Big houses for enormous families. There’s the human equivalent of the huge webs I was talking about.”
Christmas looked thoughtful.
We passed a newer estate, the clean bricks still sharp and precise against bright woodwork. Saplings and small bushes stood fragile in the new gardens.
At a mud-coated access road crossing the main road, we stopped to let a procession of yellow construction trucks roar out of a fenced compound, heading back to the firing range. The trucks looked almost new. The name Limewood Construction shone glossily in three-foot high lettering on the sides of the massive-tired vehicles. The drivers were barely of drinking age.
“How does everyone here manage to buy a huge house?” I asked.
“I was wondering the same thing, but I’m looking online and there’s nothing for sale.”
“What about all these new houses?”
Christmas was tapping at her tablet. “Nothing for sale and nothing that’s even been for sale last year or any year that I can find. Nothing listed for years. Maybe you get to buy a house here by invitation only.”
“What about Limewood Construction? Do they sell houses?”
Christmas checked online. “No website.”
At the far end of the village, past the village hall and a public house, a new parade of shops included a large café. Beyond it we saw a new, white-brick building with distinctive hospital signage, set back among the trees.
We parked in the café parking lot and went inside to eat.
All of the tables were long with bench seating to accommodate at least eight people. We passed two tables crowded with young teenagers, jabbering like starlings over milkshakes and soft drinks.
Christmas and I sat facing each other at a table at the front corner of the building, furthest from the entrance. The lunchtime service hadn’t ended; there was still hot food.
A girl of about fourteen with a dark-brown ponytail swinging from her peaked cap bounded over, her energy undiminished by the earlier lunchtime rush.
“Welcome, people from out of town,” she said theatrically.
We laughed as she beamed at us.
“What would you like? We’re out of a few things but we still have lamb steaks.”
We ordered the steaks and vegetables. The girl bounced away to the kitchen.
Christmas said, “I’m hungry.”
“You’re eating for twenty,” I reminded her quietly.
“Don’t talk about it, please.”
“Okay. In any case, the last time I came north I spent most of the day running for my life. It’s a good idea if we’re fully fueled.” I pointed at a street on the map displayed on the tablet, “Sophie’s address is here. Probably one of those big, pan-tiled houses.”
The young waitress came back with drinks and skipped away with the empty tray. Soon she brought the food, laying the plates down proudly with a “sir” and “madam”.
I said, “I want my children to be like you; hardworking, polite, funny and enthusiastic.”
“Thank you,” she said with a comic curtsy, “I’m flattered.” She glanced as briefly as possible at Christmas to see where the children were going to come from, without gaining any useful clue other than Christmas giving me a short glare.
“Is this your first job?” I asked.
“It’s just for the summer but it’s my third job in a year and a half,” she held up three fingers and then one finger plus her thumb. “I’ve worked in the mini-supermarket, which was boring, and the fields—that was cold, wet, muddy and uncomfortable—and now this, which is the most fun compared to the others. Except when people complain. So just tell me everything’s great!”
“It’s great,” Christmas mumbled, a tiny smear of gravy in the corner of her m
outh.
We laughed and the girl skipped away to the kitchen counter and collected meals for an old couple at the back of the café, serving them quietly.
After we’d eaten, I caught the girl’s eye and made the universally recognized mime of writing on my palm.
She nodded and printed the check at the counter, putting it on her tray which held three milkshakes. She served her peers on the way over to our table. I heard the tone of sly jeering from them. She arrived at our table, deflated. Her face was red.
Christmas looked up at her and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.” Tears instantly formed on her lower lids.
Christmas grabbed the girl’s thin wrist and pulled her down onto the bench seat with a bump. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“I’m not supposed to sit with the customers.”
“Were they rude to you?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if it upsets you. What did they say?”
“Just banter.”
Christmas stroked the girl’s upper arm, “I won’t intrude if you don’t want me to, but let me help you a little.”
She sighed, “They were laughing at me. Telling me I’m skinny.”
Christmas put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “You’re lovely. They’re jealous. You’re slender and attractive and more importantly, you have a vivacious personality.”
“I shouldn’t care. But they’re my friends. Sort of.”
“They’re not your friends if they’re making you cry. And they’re not adults either. Their judgement is the verdict of children. I’m telling you that you’re great. And if they say anything else rude to you, refuse to serve them and tell them to leave.”
The girl looked at Christmas shocked.
“They probably sit here, stretching one drink out for hours. Whoever owns this café—”
“My uncle,” she interrupted.
“He makes almost nothing from them. And if they make it difficult for you to work at your best, when you’re fun and engaging,” Christmas put an arm around her shoulders, “they’re customers he doesn’t need. Tell him they’re being unkind and that you’re going to ask them to leave.”
“He’ll say I should stand up for myself better.”
“Then do both. Tell them that they shouldn’t be rude to you and that if they continue, you’re not going to serve them.”
She gulped down her tears, “I’ll try.”
“You need better friends. I’m going to make you my project. I want you to come flying with me.”
“You have an airplane?”
“No, I have huge wings under this coat.”
The girl looked at her confused.
“Of course I have an airplane.”
They laughed together.
“It’s not technically mine, it’s my dad’s. But I’m the only one who flies it.”
“Do I know you? You look familiar.” The girl studied Christmas’s face.
“You don’t know me yet, but we should be friends.”
They swapped contact details.
I paid and left a large tip.
“Thank you very much,” she said, a smile returning to her face. Then suddenly her demeanor changed; she was downcast again. “Oh no!” She groaned, staring grimly at a dark-gray sedan maneuvering in the parking lot.
“What’s wrong?”
“My least favorite aunt is here.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“She’s a bad person and a bully,” she scowled. “Nothing happens in this village without her say so.” Lowering her voice she leaned toward us. “We wanted a big sign at the roadside. Aunt Miranda said ‘no’ because it might attract tourists.”
“Seems a bit unfriendly.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, her brow furrowed. “See that old couple at the back? Don’t look.”
We’d already started to turn our heads but quickly turned back to the waitress.
“They never pay. I’m all for charity. I volunteer for lots of things and it’s nice that we look after them, but Miranda didn’t give us a choice. And she doesn’t pay for them. She just makes my uncle pay. So now they’re in here three times a day. It sounds mean of me, but it feels wrong being forced to do it.”
“She’s generous with other people’s money. But community spirited? Perhaps she’s not completely heartless,” I suggested.
She whispered urgently, “My uncle says she wants their property,” she tilted her head toward the old couple. “She’s nice at first, and then if things don’t go her way, really nasty. I can’t tell you just how bad she can be.”
The teenagers on the other tables had fallen silent, some of them kneeling up on the seats to get a better view of the incoming car. Suddenly they all rose in a flock, threw coins onto the table, collected bags and clothing from around the seats and formed a crush at the front door in their hurry to leave. Pulling their hoods up tight around their faces, they hurried across the parking lot.
“She’s got her Russian friends with her,” the waitress said quietly, looking toward the car outside. “They scare me. I wish they’d go somewhere else.”
Outside the crowd of youths began to regroup at the grass verge on the opposite side of the road. Some of them looked skyward for rain as the sun disappeared behind clouds.
A woman got out of the car, followed by three men. She was tall, very broad with black hair and dressed all in black; boots, pants and heavy black coat. Leading the men, she pushed forcefully through the stragglers at the door.
Each of her companions was unshaven and sour-faced, dressed in cargo pants, dark tee-shirts and cheap, black, nylon-stuffed jackets. They sat at the other end of the café, away from the window.
“This job’s great for getting to see everyone but I wish I didn’t have to see her,” the girl said quietly.
With the hubbub of adolescent voices gone, the café became nearly silent. The old couple looked over to Miranda and made a short wave.
She acknowledged them and, hunched over the table, spoke in a low grumble to her companions. She looked up and called gruffly, “Girl, over here.”
“Bye,” the waitress said to us, a forlorn look on her face, “Don’t worry, I’ve served them before. It’s a different kind of unpleasantness that’s all.” She walked in quick, small steps toward her unwanted customers.
The men looked briefly at me and Christmas before turning back to Miranda and murmuring conspiratorially.
I watched the waitress take the orders and hurry to the kitchen, head down, not looking in our direction.
We got up and made our way toward the door.
Miranda stared at us.
I stared back. I tried to imagine the men in the clown lipstick and curly-haired wigs I’d seen on the gang who’d stabbed me in London. It was an easy fit.
Christmas left her coat unbuttoned, hands hanging loosely at her sides, ready for action. She pushed herself between me and the group.
The men looked at us sideways, two smirking, one deadpan with dull hatred.
THIRTY-ONE
Outside, we got into our car and slowly turned onto the road. Christmas eyed the door of the café, twisting around to keep it in view as we drove away.
“That was oppressive. I’m worried about that girl.” she said.
“She’s coped with her aunt before. Did you recognize any of the men?”
“No. Was the one who stabbed you there?”
“Not certain. But I can say for sure that they’ve got the same bad dress sense.”
“I want to go back.”
“You can’t shoot them for ordering lunch. Text your new friend later. Let’s do the thing we came here for.”
She gave me a petulant look.
“I didn’t know you have a plane.”
“It’s only small. Smallish.”
“Do you have a boat?”
“My dad has a boat.”
“Do you have a spaceship or a submarin
e?”
“No. Don’t be silly.”
We drove toward the registered address of Aleksy’s killer. The house was off the main road at the end of the older housing estate. The clouds passed and bright sunlight flickered through the tall lime trees and sycamores on the broad avenue.
Christmas said, “I know this place. I remember Mum and Dad having an argument driving along here.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Nothing really. A party I think. A big family. I remember riding on someone’s shoulders and touching the ceiling.”
Children played on the broad lawns. We drove along slowly, stopping for balls rolling across the road, frisbees flying, excited dogs and the children that dashed after all of them, and each other.
We parked beside a tall hawthorn hedge near the end of the road. Bowing beneath the branches of a cherry tree, we passed through a garden gate and followed a path of sandstone slabs set in the glossy green grass of a well-maintained front lawn.
The house was the same large type that we’d seen from the main road. A clutch of brightly colored balloons bobbed beside the front door. In front of a three-door garage, a motorcycle leaned on its kickstand.
Standing under the porch shelter at the front door, I pressed the bell button. The doorbell rang inside, lost amid the shrieking, squealing and excited babbling of small children. The door remained closed. We rang again for longer.
A girl of about sixteen eventually opened the door. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore sweatpants, a dark sports shirt and sneakers. A small boy jumped excitedly next to her, shouting her name, “Sam, Sam, Sam…” as she absently put out her hand to him.
She looked at me and said, “Hello.” Looking at Christmas she said “Oh!” smiled broadly for a moment, took a step forward as though she might embrace her, but then stopped, confused, a question on her face.
The small boy stared at Christmas, then at me, and held the girl’s hand.
Christmas said, “Hi. Is your mother in?”
“We’re looking for Sophie Miller,” I added.