Dead Man's Footsteps

said.
    ‘Where the fuck are you? You’re late.’
    ‘I’m only a few minutes away, Ricky. It’s not 10.30 yet.’ Then she added nervously, ‘Is it?’
    ‘I told you, she goes over the fucking edge at 10.30.’
    ‘Ricky, please, I’m coming. I’ll be there.’
    ‘You’d fucking better.’
    Suddenly, to her relief, the Alfa’s left-turn signal started flashing and it pulled over into a lay-by. She increased her speed to more than she was comfortable with.
    Inside the Alfa, Roy Grace watched the black Honda accelerate off up the winding road. Cassian Pewe, in the front passenger seat, said into his secure phone, ‘Target One has just gone past. Two miles from zone.’
    The voice of the local Silver commander – the senior officer running the operation – replied, ‘Target Two just made contact with her. Proceed to Position Four.’
    ‘Proceeding to Position Four,’ Pewe confirmed back. He looked down at the Ordnance Survey map on his knees. ‘OK,’ he said to Grace. ‘Move on as soon as she is out of sight.’
    Grace put the car in gear. As the Honda crested a hill and vanished, he accelerated.
    Pewe checked the transmit button was off, then turned to his colleague. ‘Roy, you know, it is true what the Chief Super said. I was only doing it to protect you.’
    ‘From what?’ Grace said acidly.
    ‘Innuendo is corrosive. There is nothing worse than suspicion in a police force.’
    ‘Bullshit.’
    ‘If that’s what you believe, then I’m sorry. I don’t want to fall out over this.’
    ‘Oh, really? I don’t know what your agenda is, to be frank. For some reason, you think I murdered my wife, don’t you? Do you honestly think I would have buried her in my back garden? That’s why you were having it scanned, wasn’t it? For her remains?’
    ‘I was having it scanned to prove she wasn’t there. To end the speculation.’
    ‘I don’t think so, Cassian.’

118
OCTOBER 2007
    Abby drove up the headland. To her right was open grassland, with a few clusters of bushes and one dense copse of short trees, ending in chalk cliffs and a vertical drop to the English Channel. One of the sheerest, highest and most certain drops in the whole of the British Isles. To her left, there was an almost uninterrupted view over miles of open farmland. She could see the road threading through it into the distance. The tarmac was an intense black, with crisp broken white lines down the centre. It looked as if it had all been freshly painted for her today.
    Detective Sergeant Branson had told her earlier that Ricky had made a mistake choosing this location, but at this moment she could not see how. It struck her as a clever choice. From wherever he was, Ricky would be able to see anything that moved in any direction.
    Maybe the detective had just said it to reassure her. And she sure as hell needed that at this moment.
    She could see a building about half a mile away on her left, at almost the highest point of the headland, with what looked like a pub or hotel sign on a pole. As she got nearer she saw the red-tiled roof and flint walls. Then she could read the sign.
    BEACHY HEAD HOTEL .
    Drive into the car park of the Beachy Head Hotel and wait for me to contact you , were his instructions. At exactly 10.30.
    The place looked deserted. There was a glass bus shelter with a blue and white sign in front of it, on which was written in large lettering: THE SAMARITANS . ALWAYS THERE DAY OR NIGHT , with two phone numbers beneath. Just beyond was an orange and yellow ice-cream van, which had its sales window open, and a short distance further on there was a British Telecom truck, with two men in hard hats and high-visibility jackets carrying out work on a radio mast. Two small cars were parked by the rear entrance to the hotel; she assumed these belonged to staff.
    She turned left and pulled up at the far end of the car park, then switched off the engine. Moments later, her phone rang.
    ‘Good,’ Ricky said. ‘Well done! Scenic route, isn’t it?’
    The car was rocking in the wind.
    ‘Where are you?’ she said, looking around in every direction. ‘Where’s my mother?’
    ‘Where are my stamps?’
    ‘I have them.’
    ‘I have your mother. She’s enjoying the view.’
    ‘I want to see her.’
    ‘I want to see the stamps.’
    ‘Not until I know my mother is all right.’
    ‘I’ll put her on the phone.’
    There was a silence. She heard the wind blowing. Then her mother’s voice, as weak and quavering as a