No place to hide, p.1
No Place to Hide, page 1
NO
PLACE
TO
HIDE
ALSOBY J.S. MONROE
Find Me
Forget My Name
The Other You
The Man on Hackpen Hill
NO
PLACE
TO
HIDE
J.S. MONROE
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © J.S. Monroe, 2023
The moral right of J.S. Monroe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781801109369
ISBN (XTPB): 9781801109376
ISBN (E): 9781801109345
Cover design: Ben Prior
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
For Hilary, Felix, Maya and Jago
FAUSTUS: For the vain pleasure of four and twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood. The date is expired. This is the time. And he will fetch me.
—Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus
Contents
Also by J.S. Monroe
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
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 37
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
The new camera appeared last week. Perched high above the platform in Wiltshire, it watches the early morning commuters like a heron waiting for fish. Patient, predatory. Two women hurry past, unaware they’re being observed, keen to secure seats on the London train. Behind them, a late-runner jumps on board between the closing doors. He slumps down by the window, breathless, sweaty, staring back at the receding camera.
Up in south-east London, a helicopter arcs across a grey sky, the clatter of its blades cutting through the din of rush hour traffic. Effortlessly, it banks back towards a busy junction, losing height as it approaches. A woman taps on her steering wheel, checks her baby daughter in the car seat beside her, smiles at her son in the rearview mirror. She glances up at the traffic lights, but it’s the helicopter that has her attention, hovering in front of her like a behemoth, a sleek camera slung beneath its belly.
Further south, in Lewisham, a courier driver is already running behind with important medical supplies for the hospital. It’s a temperature-controlled delivery and he hopes he’s not too late. A dashcam points towards the road ahead. Another is angled back at his face. Keen to make up time, he accelerates, brakes too suddenly, cursing the car in front of him – and the AI technology that will slash his pay.
Meanwhile, over in Cambridge, a student locks up his bike, chatting with a female friend. He seems relaxed, almost carefree, as he strides across the college courtyard, catching at spilled anatomy lecture notes. Outside the porters’ lodge, a CCTV camera, fixed to the ancient wall like a giant insect, clocks their arrival. His friend walks inside but he hesitates, studying the camera. Deep within its lens, a tiny red light pulses impassively.
1
What’s the time, Mr Wolf? Adam counts to twenty paces before he glances up at the security camera. Yesterday he barely managed ten. When he was a child, he used to love the thrill of the stop-start steps, the mounting tension. Dinner time! But he’s not playing games now. If only his life were so simple. The camera appeared a month ago, at the bottom of his road, impaled on a thirty-foot steel pole. Sometimes the lens moves, angling its Orwellian gaze on the local youths who gather below. Every time Adam leaves the house, he tries to ignore it, walk past without looking up, counting his paces like a child, but he can’t. He has to stop, convinced that the camera’s started to watch him too, which is ridiculous. He’s a law-abiding citizen. Makes sick children better. Not exactly a crack dealer.
‘I’m tired,’ Freddie, his five-year-old son says, tugging at Adam’s sleeve.
‘Tired?’ Adam says. ‘How can you possibly be tired, monkey? We’ve barely made it out the front door.’
Earlier, Freddie announced that he wanted to walk to the park today, but now he wishes to be carried. And who is Adam to refuse? He scoops Freddie up onto his shoulders, at the same time wedging one foot under their jogging pram’s back wheel to stop it rolling down Maze Hill. He knows he’s a soft touch. Too soft, according to his wife, Tania.
‘I’ve got it,’ Adam says, as Tania offers to take the pram. Their six-month-old daughter, Tilly, has finally given in to sleep after a busy night.
Tania lifts up her hands in mock surrender. She’s exhausted, tired to the core. Tilly’s still breastfeeding and Freddie’s been playing up all week.
‘Sorry,’ Adam says, letting her take the pram. Freddie buries his hands deep in his dad’s hair, kneading it like Play-Doh. Adam tries to do everything at weekends, which only seems to make things worse.
‘How I manage without you is a mystery,’ Tania says as they continue down the road in the spring sunshine. A gentle breeze is blowing in from the south. Before they had children, Saturday mornings used to be a highlight of their week. Lie-ins and lovemaking followed by runs along the towpath, moseying around the market, drinks at the Cutty Sark Inn. Now it’s the playground in Greenwich Park. The soft-play area on Creek Road if it’s raining.
‘The camera’s doing a good job,’ Adam says, looking up at its menacing dark glass. He hasn’t told Tania that he thinks it’s filming him. ‘No trouble.’
‘The guy in the corner shop says it’s not a police camera,’ Tania says as they turn off into the park. It’s true: there’s no official sign, nothing to say who actually erected it. ‘MI5, apparently,’ she adds.
‘He would say that.’
Adam has to listen to a new conspiracy theory every time he pops in for a pint of milk. But he still can’t resist another glance back at the camera after he lowers Freddie to the ground. Has it moved, changed angle? It’s no good. He should seek proper help. Accept how bad things have become: that he’s convinced he’s being observed every hour of every day. Filmed. Last week, he even asked a colleague in psychiatry about it.
‘Scopophobia – a fear of being watched,’ his colleague said, rather pompously. ‘Own it and become an actor. Actors love being watched.’
That’s the irony. Adam was an actor once, when he was a medical student. But he couldn’t tell the psychiatrist that university was where it all began. He’s never been able to tell anyone.
Five minutes later, on the bench together with a couple of coffees, they watch Freddie run about the playground. Tilly is still asleep in the pram beside them, which doesn’t bode well for later. At least it gives Tania a break. Adam’s desperate to launch Freddie skywards on the swings, spin him dizzy on the roundabouts, but he knows that Tania wants to talk.
‘I think I’ll go down to Mum and Dad’s this afternoon,’ she says, tucking a strand of her long, light brown hair behind an ear. ‘They haven’t seen the kids for we eks.’
‘Today?’ Adam says, failing to hide his disappointment. The plan had been for her to go on Monday, but he doesn’t want another row with Tania. There have been enough of those in recent weeks.
‘Of course, that’s fine,’ he adds, feeling sick. He so wants Tania to be happy, but it’s as if a light has gone out in her life and he doesn’t know how to switch it back on. ‘If you’re not too tired. I could drive you down, take the train back?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says.
They sit in silence, watching a group of women jog past. When he and Tania used to go running together, they synced their Bluetooth headphones to the same playlist. It felt like they were in a movie – in a good way.
‘I just need some time,’ she says quietly, sipping on her coffee. ‘You always say that you want me to be happy, but you also don’t want our kids to be brought up by strangers.’
‘Tania, that’s—’
‘I just miss my job, that’s all,’ she says, interrupting him.
Tania was a successful GP before she had children. A professional, independent woman.
‘And you’re better with the kids than I am,’ she adds.
Before he can answer, Adam spots someone on the far side of the playground filming him on his phone. His mouth dries, pulse starts to quicken. Could it be him? Instinctively, he stands up, considers his options. The man is in his forties and Adam’s sure he recognises him from university.
‘What is it?’ Tania asks, looking up at him.
Perhaps he’s imagining it. ‘Nothing,’ Adam says, about to sit down.
The man turns to walk away, but then he stops and holds his phone up in their direction again. It is him.
‘Won’t be a moment.’ Adam sets off at a brisk pace through the playground, focused on the man, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to ignore the adrenaline sluicing through his body. He manages to smile at a fellow dad by the swings as he passes, keen not to create a scene.
The man with the phone is dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans. Adam’s sure it’s him. The familiar hawkish face and sickly pallor. The same unmistakeable air of menace.
‘Excuse me,’ Adam says as he approaches. The man is lost in his phone, half turned away from him, and hasn’t seen Adam. ‘Were you filming me just now? When I was over there?’
‘You what?’ The man looks up.
It’s not him. Shit. Adam knows at once he’s made a terrible mistake.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Adam surveys the playground. A little boy runs over from the sandpit and wraps his arms around the man’s legs. ‘Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.’
The man gives him a derisive look and walks off with the child, glancing over his shoulder as if Adam’s a madman. He was filming his own son.
2
‘Are you going on a run, Daddy?’ Freddie asks as Adam stretches his calf muscles. Adam glances across at Tania, still sitting on the park bench. She gives him a tired smile.
‘Just a quick one, a little scamper around the park with Tilly,’ he says, ‘to keep her asleep.’
‘Can I come?’ Freddie squints up at Adam in the sunshine.
‘You stay here with Mummy.’
‘But I want to come with you.’
Adam crouches down until he’s at eye level with Freddie. ‘I know you do, and I want to go running with you too – if I can keep up. What have you got in those trainers of yours? Secret jet-powered rockets?’
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. Why can’t I come?’
He checks on Tania and lowers his voice. ‘Because right now Mummy’s a little bit tired – your sister here seems to like being awake at night and asleep during the day. Topsy-Turvy Tilly – I think that’s what we should call her from now on, don’t you? So I want you to look after Mummy while I go for a quick run. And then you and I will speed around the park later.’
Adam turns away. No they won’t. Tania’s taking Freddie and Tilly to her parents this afternoon. He wishes she’d go on Monday, after they’ve all had a happy weekend together. Like a normal family.
‘OK,’ Freddie says reluctantly, hanging on to the second syllable.
Adam looks across at Tania, who’s cupping her coffee, staring into the middle distance. ‘Back in ten minutes,’ he calls out, but they both ignore him.
He tells himself he’s looking after Tilly as he strides off across the bottom of the park. Giving Tania a proper break. In truth he just wants to run, release some of the pent-up tension of recent weeks. At the top of the park, where he and Tania once gathered for the London Marathon, Tilly begins to cry. They couldn’t be further away from her mother’s milk, if hunger is the problem. Taking her out of the pram, he rests her against his shoulder, holding her tiny body in his big hands to shield her from the breeze, gusting now from the south-west. His dad taught him how to read the wind when he was learning to sail as a child, beating across Mount’s Bay in an old National 12 dinghy.
‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, cradling her head as he starts to sing.
‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird.’
They are the only words he knows of the lullaby, but he repeats them a few times before laying her back down gently in the pram. It seems to have done the trick. His dad never got to see his grandchildren, never knew his son had left Cornwall to become a doctor in London.
‘You available for babysitting?’ a jogger asks as she runs past them.
He grins back at her. ‘Fully booked, I’m afraid.’
‘No surprise there,’ she calls out over her shoulder.
The exchange makes him feel better after the hideous scene with the man and his phone. He’s such a fool, needs to chill out. He sets off down the steep Maze Hill side of the park towards the playground, big feet pounding beneath him. Against all odds, Tilly is still asleep as he slides the pram through the playground gate.
Up ahead, he can see Tania on one of the benches and, to judge from her listing body, she is asleep too. A burst of panic, like gunfire. Where’s Freddie?
He glances over at the swings, the rocky sandpit area, the roundabout. Freddie’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Tania!’ he calls out, still twenty yards away. ‘Tania?’ he shouts, louder now. This time she sits up and looks around. ‘Where’s Freddie?’
‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ she says, standing as Adam jogs up to her. ‘He was just over there, playing in the sand. He can’t have gone far.’
‘He’s not there any more.’ Adam tries hard not to sound accusatory. ‘Freddie?’ he shouts, half-heartedly at first, as if he’s calling him in from their garden. ‘Freddie? Freddie!’ He’s bellowing now.
People stop and turn.
‘We’re looking for our son. Five years old? About this high?’ He gestures with his hand. He can hear the tremor in his own voice, which scares him even more. ‘Red T-shirt, blue shorts. White trainers.’ With secret jet-powered rockets.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Adam.’ Tania stares out at the park. ‘He can’t have gone far.’
‘It’s OK,’ Adam says. ‘It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have gone for a run.’
Tilly starts to cry. Tania leans down into the pram and picks her up. ‘She needs feeding,’ she says.
‘You stay here. I’ll have one more look around and then call the police.’
Adam sets off, heart thumping like a drum. The playground is a large area, enclosed by wrought-iron fencing. If Freddie’s no longer inside it, he must have gone out through one of the two gates, which swing shut automatically. It’s not like him. Adam starts at one end, where, beyond the gate, a large shallow lake is used for paddling. A quick glance at the water. Relax. Freddie knows not to go anywhere near it. He works his way around to the other side of the playground, scanning the grassy slope beyond.
He’s about to ring the police when he sees a woman in the distance, walking towards him, diagonally down the hill. In her arms, a boy in a red T-shirt and blue shorts. Freddie, no question. Adam lets out an involuntary sigh of relief.
‘It’s OK, he’s here!’ he calls across to Tania, who’s struggling to feed Tilly on the bench in the playground. Tilly is still crying. ‘He’s safe.’
He starts to jog towards the woman. Freddie is balling his knuckles in his eyes – the way he does when he’s trying not to cry – but his face lights up as he sees Adam. ‘Daddy!’ he yells.
