Jaws of Death Page 3

  ‘Julius Clark said he did. He said Dad’s shows were just a cover for his other activities. But what other activities?’

  Max took another sheet of paper from his folder. It was the letter his father had written to him and left behind in Santo Domingo; the letter that proved beyond all doubt that he was still alive. Max looked at it again, though he knew every word of it by heart.

  … I am a hunted man and I fear that if I surface too soon, I will be killed. Or worse, that you and your mother will be harmed. I cannot let that happen, you are both too precious to me. I cannot risk putting either of you in danger. I have work to do that means I must go away for a time – I do not dare say too much here in case this letter falls into the wrong hands. You must be careful, Max. You are a clever, resourceful boy, but the forces ranged against us are powerful and ruthless. They will try to destroy you, as they are trying to destroy me, and as they are trying to destroy the earth with their greed. But the Cedar Alliance is strong. It has the conscience of the world on its side and I truly believe that good will triumph over evil …

  Max must have read the letter a hundred times, but it still made him emotional. It still brought tears to his eyes. This was a message from his father – the father whom, for two long, unbearable years, he had thought was dead. But what did the message mean? What ‘work’ did his dad have to go away and do? What powerful and ruthless forces was he talking about? And what was the Cedar Alliance?

  That was the part that intrigued Max the most. The Cedar Alliance is strong. It has the conscience of the world on its side and I truly believe that good will triumph over evil …

  Max lifted his eyes and gazed at Consuela and Chris. ‘I’ve spent hours on the Net, trying to find out what the Cedar Alliance is, but there’s no mention of it anywhere. Whatever it is, it’s important, I’m sure of that. We find the Cedar Alliance, and we find the key to everything.’

  THREE

  Max didn’t want to go to school the next day. He wanted to skive off and spend the day following up the leads he’d found, trying to track down Redmond Ashworth-Ames. But Consuela insisted, and Max knew better than to disobey her. On stage she was his assistant, but at home she was very much in charge. Since Max’s father had disappeared and his mother been imprisoned, Consuela had become Max’s legal guardian and she took her responsibilities very seriously. With Max’s escapology act taking up large amounts of his spare time, it would have been easy for Consuela to indulge him, to let him have occasional days off school to train or rest. But she never did. His studies always came first. No matter how busy he was, she always made him go to school, always made him do his homework.

  And this morning there was another factor to take into consideration: they were under surveillance. Everything they did was being monitored. Chris had experience of that kind of situation from the other side, from the watchers’ point of view, and he knew that it was vital for Max and Consuela to act normally, to stick to their daily routines. At the moment they had an advantage. They knew where the bugs were, knew where the watchers outside were, and could make sure they didn’t do or say anything that would give away what they were up to. But if the watchers got any hint that their surveillance had been detected, they would change tack and find some new way of spying on their lives that Max and Consuela might not be aware of.

  So Max had to go to school as usual. He left the house at the normal time, walked off up the street, just as he always did. Everything about him was the same – his school sweatshirt and trousers, the rucksack over his shoulder. On the outside he appeared no different from any other school day, but inside he was on maximum alert, his mind, his senses finely tuned to his surroundings. He saw the car immediately. It took just a single, casual glance to absorb the details: dark blue Toyota Avensis on the far side of the street, seventy metres from the house, just as Chris had said; two men inside, the driver reading a newspaper, the passenger drinking coffee from a paper cup. Neither man looked at Max as he went past; neither noticed his fleeting glance. Max stayed calm, but he had butterflies in his stomach. This surveillance unnerved him, made him wonder what else was going to happen.

  The morning’s lessons were deadly dull. Max had to endure three interminable hours of English, history and biology before he could get a moment to himself at lunch time. He bought a sandwich and a drink from the canteen, then asked his best mate, Andy, if he could borrow his mobile phone.

  ‘What happened to yours?’ Andy wanted to know. ‘You lost it?’

  ‘I don’t want to use it,’ Max replied.

  ‘Why not?’

  Max hesitated. He and Andy were close. They’d known each other since infant school, shared all their secrets. When Max’s dad had first disappeared and his mum had stayed on in Central America to help the local police, it was Andy and his parents who had taken Max in and looked after him for a few days. Andy knew all about Max’s unusual family circumstances and had always been a loyal, supportive friend. Max had told him a bit about his own recent trip to Santo Domingo, but he’d kept some things back – the dangerous things. He didn’t want to put Andy at risk. But he couldn’t keep him completely in the dark; he deserved better than that.

  ‘I don’t think my phone’s safe,’ Max said. ‘Someone may be tapping it.’

  Andy stared at him. ‘Tapping it? Who?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll pay you for my calls.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I don’t want any money.’ Andy pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ Max said. ‘I’ll give it back at the end of lunch break.’ He saw the puzzled, uncertain look in Andy’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’d tell you more, only I don’t know what’s going on myself.’

  ‘This to do with your mum and dad?’

  Max nodded.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Andy said. ‘I understand.’

  Max went up to a quiet corner of the school playing fields and sat down on the grassy bank overlooking the football pitches. He’d brought with him the list of phone numbers he’d got off the Internet – twenty-five people named Ashworth-Ames with the first initial R. He knew from the different dialling codes that they were scattered across the country. He punched in the first number on the list. A man answered.

  Max put on his most polite voice. ‘Hello, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for a Redmond Ashworth-Ames.’

  ‘There’s no one of that name here,’ the man replied.

  ‘You don’t know a Redmond Ashworth-Ames, do you? He’s not a relative of yours?’

  ‘No, there’s no one called Redmond in the family.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  The second and third numbers on the list produced the same result. There was no answer from the fourth number, and the fifth and sixth were also dead ends. Max ate some of his ham salad sandwich, then tried a few more numbers without success. He found three Richard Ashworth-Ameses, one in Cornwall, one in Birmingham and one in Newcastle. There was a Rupert Ashworth-Ames, a Rebecca Ashworth-Ames and a Roland Ashworth-Ames, but no Redmond. It was such an uncommon name that he thought one of these people must be related to Redmond Ashworth-Ames; but no, none of them had ever heard of him.

  Max crossed fifteen numbers off his list, then the bell rang and he had to go back into school. It was a frustrating afternoon. Never had lessons seemed so boring, so irrelevant to Max’s life. What did he care about algebra or the periodic table when he had more important work to do? His father was missing, presumed dead by just about everyone except Max and his mother was in prison, serving a twenty-year sentence for his supposed murder. Max was desperate to continue his enquiries, to get on with his phone calls, but he was trapped in a classroom having to listen to teachers droning on and on about nothing.

  At the final bell he threw all his books into his rucksack and borrowed Andy’s phone again, promising he’d return it later, and forcing a fiver on his friend to cover the cost of the calls. Then he sprinted for the exit – along
the corridor, down the stairs and out into the rear yard of the school, which was enclosed by a high wire-mesh fence and was known to the pupils as the Prison Yard. Max hurried across it, searching in his bag for his list of phone numbers. Perhaps it was his location that made him suddenly think of his mother. Where she was, the prison yard wasn’t a joke name, it was the real thing. It was the only place where she ever saw the sky above her, ever felt the fresh air on her face. The rest of the time she was locked up in a cell just a few metres square, with only a tiny barred window to look out of. And she would be a prisoner in that cell for many years to come if someone didn’t get her out. No, Max corrected himself. Not someone. Me. There is no one else. If I don’t get her out, she will probably die in prison.

  Max went up the path onto the playing fields and sat down on the grassy bank again. He put his list of phone numbers on the ground beside him and resumed where he had left off at lunch time.

  The first few calls produced nothing. Max was disappointed, but he kept going. Someone somewhere must have heard of Redmond Ashworth-Ames. On his seventh attempt he struck lucky. It was a woman who answered.

  ‘Yes, Redmond is here,’ she said after Max had explained who he was and what he wanted.

  ‘He is?’ Max said.

  He couldn’t believe it. Finally he had tracked down the elusive Mr Ashworth-Ames. But was it the right one?

  ‘May I speak to him?’

  The woman gave a faint, hesitant murmur. ‘Well, no … I don’t think that would be possible. Redmond isn’t very well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Ashworth-Ames.’

  ‘It’s Miss. I’m Redmond’s sister, not his wife.’

  ‘Perhaps I could call back at another time?’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but why do you want to speak to my brother?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Max said. ‘It’s all to do with my father, who went missing in Central America two years ago.’

  There was a short silence on the line, then Miss Ashworth-Ames came back on, sounding less hostile now.

  ‘You said your name was Max Cassidy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The son of Alexander Cassidy, the escapologist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remember the story in the paper. But what on earth has Redmond got to do with your father’s disappearance?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Max replied. ‘Would you mind if I asked you some questions about your brother? You said he’s unwell. Could I ask you what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s—’

  ‘Please, Miss Ashworth-Ames. This is important.’

  ‘Well, Redmond is …’ She paused, trying to find the right words. ‘He has a condition, a long-term illness. His speech, his mobility, his memory – everything has been affected. Some days he can talk, other days he can’t.’

  Max’s heart skipped a beat. Those were the classic side-effects of Episuderon, the same side-effects from which his dad had suffered after his escape from Shadow Island.

  ‘I think my dad may have had the same illness,’ he said. ‘Has your brother been to Central America recently?’

  ‘Not Central America – but South America, yes. He went to Peru a year ago. He fell ill just after he came back. No one seems to know what it is. The doctors are baffled.’

  Max felt a tingle of excitement. This had to be the right man. ‘Can I ask what his job was?’

  ‘Redmond was an ecologist. He worked for an environmental charity in London.’

  Max clenched his fist. Yes, he exclaimed silently. ‘I think I may know what’s wrong with your brother, Miss Ashworth-Ames,’ he said.

  ‘You’re just a boy. What can you possibly know about it?’

  ‘Please trust me. I can help you. But I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. Can I come and see you? Where do you live?’

  ‘In Oxfordshire. Near Henley-on-Thames. But—’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Max broke in. ‘Please, Miss Ashworth-Ames. This is vital. For both your brother and my dad. What’s your address?’

  FOUR

  The two men in the dark blue Avensis were still there when Max walked past on his way home. He was careful not to look at them, to behave exactly as he normally would. He opened the front door and went into the house, dumping his rucksack in the hall as usual and going through into the kitchen, where Consuela was chopping vegetables for their evening meal.

  ‘Hi,’ Max said.

  ‘Hello,’ Consuela replied. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  Max helped himself to a couple of biscuits from the jar in the cupboard, then opened the fridge and poured a glass of fruit juice.

  ‘What did you have today?’ Consuela said.

  She was doing her best to act naturally too, to have the same conversation they had every day when Max came in from school, but Max could detect an underlying note of strain in her voice. He told her about his day, part of his brain remembering what lessons he’d had and finding the words to describe them, another part thinking, This is really weird. We’re putting on a performance here, like actors reading from a script, and someone is listening to everything we’re saying.

  After a few minutes their conversation began to peter out. Consuela mouthed the word Chris and pointed towards the basement door.

  Max nodded, then went quietly across to the door and down the stairs into the basement. Max’s father had set up a small gymnasium down there, a training area where he could practise his escapology techniques. Max had used the equipment alongside his dad in the past, but for two years now he’d had the gym to himself, working out on the exercise machines or honing his lock-picking skills on some of the dozens of pairs of handcuffs and manacles that hung from the walls.

  Chris Moncrieffe was sitting on the exercise bike, pedalling at a steady rhythm, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. As Max came in he looked up and stopped pedalling. Then he slid off the saddle and closed the door behind Max.

  ‘It’s OK, we can talk in here,’ he said softly. ‘But keep your voice down. We don’t want any sound drifting up into the rest of the house.’

  ‘It’s not bugged?’ Max said.

  Chris shook his head. ‘I went out this morning – over the garden wall into the next street to avoid the guys in the car at the front – and saw those old friends I mentioned. They lent me an electronic sweeping kit that can pick up the tiniest listening device. I’ve been over the whole house. The kitchen and sitting room we already knew about, but I’ve discovered bugs in your bedrooms too. Only the garage and this basement are clean.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. I bought you a new mobile phone too. It’s in the kitchen. A pay-as-you-go they can’t trace. Best not to use your old phone again.’

  ‘I haven’t been using it,’ Max said. ‘I made some calls today, but I borrowed a mate’s phone.’

  ‘Smart boy,’ Chris said. ‘You get anywhere?’

  Max told him about tracking down Redmond Ashworth-Ames. ‘I think he’s our man,’ he said. ‘His job, his holiday in South America, his illness since he came back. Everything points to him having been a prisoner on Shadow Island.’

  ‘You speak to him?’

  ‘His sister said he was too ill. But I’ve arranged to go out there tomorrow evening to see them. Henley-on-Thames – that’s not far. I thought maybe you or Consuela could drive me.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Chris wiped his gleaming forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said. ‘You’ve some gear down here, haven’t you? Not just the exercise machines, but all this other stuff …’ He pointed at the handcuffs and ropes and chains on the walls and laughed. ‘If you weren’t a professional escapologist, you could get arrested for this lot, you know. And what about this?’ He indicated a black wooden coffin that was propped up in a corner. ‘You’re seriously strange, Max, keeping a coffin in your house.’

&nbs
p; ‘That was my dad’s. It was sort of a speciality of his, escaping from coffins, being buried alive. I never use it in my act – it doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Don’t want to tread on his toes, copy what he used to do?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Chris fingered the wood of the coffin, inspecting the joints and the screws that held it together. ‘Your dad used to be buried alive in this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He used it when he was performing outdoors. He’d get in the coffin and it would be lowered into a hole in the ground and covered over with soil. An hour later, the coffin would be dug up and my dad would emerge alive and smiling. I saw him do it a few times. It was hell.’

  ‘Hell? Why?’

  ‘There was no trick involved. He used a coffin on stage sometimes, but that had a false bottom that he could remove from the inside. The coffin he used outdoors was the real thing. He really was buried alive in it. It was a very dangerous stunt. Every time he did it he risked his life.’

  ‘How did he survive?’

  ‘Controlled breathing. There’s a certain amount of air inside the coffin. If you breathe normally, you’ll use it up very quickly. My dad, through years of practice, could take very shallow breaths, slow his whole metabolism down. But it wasn’t easy. He used to come out smiling, but I could always see the strain on his face. He pushed himself to the limit.’

  ‘Can you control your breathing too?’

  ‘A bit. I’m not as good as my dad. I could last maybe half an hour in a coffin.’

  Chris gave a shudder. ‘The thought of it makes me go cold. I’m not bothered by many things, but being shut up in a box … that would terrify me.’

  ‘You finished on the bike?’ Max said. ‘I usually do my training about now.’

  ‘Go ahead. Don’t let me get in your way.’

  Max went upstairs to his bedroom and changed into T-shirt, shorts and trainers, then returned to the basement and went through his usual routine on the exercise machines. Chris joined him for part of the workout, lifting some weights while Max rowed and cycled.