THE CATCH
by TOM BALE
First published in 2013 by Preface Publishing
An imprint of Random House UK
Copyright Tom Bale
Tom Bale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
v: +1 [June 9, 2015]
PRAISE FOR THE CATCH:
“Races along to a gripping finish” SUNDAY MIRROR
“On page one I was gripped by Bale’s faultless narrative; by the final page I was left in a state of awe at his storytelling skills” CRIMESQUAD.COM
“An excellent introduction to this author. I found this story fairly zipped along”
RAVEN CRIME READS
“A bloody and at times rather squalid tale, as well as a gripping and unusual one”
MAT COWARD, MORNING STAR
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
Acknowledgements
Also by Tom Bale
Teaser
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
It was sold to Dan as a mercy mission, a favour for a mate. There was never any suggestion of trouble. He just had to be there with Robbie, a supportive presence in the background while the handover took place.
Dan agreed to it for Cate’s sake: that was the noble motive. But he also had a favour of his own to ask, and a lot riding on the answer. So he ignored the voice in his head that urged him to let Robbie sort out his own mess for once.
He should have known better. Because Robbie had this ability to drag you in, enticing you to share his burden whether you wanted to or not, and once committed you felt obliged to stay and see it through.
A painful lesson, as Dan later reflected, that the path of least resistance can sometimes be the route to disaster.
****
The pub was busier than either of them had expected. On the drive over Dan had remarked on a recent news story on the death of country pubs, and they had reminisced about the dives they’d visited over the years: grumpy landlords, terrible decor, flat beer and greasy food; pool tables where the balls wouldn’t roll straight. At twenty-nine they were old enough to enjoy an occasional wallow in nostalgia; young enough to giggle and splutter as they competed to find the ideal name for a pub in decline. The Sack of Shit was declared the winner.
In the same vein, The Horse and Hounds had been rechristened The Hearse and Hounds, though it turned out to be a handsome Tudor hostelry on a lonely rural track a few miles north of Steyning. ‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ as Robbie put it.
The car park was almost full, necessitating a tricky reversing manoeuvre on Dan’s part, easing his weary old Fiesta into a gap between a Land Rover and a trade-waste bin. He made it, but only just, and there was the usual teasing from Robbie about his shortcomings as a driver.
The pub was divided into two bars. Most of the action seemed to be in the public bar, and the reason soon became obvious: live music.
Robbie groaned when he heard the first strains of what sounded like a fiddle. ‘Not folk,’ he said. ‘Anything but folk.’
Now came a flutter of acoustic guitar, the sly rattle of brushes on a snare drum.
‘Folk rock, maybe,’ Dan said. ‘Some kind of fusion. That drum sound is almost ...’
‘Jazz,’ Robbie finished for him, and they grimaced in unison. ‘Shit, no, it’s jazz folk. Jolk.’
‘It’s no jolking matter.’
Laughing, Robbie punched Dan on the arm. ‘For that, you’re getting the first round.’
****
First they checked the saloon bar. It was whisper quiet, the room deserted but for a prim middle-aged couple sharing a banoffee pie, and an elegant young woman sitting alone in the corner. Dan would have waited until he could meet her eye, but Robbie dragged him away.
‘Don’t stare at her.’
‘I wasn’t. Anyway, this client of yours isn’t even—’
‘It’s a precaution, all right? We have to act like we’re nothing to do with her.’
For that reason, Robbie wanted to wait in the public bar, despite the fact that his dislike of the music intensified a hundredfold once he was physically in the presence of the musicians – four of them, all silver-haired but youthful in manner and joyful in mood. It was too noisy to talk properly, which didn’t suit Dan’s purpose. As he watched Robbie drain his first pint in double quick time, it dawned on him that this was the reason he’d been lumbered with driving: Robbie wanted a night out on the lash.
Then the musicians took a break, and after Robbie had bought more drinks Dan managed to steer the conversation round to his business venture.
‘I went to see some brilliant premises in Hurstpierpoint, perfect for a coffee shop. Empty at the moment, but it’s
got an A3 classification.’
Robbie didn’t exactly yawn, but neither did he exhibit much interest. Undeterred, Dan went on: ‘I had a meeting with the bank last week. It’s not looking good.’
‘Course it’s not. The economy’s fucked.’
‘So I reckon we may need to find an alternative source of finance—’
‘Honestly, mate, you’re insane to think about starting a business. You wanna stay where you are till things improve.’
‘But Denham’s isn’t secure. It’s only a matter of time before the online retailers wipe us out.’
‘At least there’ll be some redundancy in it.’
‘That’s what Hayley says. But it feels wrong. Like we’re wishing it to fail.’
‘You mean Hayley and me agree on something? Jesus, I’d better retract that.’ Robbie’s glass was empty once more. ‘Your round.’
‘Give me a chance.’ On the tiny makeshift stage, the musicians were preparing to resume. Dan checked his watch: it was almost ten p.m. ‘Do you think he’s coming?’
‘Of course he is. I’ll tell you what, we’ll go next door. I can’t listen to any more of this shit.’
‘All right, but how long are we going to wait?’
A harsh note on the fiddle delayed Robbie’s reply. ‘Plenty of time left yet. I wanna get this sorted tonight.’ A fierce glint in his eye as he emphasised tonight. It was a look that Dan knew well – and should not have ignored.
Afterwards he thought about that a lot. He could have done something right then, just put down his drink and walked out, and to hell with Robbie and his silly, greedy mistakes.
But he didn’t. Mainly because of Cate, of course. He didn’t want to let her down.
So he stayed, and they all went to hell.
CHAPTER 2
Cate watched as they trooped in from the other bar, refugees from a maudlin Celtic ballad. She saw from Dan’s body language that he didn’t want to be here any more than she did – and not just because of the entertainment on offer.
But here they both were, and having waited nearly an hour she was just daring to hope it had been a wasted journey when she received a text: Running late. There in five.
Bugger. Dan and her brother were buying drinks from the sulky barmaid, who had added weight to a theory of Cate’s by perking up the instant Robbie walked in.
As the two men chose a table at a discreet distance from hers, Cate took out her phone, still debating whether to pass on the message. Far more tempting to text Robbie and tell him the client had cancelled. Half an hour from now she’d be tucked up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book. She was three hundred pages into a Stephen King epic, 11.22.63. Not in the same league as her all-time favourite, The Stand, but still an enthralling read.
Tempting ... and yet she knew she wouldn’t. Robbie was like a big soppy dog, a family favourite who could do no wrong, seducing everyone he met even as he slobbered over their clothes and left his mess on their carpets. And along come Cate and Dan with their buckets and mops and their endless supplies of patience ...
No, not endless. She gazed at her brother’s broad back, at the mop of dark hair that spilled over his collar, and she vowed that this would be the last time. No more bailouts. No more favours.
But then she had made that vow before, and no doubt so had Dan. As he took his seat he offered her a quick, grudging smile: What the hell are we doing here?
Cate had always liked Dan. Liked him more, in some ways, than she did Robbie. Her brother had so many layers, what seemed like wholly different personalities ghosting behind the dazzling screen of his surface charm. Dan was a lot more straightforward: what you saw was what you got.
He had an open, friendly face, his features not as chiselled as Robbie’s; a smile that was warm and genuine rather than calculated to impress. He was an inch or two shorter than Robbie, though in terms of physique they were fairly evenly matched: both men slim, well toned, still in fine shape on the brink of thirty.
And yet, her theory went that if you presented the two of them to a room full of girls who’d been primed to make an instant choice, around eighty per cent would go for Robbie. In Cate’s view, that probably said less about their respective merits than it did about young women and their tastes in men.
Listen to me, she thought. A dry old maid at thirty-three. Perhaps she was being too harsh on her brother. Besides, who was she to pass judgement when her own life was hardly a resounding success?
She picked up her handbag, a big heavy Gucci, crammed with all manner of junk that she was definitely going to clear out any day now. Even though she could plainly see the envelope, wedged between her purse and a packet of wipes, she felt the need to reach in and hold it for a second, the contents yielding slightly as she squeezed them between her fingers.
This was so unethical. And never mind that, if Mum ever found out ...
Cate became aware of her heartbeat, a dryness in her mouth. This felt like the moment before she had to stand up in court, tense but excited, eager to do it if only to have it done.
The last favour, she reminded herself, and at that second the door of the saloon bar was flung open and in he strode. The client.
****
His name was Hank O’Brien. The first time she’d heard it, Cate had made a face and said, ‘Hank?’ and Robbie had said, ‘He’s not American. He’s just a twat.’
She had a horrible feeling that her brother was spot on. Hank O’Brien was in his fifties, short and round and bustling with self-importance. He had wispy brown hair and the complexion of a dedicated drinker. A little rosebud mouth that might have been engineered for disapproval.
He came in, wincing at the music. His gaze took in the couple finishing their dessert, then lingered for half a second on Dan and Robbie, who were hunched over the table, conversing in a grinning, blokey manner designed to exclude everyone else.
It worked a treat. Dismissing them as irrelevant, the gaze moved on, and when it alighted on Cate something changed in O’Brien’s face. He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon only to find it infused with sugar.
Cate’s heart sank. Her job had just been made easier, but almost certainly at a cost.
She stood to greet him but he waved her down with an imperious flap of his hand. ‘Miss Gilroy?’
‘Mrs,’ she said. A lie, but only a tiny one. ‘Call me Cate.’
They shook hands. His grip was firmer than she’d expected, but a little damp. He reached inside his jacket and produced a slim wallet. ‘To drink?’
‘Nothing for me, thanks.’
‘Go on. I’m sure I can tempt you ...’ When Cate shook her head, those rosebud lips tightened a fraction. ‘One minute, then.’
He greeted the barmaid with the same bluff, over-familiar air and, oblivious to the girl’s indifference, updated her on his progress in a local golf competition. He returned holding a double of something, raising the glass in a toast as he sat down.
‘Can’t beat a fine single malt at the end of a busy day.’
‘Quite,’ said Cate, thinking: Probably more than one, in your case.
‘I was delayed by a conference call with a major supplier. CEO was in Aspen and the finance chap’s holed up in bloody South Korea!’ The tone was one of mild exasperation, but it was obvious that he intended for her to be impressed.
‘What is it that you do, exactly?’
He hesitated, as if suspicious of the question. ‘You name it. Number crunching. Problem-solving. Public-private partnerships and what have you.’ A chuckle. ‘I could spill out acronyms until your ears bleed.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ He was watching her closely. ‘Anyhow, we have more important things to discuss.’
Cate nodded. ‘We’re glad this can be resolved amicably.’
‘I bet you are. Director of Compton’s, are you?’
‘I’m freelance. I advise them on legal matters.’
‘A lawyer? Huh. Got a law deg
ree myself. I suppose that little prick thought I’d be intimidated?’
‘Not at all. Mr Scott is keen to see this settled to your satisfaction.’
O’Brien grunted. Cate couldn’t tell if his reaction meant: Glad to hear it, or: You’re talking bollocks. Right now she hardly cared which. She wanted to grab the envelope and throw it across the table at him, then leave at once – a feeling that intensified when she caught him ogling her breasts.
‘I know why they sent you, my dear. Done it myself often enough, deploying the totty for a charm offensive.’ He rubbed his chubby palms together. ‘Mother Nature certainly poured you into a tasty little mould, didn’t she?’
‘Mr O’Brien—’
‘My error not to have anticipated it. I’d have arranged to meet at my place.’ A gulp of Scotch, then he hefted his belly tight against the table, squeezing in as close as he could get. His voice became low and seductive. ‘A ten-minute stroll, or two minutes if we take your car. I’ll give you the full tour.’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘I insist.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t imagine you’ll object to being plied with the best champagne?’
‘I’m afraid your imagination’s faulty. I don’t drink champagne.’
Mild as it was, the insult made O’Brien flinch. He narrowed his eyes and leaned back until his chair groaned in protest.
‘Of course, you hardly need a tour of my house. You and the whole world have seen inside it. And that’s why you’re going to do as I say, lady, and show me a damn sight more respect into the bargain.’
CHAPTER 3
On the face of it, Robbie’s justification was simple enough: it had seemed like too good an opportunity to resist. Up to a point, Dan could see the truth in that. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, as his aunt would have put it.
Robbie’s mother, Teresa Scott, owned a company called Compton Property Services. Launched in the mid-1980s, the core business involved the purchase and renovation of large old houses to sell on at a profit or convert into student lets. From that came a subsidiary operation that managed rental property on behalf of mainly high-net-worth clients.