Chapter Four

1

LONDON

Dominic was looking at his watch when Jack saw him on the corner by the café where they sometimes met for lunch if they were both in the city. It was a noisy dark little place that played recorded jazz by day and live jazz by night.

He was slender and tall, wearing a suit that Jack had only seen him in a few times. His usual garb was a chequered shirt, slacks and slippers with a long cardigan; his white hair was always combed neatly back off his face as it was today. When he glimpsed Jack’s approach out of the corner of his eye he started walking in the opposite direction. Jack, who’d slowed down and started to reach to shake hands had to hurry to catch up.

“Where are you going?” said Jack. “I thought you wanted to eat.”

“We need to hurry. They close their doors at five o’clock sharp.”

Dominic was two and a half times Jack’s age if he was a day but he walked everywhere and it was a job to keep up with him. “Who closes their doors?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Jack stopped. “Who are you taking me to see?” Dominic continued at the same hurried rate, leaving him behind. Jack started after him. “Is this what you told me about on the phone?”

“We have a meeting. I rang back the man who has been trying to track you down after we spoke this morning and arranged an appointment for this afternoon. I had to speak to your odorous landlord several times. He refused to take a message. In the end I arranged for an open-ended appointment. They were very keen to speak to you immediately.”

“You don’t have to worry about my landlord anymore. He kicked me out.”

This time it was Dominic who paused. “Really?”

“Yeah.” They resumed walking. “I’m out of money.”

“You should come to me when you’re running short Jack. You know I’ll always help you out.”

“Thanks Dominic; I know that; but it’s important for me to, you know… not need anybody else to help me to…”

“… be independent?”

Jack grinned. “I was going to say, screw up. But yeah. I guess it amounts to the same thing.”

Dominic glanced at his watch again. “It isn’t far down the road now. We should make it in time.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“They’ll explain everything when we get there. I think it might be better if you hear it from them.”

“Hear what? What’s going on? Who’s been trying to track me down? Is it—Is it the police?”

“Why on earth would the police want to speak to you?”

Jack found he couldn’t form a response.

“A man has rung me several times,” said Dominic, “a private detective, trying to find you.”

“A detective? Hired by whom?”

“The man we’re going to see. They tried to find you through your parents at first.”

“A dead end.”

“Then through more long-winded ways that proved difficult because you don’t get paid from your work in a conventional way.”

“It’s called not paying me.”

“In the end they went back to the family route and found me through your mother’s side.” Dominic stopped at the front of a grand townhouse that had been converted into offices. The brass plaque on the right of the door said MILES & DAVIS with the word SOLICITORS in smaller type below . “We’re here.” He started to climb the steps to the front door. Jack grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Dominic. Seriously. What are we doing here?”

The old man thought for a moment, came to a decision then descended to street level. “Perhaps it is better if you hear the first part from me.”

“What is it?”

“Your father’s brother went to live in America in his early twenties.”

“Uncle Robert. I heard about him. Never met him though. My dad went to see him over there once when I was a kid. He lived in San Francisco; worked in the movies, right?” Jack flashed his eyebrows as though it were terribly exciting. “My dad didn’t talk about him much. I think they fell out.”

Dominic placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this Jack, but he died. Recently.”

“Died?”

“I don’t know how. Some kind of accident.”

Jack looked across the street. There was a park in the centre of the block, fenced all round with black railings. Inside he could hear the laughter of children. He tried to picture his uncle from photographs he might have seen, an old cine-film he had watched as a child, but couldn’t. “I didn’t know him. I’m sorry he’s dead but I never even spoke to him once. I wish I had now. I never even saw a photo of him that I remember. ”

Dominic looked him in the eye. “Well he felt he knew you well enough to leave you something in his will,” he said.

2

SAN FRANCISCO

Molly strode down the long hallway, the anger she’d found on her morning jog intensifying the closer she got to this confrontation.

The party the previous day; finding out about Jack Catholic and the men tracking him down; the fact she and her family were going to be broke soon; the way her mother had treated her all these years... It was past time for a reckoning.

“Mother!” She knocked open the double doors into the den.

“What the matter now Molly?” Jennifer raised her head lightly off the chaise longue, her hand up to shield her eyes from the morning sunlight.

“I want to talk.” Molly came to a stop above her, letting her body’s shadow block the dazzle.

Jennifer was stretched out in her nightgown. “What do you want to talk about?” She smiled as a means of calming the waters.

“Don’t give me that smirk of yours Mother!” snapped Molly. “After everything that’s happened I deserve a lot more warmth from you!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Molly stepped out of the way, intentionally letting the light fall into Jennifer’s eyes. “Don’t you know? All these years and you don’t realise how you’ve treated us.”

Her mother swung her legs to the carpet, sitting up. “What are you talking about Molly? Just tell me.”

Molly walked away, her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing a dress with short sleeves and was a little warm. “I’m very angry,” she whispered. “It’s been building a long time... A long time, and I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Jennifer stood up behind her. Very quietly, she said, “Why?”

“Because you took our father away from us,” snapped Molly, turning to face her. “Whether he walked out or not; you indoctrinated us: brought us up to hate him, and now he’s dead.”

Jennifer’s hands closed around Molly’s shoulders, gentle and warm. “You had every reason to hate your father Molly,” she said. “I only let you know him for what he was.”

“And what was that?”

“A liar and an adulterer.”

“Is that true?”

Jennifer’s grip faltered. “Yes.” Her reply was weak and brittle like an old lady’s.

Molly pulled away and turned to face her, seizing the weakness. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Her mother staggered back and hid her face but there were tears on her cheeks.

“There’s something else isn’t there?” said Molly.

Jennifer moved away, shaking her head.

“Tell me mother. Please.”

“He’s dead now.”

“I know,” said Molly. “That’s... That’s why you have to tell me.”

There was a drinks cabinet against the far wall. Jennifer reached it, leaning against the hard wood surface that formed a preparation area. “I’m so tired.”

“Tell me what happened Mother. Please. I need to understand.”

Jennifer’s head was low – lower than her shoulders. Her hair covered her face completely. She raised it, showing her tears to her daughter and for a moment Molly felt a branding of doubt, pity and remorse. Then she hardened her brow and repeated the words, “Tell me.”

3

Jennifer stood against the hearth, the slim line of her body meeting the mantelpiece at chest height. Her arm was extended, fingers touching a picture of Molly and Ruben.

She didn’t look at Molly as she prepared to speak. Though her tears were dry, the feeling that had brought them on shimmered visibly beneath the surface of her face. Molly sat half way across the room on the chaise longue, legs together, knees raised, her hands gripping the fabric beneath her thighs.

“Your father and I met thirty two years ago,” began Jennifer finally. “We – both of us – fell in what we thought was love.”

“And it wasn’t?”

Jennifer looked round, eyes clear for the first time. “I honestly don’t know.” She turned back to the picture. “You know most of everything: about my career as an actress and how your father helped me; partly by casting me in films he directed, partly by using his influence. You’ve read my book.” Molly nodded. “And you remember the arguments. Don’t you.”

“Yes Mother.”

Dark in the bedroom, tree shadows on the ceiling; her mother’s raised voice; her father’s.

“We divorced,” continued Jennifer, “and I was so glad to see the back of him. I took you and Ruben with me; he didn’t get you. I used the money I got to set up here.

“I remember standing in the hallway when we arrived, the staircase rising up around me in a spiral, sunlight coming down from that beautiful circular skylight we have. You and Ruben were at my feet. I looked up at the sky through the glass; it was so blue; and I realised I was completely free; that no-one could ever hold me back again.”

Molly stirred, shifting her legs. “You told that story on TV a couple of times.”

Jennifer nodded. “I was a symbol back in those days.” She smiled. “Did you ever read the article they wrote about me in Time?”

Molly shook her head.

“It was a female journalist. Katie somebody; I don’t know. She said I was a REAL WOMAN; that I was an inspiration to women everywhere.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Until the following month when they forgot all about me.

“But the funniest thing Molly,” she said, “about that image; that memory – the story I told all those television viewers – the picture I’ve kept in my head all these years... It’s a lie. It never happened; not like I said.

“I stood in that hallway with you and Ruben at my feet and my heart was breaking. I could barely see the sky through my tears.”

Molly sat forward, a weight pressing into her stomach suddenly.

“I hated your father,” said Jennifer, voice husky and quiet. “At every chance I cut his name and reputation. Even if it destroyed my own.”

Molly made to stand up but couldn’t. She just watched.

“A year after the divorce I was at the academy awards. It was my swan song. I was the one opening the envelope and everyone knew my career was finished. This would be my last appearance. It was an old favour that I was there at all and I’d had to be… repellent to one of the men on the committee to get that.”

“Mother!”

Jennifer smiled wearily. “Don’t be so shocked.

“Before the ceremony people I’d known came, effectively, to say goodbye. There was distaste in their eyes at my public crusade to slur Robert but they were still… polite. As I left the stage after giving the award I glanced back into the lights; into the crowd and I knew… I knew. Then I turned away from it all and there was your father right in front of me. I have no idea what he was doing backstage. He never told me.”

“Mother?”

“We spent the night together, outside of town in a motel. The boy on the admissions desk didn’t even recognise me. We made love and then talked for; I don’t know... We talked for hours.”

Molly stood finally, her body feeling small, shoulders low. “You loved him after all.”

Jennifer shook her head. “Maybe; I don’t know. Maybe.” She sat down and crossed her legs. “Pass me a cigarette darling.”

Molly did, handing her the long silver lighter too. Jennifer smiled briefly as she lit up. The flicker of light let her down, etching more clearly for a second the thin lines on her brow; around her eyes and mouth.

“We were going to get back together. By morning we knew for sure.”

“But you didn’t,” said Molly.

“No,” replied Jennifer, closing her eyes as she inhaled the smoke and leaned back into her chair.  Molly sat quietly opposite. Jennifer let the smoke drift from her lips slowly then forced the rest out impatiently fast. “We were so happy and it made me realise that I’d been lying to myself; that the vision in the hallway was false. In all the time since we’d divorced, that picture had grown so stable in my mind, so true; and now, suddenly, its validity was wavering. We made so many plans.

“He was involved in a location shoot at the time and I’d had enough of the movies so we arranged to meet up when he was back in town.”

“The film he was working on...?”

“Yes.” Jennifer nodded. “It was Bad Moon Rising.”

Molly shifted, uncomfortable. The story had sucked her in and made her forget herself but now she was conscious again. She crossed her arms tightly.

“It was raining when he finally came here to get me,” said Jennifer, “and I’d heard by then. I’d read about it in the evening paper and if that hadn’t been enough, at least three “friends” had materialised on the phone to tell me the “horrible news.”

“He was soaking; absolutely soaking wet. I think the taxi had dropped him at the foot of the drive. He’d run up, huffing from the exertion, and now here he was, standing in the hallway. The skylight above was completely black. It shuddered with the pressure of the storm.

“He smiled at me and I thought, you bastard. How can you come in here to my house after what you’ve done? How can you come in here and smile that smile – the same one you gave me after the Oscars – the same smile you gave as you put your arms around me and led me away?

“He could see it in my face: that I knew; about him and that piece of filth. He could see that I knew about him and—”

She pressed the heel of her right hand up against her eye, then she got to her feet. Her face was cracked and bitter; streaks of anger lanced back from her eyes and nose.

“I didn’t let him speak. I kicked him out into the rain! I didn’t care what he had to say! Not after what he did to me! I screamed at him and I hit his face and his chest! Then I opened the door and pushed him out!”

She dropped back into her chair and now she put her hands to her face and kept them there. Her sobs broke through and Molly reached forward to comfort her. “Mom?”

Sobbing; no other sound; then her mother raised her head, just a little. She lowered her hands. “I’ve hated him for so long,” she said. “I’ve hated him and I’ve made you hate him... and – Jesus Christ – I don’t know if the rumours were even true. I really don’t know what he did with that actress on location or whether they did anything. I don’t know what he would have said if I’d let him speak.

“I saw his face as I slammed the door – I saw it for a half second – and I’ve never seen anyone look like that. I’ve never known such loss. And there was no vision of the staircase to save me anymore. I’d seen the lie and I knew how weak and lost I could feel.”

 “It’s okay Mom. It’s okay.”

Jennifer shook her head then quite soberly, she looked up at her daughter. “You know what I think about?” she said. “You know what makes me cry at night? I know you’ve heard me.”

Molly shook her head.

“I cry because I know I should’ve taken him back whether he was guilty or not. I should’ve—” She started sobbing again. “Molly; I wish I still could.”

Understanding came to Molly’s thoughts, then it was swallowed in anger. She tried to hold it in but no understanding could stifle it.

“You made us hate him,” she said, her voice beginning very slow and quiet but building. “You brought Ruben and me up to hate his guts and all the time you wanted to be with him? You wanted to forgive his infidelity; to trust him again after everything he did to you?”

Jennifer raised her hands to the side of her face, her head shaking slowly; erratically.

“Every step of our lives you’ve pushed us further and further apart from him,” snapped Molly, getting to her feet, “And I hate you for it! I hate you as much as you hate yourself!”

“Then turn that anger back your way!” screamed Jennifer, standing up as well, “All you’ve ever wanted was the money! You did nothing to reach him all these years! Only so much can be indoctrination. You had the ability to choose as much as I did and you never made the leap! You never tried to make contact!”

“I did!”

“When?”

Molly stepped back. “I did!”

“When?” snarled Jennifer, pressing forward.

“On the night he died! All right?” cried Molly. “On the night he died!”

4

The offices of Miles & Davis Solicitors were compact but opulent. There were two grand doors flanking the desk of the pretty receptionist, both of them closed. She was wearing a summer dress that revealed enough tanned skin to seem slightly inappropriate given the staid surroundings. She beamed at Jack and Dominic as they entered.

Jack hung back as Dominic explained their business, finding himself entranced by these two portals. There was no name on either door but even if there had been, Jack did not know which solicitor they were here to see. The receptionist chirped out her words, raising the pitch at the end of each phrase, describing and exceeding the stereotype of her role. She asked Dominic if they didn’t mind waiting for a few moments; Mr Miles was just finishing off a meeting. Dominic nodded and she continued to beam, shining her smile in Jack’s direction as she gestured to a seating area concealed by tall ferns.

They withdrew and sat down. Dominic offered a supportive smile to Jack but didn’t speak. There was a library-stillness to the room that discouraged conversation. Jack ached to talk to his friend about what had happened in Bristol but he couldn’t. There was the tiniest hope that the old man would understand and condone his actions but a far greater chance of condemnation and disgust. Jack couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t face the possibility of Dominic’s gentle kindness closing off from him forever.

He thought about Lucy again, remembering that last day they spent together. Twenty-four hours earlier his life had been a perfectly rendered painting – a spectacle that might have been the pinnacle of his own artistic talent if he’d created it himself – but curling jigsaw cracks had formed in it and all the stability of that tranquil scene had been broken into its constituent parts. Now he was left to piece it back together; to create a fresh picture; but he had no idea what that new image was going to be.

He was glad to have Dominic with him even if he knew that it couldn’t last. Whatever his destiny was now, it didn’t lie anywhere close to his original path here in London; that much he was sure of. He didn’t even really know what he was doing there. How much time could pass before the police came to find him?

Jack glanced across at the receptionist, his view mostly obscured by the plant to his right. She turned back to her computer instantly. She’d been watching him. Jack wasn’t new to interest from the opposite sex, he’d been blessed enough in that department, but the attraction women had shown toward him had still always left him feeling a little befuddled and shy, despite the confidence he felt in so many other ways.

Dominic sat quietly, one leg crossed over the other.

The left hand door behind the reception desk opened. Jack slid forward on his seat, ready to stand. Then he saw the figure who emerged and twisted his head round to look away immediately, concealing his face, blood rising to his neck.

It was a man in a business suit and behind him, stepping from the gloom of the office: a policeman.

5

So this was it. This was the moment after all when he would be arrested then shoved in front of a judge and sentenced to prison for the rest of his life.

Jack didn’t move. He kept staring away so that the policeman wouldn’t see his face, aware of how tense and probably obvious the gesture was. He blushed. Any moment now, Dominic would notice how oddly he was acting and ask him why, drawing even more attention; though that probably wouldn’t make any difference. The policeman had to be here for him. It was too much of a coincidence. Any moment now he would feel another hand on his shoulder, just as he had when he entered his home, except this time his fears would be real.

But a full minute passed and there was still only a gentle murmur of conversation coming from the doorway that had just opened. There wasn’t even the clink of handcuffs whistling through the air toward his wrists. Another minute passed, then Jack risked a look. He relaxed his body, smoothing out the ridges his muscles had made then slowly and casually turned his head.

The policeman was just shy of the doorway, dressed in a black stab jacket and short sleeved shirt, radio attached to his chest, utility belt round his waist. The man in the suit was standing next to him gesticulating as he talked but Jack didn’t spare him a glance. He looked right at the policeman. And the policeman looked right back at him.

His arms were folded, legs spread level with his shoulders, his body square on to Jack. The hand movements of the man in the suit flashed in front of his chest or his face but he seemed not to be listening. He just looked at Jack, right in the eye, his expression blank.

There was no outrage or overt jolt of recognition in the policeman’s features, his mouth was at rest, but he didn’t look away from where Jack was sitting, half-concealed by the tall ferns at the edge of the waiting area and Jack couldn’t take his eyes away from him.

He couldn’t be there for an arrest – now the moment of panic had passed, Jack was sure of that – but the fact remained that Jack had killed a girl the night before and his picture could well be open, if not to public, then police-viewing.

Still no jolt in the policeman’s features. The more time passed, the more Jack became sure the policeman didn’t know him, but each ticking moment still made that recognition more possible if there was a picture in circulation.

Jack knew he had to break eye contact, to go back to waiting innocently for his appointment, but he found the simple turn of his head excruciatingly difficult. He was locked in place. He knew there was a coffee table in the centre of the little waiting area, almost touching his and Dominic’s knees. There were magazines on it. He could see the bright colours in the side of his eye. He should reach for one; innocently flick through the pages; but he couldn’t.

The policeman’s expression changed but instead of charging forward, reaching for his truncheon, he broke eye contact with Jack, looked to the man in the suit and smiled. He turned his body to face him and took his hand, shaking it then started walking toward the exit. He hadn’t recognised Jack at all. He hadn’t been lying in wait. It was only happenstance and paranoia. Jack smiled to himself and shook his head.

“What’s so funny?” asked Dominic.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Just me being dumb.”

Dominic went back to his magazine. “No change there then.”

The policeman left, saying goodbye to the man in the suit. As the man started back toward his office the receptionist piped up. “Dominic Draper and Jack Catholic are here to see you Mr Miles.”

Miles glanced at his watch then turned and covered his face in smiles. “Mr Catholic!” He extended a warm handshake. “Thank goodness we’ve found you at last! You’ve proven to be quite elusive.”

Jack stood up and shook hands. “Well this is your lucky day, cause here I am.”

Miles backed up, drawing Jack with him. Dominic was on his feet. “Come through. Please.” He gestured to the receptionist. “Jane. Would you do me a favour and bring through some drinks? Coffee?”

Dominic and Jack nodded. “Thanks.”

“Please; come into my office. We have a lot to talk about.”

6

Sam’s foot slapped down on the snail’s shell, shattering it instantly. The jagged fragments cut into its slug body as his toe ground half of its mass into the step. Still alive but utterly doomed, the tiny creature shuddered in slow motion.

He slammed the door open into the building and ran up the narrow stairs. The entrance was in the alley off the main street and was hard to see. The paint on the door was ragged and flaky; the stairs directly inside were worse; the rot out in the alley and on the door was echoed inside on the carpetless wooden steps; but it was out of the way and low profile and that was what he needed.

There was a raised voice coming through the door from the only occupied office of the first floor corridor. Sam paused outside: obese man sitting on the broad veneered desk, stumpy legs not reaching the floor; two filing cabinets either side of the window; no curtain or blinds. Will Harrison, the man named on the plaque outside, was sitting in the old fashioned chair behind the desk: red faced; angry; holding it in; afraid. The fat man was shouting.

Sam didn’t bother to listen to his words. He opened the door and walked straight up to the desk and the two men. Harrison saw him first: surprise, recognition, relief, anxiety; a glance at the fat man. The fat man stopped shouting and turned to face Sam. He started to speak but Sam cut him off.

“I’m here to see Harrison.” He glanced at the fat man’s shoes; at his briefcase. “You’re his landlord.”

The fat man started to speak again, talking of rent overdue. He stopped as Sam withdrew his wallet; then stared, blinking repeatedly into his face.

“How much is he overdue?”

“Six hundred pounds.”

Sam counted out the money and handed it over. “Now get out.”

The fat man slipped off the desk. “I don’t like the way you’re talking to me,” he said.

“Then leave fatso.”

Harrison laughed. The fat man left and the detective’s posture changed instantly, his anxiety gone. “Great to see you Sam,” he said, “but you don’t have to do me a favour like that.”

Sam took a seat opposite. It was as shabby as Harrison’s chair but more modern and worse because of it. “I didn’t,” he said. “That’s your payment up front.”

Harrison sat forward in his chair. “What’s the case buddy?”

“I want a man found,” replied Sam, “but I don’t have much to go on.”

“What have you got for me?”

“A name: Jack Catholic; fragments of a painting he was working on; miscellaneous information let out in conversation with my sister.”

“Your sister?” Harrison chuckled. “What’s this all about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sam. “I just want the man found.”

“What is he, her boyfriend?”

Sam nodded. “They’ve been seeing each other for two months. He murdered her last night in a hotel in Bristol.”

“Shit, really? Jesus Sam, are you okay?”

He smiled. “I’m fine.”

Harrison pushed his hair back off his face. He was approaching his late thirties and retained slovenly good looks that had proved useful in the past when Sam needed someone to help out in one of his investigations. He looked drained by the news of Lucy’s death, unable, as Sam was, to see its current irrelevance.

“You said miscellaneous information,” said Harrison. “What have you got?”

“Snippets,” replied Sam. “He’s twenty-seven years old; blond; an artist. My sister described one of his paintings: a saint, wounded and dying. I have no recollection of other details.”

“Anything else?”

“Good looking; parents from out of town; this:” He held up the magazine he’d found in Lucy’s flat.

“What is it?”

“They published a picture of his.”

“I might call and see if they’ll give up an address.”

“No go,” said Sam. “I already tried. They wouldn’t give out the information and they’re based in Dublin. One thing they did tell me: apparently there’s a bar in London that Catholic decorated with his artwork.”

“Really?”

“I’m on my way there now.”

“You mentioned fragments of a painting,” said Harrison.  

“I… damaged it when I found it. There are only pieces left now. A self portrait; unfinished. There’s not enough detail to form a clear picture. I don’t have a photograph.”

“Okay,” said Harrison, getting up. “I’ll start with the electoral register, do a bit of asking around; see what comes up. It shouldn’t be long. You still got the same mobile number?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Here. New number.” He wrote it down. “Thanks.” He shook hands, a little off balance at the warmth he felt for this man suddenly. Harrison was his only ally; his only friend. It took a conscious thought to banish that idea from his mind.

7

Jack and Dominic sat in front of Stephen Miles’ enormous desk, coffee in hand, while the lawyer himself stood against the tall window, playing with his lower lip between first finger and thumb. He was middle aged and respectably overweight, the cut of his clothes expensively designed to tone down the girth around his middle. Jack wanted to ask questions but there seemed to be an etiquette at work that he wasn’t familiar with.

“I’m sorry to say that your uncle, Robert Catholic, died in the United States several months ago, just outside of San Francisco in California,” said Miles.

“How did he die?” asked Jack. “I don’t even know how old he was. Was he ill?”

Miles rotated his seat away from the window behind his desk and sat down, giving a brief sympathetic smile. “He was killed when he lost control of his car. It ran off the road.”

Jack’s imagination created a vague series of images of a car accident: a blue BMW on a cliff-side road being knocked by a little sports car and sailing off the cliff edge into the sea.

“The services of this firm were retained by your uncle’s solicitors in San Francisco with the aim of contacting your father to enable distribution of his share of the inheritance. Unfortunately—”

“My father died recently too.”

“Indeed Mr Catholic. May I offer my condolences.”

Jack nodded and gave a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Miles made a steeple of his fingers and laid it horizontally across the desk in front of him. He paused, either to gather his thoughts or allow Jack a moment of reflection. “How much do you know about your uncle Mr Catholic?”

“Almost nothing: he worked in the film business but wasn’t ever that successful; got married more than twice. I remember that because my mum thought it was disgusting.” He chuckled. “She said a man should work at a marriage, not just keep trying new wives out for size.” Miles chuckled too, politely. “That’s about it. He and my father had fallen out; or I always assumed they had. They didn’t seem very close.”

“Robert Catholic was married three times, however he had severed all ties with his first and second wives and his first wife’s family,” said Miles. “His third wife died recently. He had no other close family in America Mr Catholic. Your father, his brother, aside from a small number of staff, was his only beneficiary.”

“Like I said; my father is dead. My mother too.”

“Yes,” replied Miles, stepping daintily again. “This leaves you the sole beneficiary.”

Jack wasn’t sure what to say. He glanced at Dominic who had remained, so far, completely silent. Dominic glanced at Jack but made no other response. “Beneficiary to what?”

Miles appeared nervous. He straightened several items on his desk, again playing for time. “Your uncle did indeed work in the film business; he had done all his life from what I’ve heard. But he… was not a failure. On the contrary.”

“You’re saying—“

“He was a very successful film director Mr Catholic. You may not have heard of him. I hadn’t when I was first contacted. But he has done a lot of work; directed over a dozen major films in the last fifteen years. He was… an incredibly rich man.”

“You mean…”

Miles smiled, calculating the scope of it visibly behind his eyes. “Yes Mr Catholic. That makes... you… an incredibly rich man.”

8

Jack’s perception of the room took a sideways step. He became acutely aware of random items of sensory information while other things became cloudy and vague. If the fourth dimension was time, it was as though he had shifted his perspective so that he saw a fresh set of dimensions. Time disappeared from his scope. There was suddenly no sense that it was passing at all. One of the physical dimensions seemed to have gone too, leaving the space around him flat. At the same time, his senses opened to two new dimensions. Everything was imbued by light and clarity. It felt like he had stepped out of the world into one of his own paintings.

In the frozen moment, the lawyer’s words remained motionless in his ear, rattling his eardrum almost to the point where the sense became meaningless – a perpetual droning hum.

You… are an incredibly rich man.

For a moment Jack felt himself standing on the railings of the suspension bridge again, about to leap forward: poised; frozen.

He looked at Dominic then at the solicitor. Both men were motionless for a moment, then everything started to move again with a lurch as if the timeline had been jump-started. The physical dimensions became crisper, losing their temporary effervescence. The input from his senses pumped, swelling, as they returned to normal. Dominic and the lawyer moved free from their frozen positions. They were watching him with expressions of concern. Dominic’s hand was suddenly on Jack’s arm. He realised that time hadn’t stopped anywhere except in his mind. These men had been talking to him and he’d zoned out, staring into space. They had asked him a question and he hadn’t even heard them speak.

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “What did you say?”

“Would you like a moment to collect your thoughts Mr Catholic,” asked Miles.

“A moment? Yeah. I think I would.”

Miles gestured toward a pair of French windows Jack hadn’t noticed over to the right. “I have a little balcony. Perhaps some fresh air might help?”

Jack got to his feet. “Yeah. Thanks. That would be perfect.”

He opened the door and went out, realising only then how warm the office had been compared to the cool afternoon air. The day had a refreshing chill to it. Down below and at the other side of the road he had a clear view into the secret garden he’d seen earlier, fenced right round the edge with a gate to allow only residents and the occasional vagrant access. Inside the fence was a high hedge, interspersed thickly with trees until the only clear view into the interior was from above.

An old man was sitting on a bench in the shade of a weeping willow while two of his grand children played nearby with a pair of delicate rackets and a shuttle cock. It was a common enough scene and one that Jack might have inserted himself into in his imagination in the past, seeing himself in his later years taking his own grandchildren to a park like this to play. But now his imagination couldn’t settle on an image like that without a dirty sense of ironic loss. He was a murderer. Ordinary pleasures like this, of an ordinary life, were lost to him.

Or were they?

An incredibly rich man.

With the kind of money they were talking about he could go anywhere, start a new life, away from the ruin his former path had become. But it wasn’t this thought that had stunned him in there, that some kind of artificial financial redemption could be bought, it was the strident certainty that had come over him, linked to the odd counsel of the man who gave him a ride from Somerset.

He had survived that plummet from the bridge and spent a night being carried unconscious downstream, defying all probability in doing so. He had survived miraculously when every fact he knew told him he should have died. And now, the very next day, he had inherited a fortune from an uncle he didn’t even know.

He couldn’t help but think…

A lifetime in the real world had conditioned him, as it did everybody, to think in real terms. It was an arrogance to believe the thoughts coming to him now, something fashioned from pride and a refusal to give up, but all the same…

What if some higher power…? What if God had kept him alive for a reason? What if there was some purpose he didn’t understand that he was being manipulated towards?

He had been kept alive when by rights he should have died and now a vast sum of wealth was about to be set in his lap. He had never been closed to the possibilities but neither had he possessed a convicted belief in anything spiritual or majestic. He wasn’t a natural church-goer and doubted he ever would be. But these things had happened, things that broke the natural law… There had to be a purpose to them; a reason that this greater power had chosen to save him from death.

When Lucy had died he was convinced that his destiny had been stripped away.

Now though… Now he was sure – absolutely sure suddenly – that he had been wrong. He had been kept alive for a reason. He was being given this money for a reason too. 

All he had to do now was determine what that reason was.

9

The entire staircase was filled with light from the paintings. When Sam saw them he felt agitation and suspense. This was the right place. He was minutes perhaps from finding out where Jack was. Which was fortunate; Harrison, his private detective, had just called. The electoral register was a dead end.

Directly on the other side of the front door the stairs reached down what looked like two storeys. The paintings covered every brick: black paint as a base then the images themselves in bright luminous and ultraviolet colours. Sam started down the steps.

It was the Apocalypse: the image on the walls and roof, a huge mural that stretched all the way down the stairwell to the cellar bar; a nuclear blast, tearing apart the bodies of men and women; of the children; the souls of the dead being ripped from their bodies. The pain and misery was captured perfectly in the medium. It was a stark work of clarity but was imbued with an abstractness as well. In the same moment the faces were perfectly realistic and transcendent. It was different from anything Sam had ever seen.

Near the bottom of the stairwell were angels, gathering the souls into their arms, an image that could have seemed claustrophobic and dark but didn’t. The pain of the bomb meant nothing now to these spirits. They had escaped all suffering. It wasn’t a tragedy at all.

As Sam got down to the bottom of the stairs he reminded himself who the artist was. It wasn’t beautiful; it was filth; horror that had sprung from that man’s mind.

The pub was quiet; no more than eight people drinking or playing pool, apart from the barman. The bar ran round the opposite left corner; circular tables filled the lower floor area; alcoves around the entire room, each one lit up and filled with a picture, painted again right onto the black bricks. Sam didn’t look at them as he crossed to the bar.

Man in a suit serving: he looked out of place as though he wasn’t used to it. A woman was sipping from a wine glass and talking to him. Sam caught his eye. “Hi there. You the owner of this place?”

The man nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yes I am. What would you like?”

“Actually I was wondering about these paintings. They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” The man nodded, scanning the room. “I love them. I love this place actually. They’re the reason I own it at all you know.”

“Really?” Sam leaned onto the counter.

“Yeah. A fried of mine’s the artist who did it all. He gave me the idea of buying the bar in the first place. When I saw his paintings I just had this vision of how the place could look with his paintings in every alcove. So I hired him to do it when I bought the place.”

“What’s the artist’s name?”

“Jack Catholic.”

“Never heard of him,” said Sam, shrugging.

“He hasn’t made it big yet,” replied the owner, “but he will. Wait and see. And then this place’ll be worth millions.” He laughed. Sam laughed too, turning away to scan the other people for a second.

“You two talking about Jack?” The woman leaned closer to join in the conversation: thick black hair greying at the roots; red dress revealing the curve of her breasts and the smooth skin on her shoulders. She looked forty-five, plus or minus four.

“Yeah,” said the owner, “About the paintings.”

“They’re amazing aren’t they?” said Sam.

“Yes,” she replied. “Beautiful.”

“Does the guy who painted them still live in London?”

“Far as I know,” said the owner. “Haven’t seen him for a while now. I think he moved but he’ll be back soon enough. He always returns eventually.”

The fingers tightened in Sam’s fist. They weren’t going to be of any help in finding him.

“He’s got that girlfriend now,” said the woman; twitch of irritation in her eye. “That’s why we haven’t seen him.”

The owner shrugged. “If you’re interested in buying any of his work I could give him your name and number next time he comes in.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think I could afford anything like that at the moment and I’m not going to be in London long anyway.”

“Pity,” said the woman. “He’s an amazing guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s something really different. It’s like he isn’t just human like the rest of us, do you know what I mean?”

“Not really,” said Sam.

“Like he lives in a different sphere from the world that lets him paint the way he does. I can’t really explain it. You know what I mean Frank, don’t you?”

The barman nodded. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“And you never will again,” said Sam, turning.

“Say what?” asked the barman.

Sam didn’t reply.

10

SAN FRANCISCO

“If we want the money,” says Ruben, her brother, “we have to go and see him.”

Night in Molly’s memory.

“Come on,” he says. “He’s a thousand times richer than we are. You read the article. His will has it going to our uncle’s family in England.”

She stares out the window, through her own silhouette reflection in the glass. Across the slope of the garden the drive cuts back and forth before it reaches the gates. Ruben’s voice from behind her says, “If we don’t act soon then it will be too late. We have to go and see him; get in his good books; or we won’t get a cent.” Ruben puts his hand on her shoulder.

Without turning she says, “I’ll come.”

Molly looked up, startled. The six month old memories incinerated.

Gaston was right next to her on the wide rim of the fountain, smiling in the sunshine. His smile was huge, lips closed, but creases at the sides of his mouth reaching up to his eyes. His wheat-coloured hair was thin and ruffled, his eyes grey and full of warmth. The lilies on the surface of the fountain drifted only as far as their stems would let them. Birds laughed and sang in the trees that circled the fountain. The sun was shining.

“God, Gaston; you scared the crap out of me!”

“You look so good when you’re frightened I couldn’t resist,” he said, French accent clear and undisguised. He leaned in to kiss one cheek then the other. Molly blushed as always when Gaston said stupid things he didn’t mean.

“How are you doing anyway?”

“Fine thank you Molly, though sad that we won’t be seeing each other again for a long time.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, feeling sadder suddenly herself than she’d expected to.

“You can come and visit little Celine and me in France though, if you’d like,” he said. “We’d be glad to have you. And I’ll be back to check if you’re translating my book correctly in a few months.”

“I’m hoping the threat of that will motivate me.”

Molly stared into the fountain water, through the surface reflection and down into the bottom. The cracked tiles were sprayed with wishes: tiny coins black against the pale green surface. “Money’s a crazy thing isn’t it?” she said.

“Hmmm?” Gaston was looking up at the sky.  

“It has a morality all its own... infecting people who come too close.”

“Depends,” replied Gaston. “Money never did much for me.”

“Isn’t that why you’re writing your book?”

“Not at all. It’s an intellectual exercise.”

“But such an offbeat subject.”

“What is offbeat about a travelling serial killer?”

Molly giggled. “Why nothing at all.”

“Why are you concerned about money now?”

She frowned. “I’ve been thinking about my father’s estate.”

“Angry that you aren’t getting any?”

Her frown deepened its crease. “Yes. Especially after...”

“What?”

She looked at him. “My brother Ruben tried to convince me to go and make peace with my father so that we could get his money when he died.”

Gaston listened to her attentively. When she stopped he paused, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t he inhaled deeply. “This reminds me of something from my research,” he said,

“Oh?”

“It’s not in my book… Of the incidents I’ve attributed to my fictional killer, it really wasn’t one that could be shown to be a definite. A woman hated her father, just as you hated yours and when he died suddenly she began to suspect that a friend of hers (my killer) had taken pity on her sorrow and eliminated the cause. Just like that.” He clicked his fingers and laughed. “Easy. Never got caught. Never proved anything.”

It was remarkable how deeply into her stride Molly was taking all this talk. In the months since he had approached her to translate his semi-fictional book into English for the American market, the revulsion she had once had at mention of those things barely registered anymore. It was slightly worrying.

“How could anyone do it all those years Gaston?” asked Molly. “How could someone kill all those people and it not eat away at them?”

Gaston glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to tell you another time mon cher. When I arranged to meet you I didn’t take into account the time it would take to check in at the airport. I have to go.” He reached forward and kissed her cheek once more. She liked the stubble against her skin. The sun was in her eyes as she looked up at him when he stood. “Goodbye Molly,” he said, “And do me a favour.”

“What?”

He turned to go. “Forget your father. He’s dead. And there’s nothing you can do now to get that money. It’s gone.”

11

LONDON

“So you’re rich,” said Dominic.

Jack smiled a little, cupping his hot chocolate in both palms, looking down at the rising steam. “Yeah. I’m rich.”

They were seated in the bay window of their favourite café, not far at all from the solicitor’s. Dominic had a mug of coffee and a slice of cake. Jack wasn’t hungry though he hadn’t had a bite since his ice cream with Lucy by the bridge the previous day. It was starting to turn into dusk outside, the view through the window dimming as clear glass became reflection.

“So I suppose the question, young man, is: what are you going to do now?”

Jack continued to gaze into his mug then slowly looked up at Dominic and thought, I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened; that’s what I’m going to do. Then you’re going to hate me forever.

He paused, then said, “I don’t know what.”

“Well you have the cash for it.” Dominic laughed. “More than enough to do anything! You could travel half way round the world staying in the best hotels, just on the interim payment they’ve arranged for you!”

He was right. There was more than enough to do anything and more still waiting in America. The bulk of it was invested obviously but there was still a vast amount of loose cash that he now had access to. It was as tempting as hell to go out right now and start blowing it. But not before he had spoken to Dominic; revealed to him what had happened.

Dominic smiled, his ageing face almost a closed circle of creases. There was no doubting one fact: he would never understand. He wouldn’t be able to entertain Jack’s wild notions of destiny for a second. If Jack told him the truth then Dominic would hate him forever.

And that meant something else. Whether he told him or not, the closeness of their friendship was over. Jack’s life, as it had been, was finished. This secret, the deed he had done, this strange spiritual destiny:– the “quest” he was going to have to undertake now… These were what made up his future. The sharing of ideas that he had loved with Dominic could never happen again.

The old man didn’t even realise it, sitting there, sipping his coffee. Jack himself hadn’t realised it until now but their friendship had died twenty four hours earlier in a little hotel room in Bristol. There was no point revealing what had happened and crushing what little pleasant time they had left together. It was better to enjoy these last few moments then let their friendship gently wither.

“Are you all right Jack?” asked Dominic. “You’ve gone quiet again. You’re not going to fall asleep on me are you? I know I was dull company but that would be plain rude.”

Jack’s eyes misted but he blinked it away. “Don’t worry Uncle Dominic. I’m not going to fall asleep on you. At least not until after you’ve paid the bill.”

Dominic chuckled. “I don’t expect ever to have to pay again with you around.”

Jack smiled but had to turn away. He swiped at the side of his eye and willed himself to be calm. “You’ve been good to me over the years Dominic. Especially after mum and dad died. That’s meant a lot to me.”

Dominic tutted and waved the sentiment away. “You don’t need to get all emotional on me. I’m not going anywhere.”

No, thought Jack, but I am, and you may never see me again after today. In a minute I’m going to walk out that door and that will be the end of it.

“I just want you to know that I’ll never forget how good you’ve been to me,” he said.

Dominic patted his hand. “Well, thank you. It has been a pleasure.” He gave Jack’s hand one more pat then straightened up. “On more important matters… have you decided what you’re going to do next?” asked Dominic. “With all that money?” His eyes twinkled.

“Have you ever thought about what your purpose is, here on Earth?” asked Jack.

“My purpose?”
“You know, why you’re here: what God wants you to do.”

“It’s crossed my mind. More in my youth than lately. You get to my age you’d better hope you’ve completed your purpose by now because you’re running out of time.” He chuckled.

“I’ve been… giving it some thought lately,” said Jack.

“Because of the money?”

“Among other things. I’ve got a theory.”

“Are you planning to share it?”

Jack nodded. “If you believe in God, it’s fair to think you believe that if he has a mission for you then he will be manipulating events to help you achieve that goal, right?”

“Yes…”

“For a while I tried to wrack my brain, trying to work out what my mission was.”

“You’re sure you have one?”

If only you knew. “But I realised I was going about it wrong. Because if God is really guiding us, we don’t need to worry what the mission is. It will just happen; because He has taken into account our personality and drives.”

“You’re saying—“

 “I’m saying that if I just do whatever I feel like doing then I will find my purpose. Whenever I reach a junction I just have to do what feels right and that will be the right choice; the choice that fulfils the mission.”

“So what do you feel like doing Jack? With all that cash?”

Jack set his cup aside. “I’m going to follow where the money leads,” he said. “I’m going to San Francisco.”

12

Sam slowed his car down and coasted past his house without stopping. There was something wrong.

He made a left and parked in the gloom between streetlights. He cut the engine and sat looking at the steering wheel, considering angles again. The air wasn’t cold as he got out. He scanned the street quickly: no-one in sight. Unobtrusively, and keeping in against the high hedge, he made his way to the corner, slipped his pocket binoculars out and raised them to his face.

There was a navy blue Ford parked opposite his house, two men in the front. The angle was wrong to see the house itself from where he was. He didn’t bother trying. Two men; plain clothes: they were definitely policemen. He dropped the binoculars back into his pocket.

Sam considered the efficiency of his plan; the secrecy of his stashes. No foolish hiding place in his own house. It was fortunate. He couldn’t get back in there now. He checked his wallet. Enough there for now, but he was going to have to drive by one of his stashes in the morning; pick up some emergency cash.

One more glance at the men watching. They hadn’t seen him. He backed up and walked to his own car. He wasn’t seriously worried but he was troubled. If the police were now after him then the stakes had got a lot higher. He needed information and he needed it immediately.

13

SAN FRANCISCO

“All that effort and trouble and then he went and died anyway before we could get a cent,” said Molly’s brother, leering as she closed the front door behind her. “And now our darling cousin gets it all.”

“Shut up Ruben.”

He was at the foot of the circular stairway, one elbow on the bottom of the banister, the other arm down by his side. She caught for a second the glint of a crystal tumbler hung loose from his fingers.

Molly raised her eyebrow as she started past him toward the rest of the house. “You taken up drinking now?”

He chuckled. “Nothing I haven’t been doing for fifteen years or more.” He raised the glass. “But this is ginger ale as a matter of fact. What did you expect; that I’d become a reclusive alcoholic after our nefarious schemes fell through?”

“I didn’t really care enough to wonder,” she replied and left him behind her in the hall as she moved down the main corridor. There was an opening in the wall on the right and down a couple of steps was the corridor leading to the kitchen door. She dropped down them and opened it. The afternoon light was very dull. There was barely any to speak of. She opened the refrigerator and took out some bread and chocolate spread.

“And what about you Molly?” asked Ruben, leaning now in the kitchen doorway as though he hadn’t moved at all to get there. He was wearing a black shirt and khaki slacks. His feet were bare. “How do you feel now so much time has passed? What if I told you what I overheard mother saying on the phone?”

Molly set the ingredients for her sandwich down on the worktop and started fishing inside the bag for the French stick. She didn’t reply to her brother at all or even show through her actions that she’d heard him.

“Because we’ll be selling this house soon,” he continued, “and be finding accommodation more in keeping with the amount of money we have. And your little sideline of translating is going to have to become a bigger earner fast.”

She finished slicing herself a chunk of loaf and slit it down the middle, then opened the chocolate spread and smoothed it onto the bread. “I don’t care Ruben. I really don’t care about any of it.”

He smiled. “That’s my exact problem. I just can’t visualise it actually happening. The change is going to be so big.”

She put the finished pair of half cuts onto a plate and poured herself a glass of milk from the fridge. “We knew it would come one day. It’s only ironic it’s come now.”

“Now that some cousin we’ve never met is about to take everything that should have belonged to us you mean?” he asked. Molly didn’t answer. “You need to start asking yourself what you’ll say to him when he comes to collect his prize.”

14

LONDON

Sam knew he was being watched through the peephole but they still didn’t open the door.

Half audible, a man’s voice in the background said, “Who is it?” A woman gave a mumbled reply.

Sam subtly shifted his expression, smoothing out the contours to appear more vulnerable. He slipped his tongue forward so that it would be just visible, held between his lips. He let his shoulders droop; each change separate and slow.

Mike was the man he worked most closely with at the insurance company; his partner. He was the oldest acquaintance Sam had, and he might know the current status of what was going on at work; with the men waiting outside Sam’s house.

The chain disengaged and the Yale lock turned. The door opened a crack, stopped, then opened fully. Mike’s wife Elaine was standing there, still nervously gripping the door: navy blue pleated skirt and crumpled blouse, her blond hair swept back under a hair band. She tilted the sides of her mouth up but her eyes remained dim and mournful.

They knew about what had happened at the insurance company. Sam tilted his strategy in his mind, renovating his approach.

“Hi Elaine,” he said, smiling wearily. “You look really nice.” He started to move past her through the door. “Have you heard about the palaver at work? It’s driving me crazy.”

“Hello Sam,” she replied, clearly edgy, her tension only slightly alleviated by The Lie. “Come in.”

Sam walked through to the lounge. Mike was just getting up from the sofa: very tall and narrow; thin black hair. He was dressed for the evening: jeans, shirt, cardigan, slippers. “How are you Sam? I heard about what happened. What the hell’s going on?”

Sam shrugged, grinning. “It’s all rubbish Mike, believe me. I don’t know what Masters is on about.” He pointed at the sofa. “Do you mind?”

“Course not.” Mike sat too; sofa and armchair at right angles around the television set. Mike took the armchair. “Could you bring in a couple of coffees sweetie?”

Elaine was lurking near the door. She moved sideways toward the kitchen, keeping her eyes on them. The room became quieter when she was gone. Mike leaned forward. “Come on then Sam,” he said. “Tell me about it. They say you’ve been screwing the system. Apparently Anna’s found evidence you’ve been doing it for years.”

Sam shrugged, keeping it light but serious. “I have no idea Mike, seriously. All I can think is that it’s some kind of mix-up. I don’t know, really.”

Mike squinted at him then he shook his head. “Come on Sam, tell me the truth. I know you. I know you’re hiding something.” Sam looked away, breathing in. He held the breath. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Sam, I know about your sister. It was on the news. They found her in that hotel. Is that something to do with this?”

Different angles were juggling in his head. He let all of them fall but one. “Look Mike,” he said, “I didn’t kill my sister if that’s what you’re thinking and I didn’t steal from the firm. I’m trying to find the person who took her from me. That’s why I came to see you. I need you to tell me what’s going on at work; what actions they’ve taken.”

“I can’t believe Lucy’s dead,” said Mike, “She was great. It’s horrible Sam. I feel terrible about it. Are you okay?”

“Yes; I’m fine. But I need you to tell me those things Mike. Come on.”

Mike shrugged and closed his eyes. “You know I won’t turn you in Sam; but they are looking for you. The police are in on it now. Masters won’t say how much has been taken. I don’t think he knows fully yet. Anna is heading the investigation. God Sam! It can’t be a mistake! They’re so sure!”

Sam shook his head. “It’s all a lie.”

Neither one of them spoke. Mike drew his cardigan across his chest. Elaine was still in the kitchen. “Look,” he said. “If they ask me I’ll say I didn’t see you; but what the hell are you still doing in London if it is true? If you’ve really taken that much money then why haven’t you gotten away from here? When you went away last week: why didn’t you go then?”

Sam interlaced the fingers of his hands, pressing his thumbs together. He stared at the little wrinkles around each joint. “I’m in serious trouble Mike. I need some help with a... personal investigation I’m involved in. I need an extra person to do the legwork so that I can resolve this quickly.”

Mike glanced at the doorway. Elaine had returned. She was watching them fearfully. “I’m sorry Sam. I can’t do that. It’s just that—“

“You don’t have to say anymore,” said Sam. He stood and walked toward the door.

“Sam wait! I’m sorry. You’ve got to understand that—“

“I do understand Mike.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be fine,” said Sam. “I know who murdered my sister and I’m very close now to catching him. That’s all that matters.”

“But the police Sam. You have to get far away from here.”

“Not until I’ve found him,” said Sam. He walked out.

When he got into the corridor he sighed and leaned against the wall. It was meant to be a lot simpler than this. He should have been on a plane by now. Everything was going wrong. His enemies were closing in. The only good thing he had going for him now was that Jack clearly wasn’t wealthy. There was no chance that he could leave the country or anything like that.

There was nowhere Jack could go to escape. 

CHAPTER FIVE