The Driver

“I know about you both, Governor. You need to talk to me. Your campaign is going to end tomorrow if you don’t.”

37

Arlen Crawford followed the Governor into the back of the building. He was worried. He had seen the man to whom Robinson had been speaking. It could only have been a short conversation, a handful of words, but whatever had been said had spooked Robinson badly. Normally, after a speech that had been as well received as that one had been, the Governor would have been exhilarated, anxiously seeking the redundant confirmation from Crawford that it had gone as well as it had appeared. He would have soaked up the acclaim. This was different: his eyes were haunted, there was a sheen of light sweat across his brow and the tic in his cheek that was only noticeable when he was nervous had started to twitch uncontrollably.

Crawford hurried to catch up. “What did he say?”

“Something about me and Madison.”

“What about her?”

“That he knows, Arlen. He knows about me and her. He said I needed to talk to him and, if I don’t, he’ll end the campaign.”

Crawford’s stomach immediately felt empty. “Let me handle it.”

“No. Not this time.”

Robinson walked quickly through a service corridor. Crawford had trouble keeping up with him.

“He’s a crank. We’ve had them before and there’ll be more and more of them the better we’re doing. Please, sir — let me speak to him first. If it’s anything we need to worry about, I’ll let you know. You speaking to him now is just asking for trouble.”

“No, Arlen.”

“We don’t even know who he is!”

“We’ll do it in private, out back. I want to hear what he has to say. I don’t want you reporting it back to me, pulling your punches — you do that all the time.”

Crawford trailed after him. “I don’t understand. Why are you so worried about him?”

“I told you before — I still don’t know what happened with me and Madison.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, Arlen, it was. She just stopped taking my calls. One day, it was great, the next, nothing. It was out of character. I never got an explanation.”

“We spoke about that. It was for the best. If it came out… you and her… a prostitute… Jesus, J.J., that would sink us for good. There’s no coming back from a story like that.”

He stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Do you know what happened to her?”

Crawford took a quick breath and covered his discomfort with a vigorous shake of his head. “No, sir, I don’t. But we’ve been lucky so far. No-one has said anything about the two of you. I just don’t see the point in pushing it.”

“Noted.”

“So you’ll let me handle this?”

“No. I want to speak to him.”

He pushed through wide double doors and into the kitchen that served the conference centre. The doors banged back against Crawford’s shoulders as he followed in his wake. It was a large space, full of scratched and dented metallic work surfaces, large industrial ovens and burners, walk-in fridges and freezers, dinged pots and pans hanging down on racks suspended from the ceiling. Chefs in grubby white jackets were preparing the lunch that would be enjoyed by the Governor’s guests. The space was filled with noise, warm aromas and clouds of steam. Robinson walked right into the middle of the busy chaos; the man to whom he had been speaking was waiting for them at the edge of the room, standing next to the two security guards who had brought him back here. Crawford hurried in his wake, straining for a better glimpse of his interlocutor.

He didn’t recognise the man. He was a little over six feet tall and slender, at least when compared to the muscular security on either side of him. He had dark hair and a scar across his face. A cruel mouth. His eyes were blue, crystal blue, and they were cold and calm. There was something unsettling about him. He looked perfectly composed, a centre of calm in the frantic activity that clattered and whirled around him. He wasn’t fazed by the guards. He wasn’t fazed by the Governor, either.

“What’s your name, sir?” Robinson asked him.

“John Smith.”

“Let’s get this over with as quickly as we can.”

“I think that would be best.”

“So — what is it you want to say?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer this to be in private?”

Robinson told the security guards to stand aside.

“Who’s this?” Smith asked, indicating Crawford.

“This is my Chief of Staff. I have no secrets from him. Now — please — what do you want to tell me?”

“I know that you were having an affair with her.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a party in Pine Shore. A fund-raiser for your campaign. Jarad Efron hosted it.”

He frowned. “And? How is that relevant?”

“Madison Clarke was there. Obviously, you know she was an escort.”

“The Governor doesn’t know that,” Crawford interposed hurriedly. “And he doesn’t know who the girl is, either.”

“It would be better if we didn’t waste time,” he said, looking straight at Robinson rather than Crawford. “I spoke to Mr. Efron. He said you were at the party. And he said that you and Madison were seeing each other. I understand that he introduced the two of you — he said that he was a client of hers and then you took a shine to her. I believe you had been seeing her for several weeks. He arranged for her to be there.”

Crawford felt a red-hot scorch of anger. Why had Efron said that? What was he thinking? And, then, a flash of divination: there was something about Smith. It was self-evident what had happened. There was a deadness in the man’s eyes. It was u

“You were seeing her, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Robinson confirmed quietly. “She’s special. I’m very fond of her.”

“Did you see her at the party?”

“The Governor wasn’t at the party.”

“Arlen—”

“You know she went missing afterwards?”

Robinson looked at Crawford then back at Smith. “I had no idea.”

Crawford felt a shiver of anxiety.

“She hasn’t been seen since.”

Crawford stepped forwards. “What does this have to do with you, Mr. Smith?”

“I drove her to the party.”

“So, what — you’re her friend? Her agent?

“I’m a driver.”

“And so what’s this about? What’s it really about? You want money or you’re going to the papers? They won’t believe you, Mr. Smith—”

“I don’t want money,” he interrupted. “I want to know what happened to her.”

“Arlen—”

Crawford ignored the Governor. “Let’s say he did know her, just for the sake of argument. She was a prostitute, Mr. Smith. You said so yourself. Maybe she had money problems? Maybe she’s hiding from someone? Maybe she had an issue with drugs? There could be any number of reasons.”

“Arlen—”

Smith pressed ahead. “Those things are all possible, but unlikely, considering the circumstances. I waited for her that night. I was going to drive her back into the city again. But then I heard her screaming.”

“It was that party?” Robinson said to Crawford. “I remember. You dragged me away? She was there?”

Crawford clenched his teeth.

“I went into the house to get her out,” Smith said. “She was in a terrible state — panicking, she said someone had threatened to kill her.”

“Arlen?”

“This is news to me.”

“She ran away and disappeared.”

“So she’s hiding somewhere,” Crawford said sharply. “Report it to the police.”

“I did that. But now I think she might not be missing. I think she’s been murdered. The bodies that have been turning up along the coast road—”

“How on earth is that relevant—”

“—up on the Headland?” Robinson interrupted.

“Yes. You know about that?”

“Only vaguely.”

“But your speech tonight?”

“I didn’t write it,” he said, as if the man was stupid. “I just say what they tell me to say.”