“Hi. I’m back,” I said unnecessarily.
There was a bottle of Jim Beam and a glass on the low table in front of him. The cap was off and the bottle was half empty. I eyed it warily. I’d seen Sean drink before but I’d never seen it have any particular effect on him. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a first time.
He took one look at me and sat up suddenly, muting the sound on the TV.
“What happened?”
I gave him a tired smile. “Long story,” I said. I gestured to my leathers. “Just let me go and get changed first. I’m filthy and I’m soaked and—”
He stood up fast, tipping the terrier onto the floor. Before I knew it he’d grabbed my shoulders and turned my face into the light.
“What did they do to you?” he demanded.
“It’s nothing.” I tried to pull my arms away and his fingers bit in, holding me still. I could have struggled further but I was too tired to try.
“You’ve been off the bike.” It was a statement, not a question.
For a moment I shied away from telling him the truth. Pointless, when he would have sniffed it out anyway. “Yes,” I admitted finally, “but I’m OK.”
He let his breath out in a controlled hiss. “Where the hell was Pickering while all this was going on?”
“Doing the sensible thing and keeping a low profile.”
“Hmm. Good back-up for going undercover, isn’t he?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said, trying not to rise to his studied insolence. A burst of temper escaped anyway and took flight. “What was it you told me once about Madeleine? That I should go easy on her because she wasn’t a field agent? Well, Sam’s not a field agent either so why can’t you just cut him some slack, Sean? He does what he can.”
Sean was utterly still for a moment, then he shifted a fraction and I felt some of the tautness loosen out of him. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course,” he said lightly. He gave me one of those lazy smoky smiles. “Put it down to the fact that I don’t like leaving anyone else to watch your back for you.”
“My back is fine,” I said stiffly.
The silence stretched between us.
“Go have your shower,” he said at last, his voice unreadable. “You can tell me all about it when you come back down.”
I went upstairs and did as I was ordered, standing under water as hot as I could take it to ease the tension out of the back of my neck. It was only partially successful. Afterwards I climbed into my jeans and a clean shirt and all the while a set of invidious thoughts were circling inside my head.
If Sean had been with me at Slick’s wake, I realised, the violence I’d sensed lurking under the surface when I got thrown out would not have stayed there. Quite apart from William’s comments, Sean would have instinctively jumped to my defence and the whole confrontation might have escalated rapidly beyond all control, like a riot.
Sean might view Sam’s actions as those of a coward but, as it was, he’d left me to my own resources and allowed me to extricate myself from the situation without a mess. Without a fight.
After the wake, out on the road, what could Sean have done to help me there? How do you take on a van when you’re on a motorbike, without being splattered into the middle of next week? Besides, if things had gone badly earlier my bridges would have been burned and I wouldn’t have been able to go back to Gleet’s place for sanctuary.
I would have been on my own . . .
When I walked back into the living room the dogs were gone and the TV screen was blank. Sean had fetched another glass and was pouring generous slugs of Jim Beam for us both. As I sat he handed one across and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“So, what did they do to you?” he asked again.
“They didn’t do anything,” I said. “I got spotted and chucked out – not physically, it didn’t come to that,” I added quickly, catching the fire rising in his eyes. “But then someone had a go at running me off the road on the way back.”
“Tell me.”
Briefly, I filled him in on the night’s events, from my discovery and eviction from the wake to an edited version of the run-in with the Transit van and the discovery I’d made in the workshop. I’d brought the remnant of Slick’s bike that I’d hidden in my jacket back downstairs with me and I handed it across as I spoke.
Sean took it, turning the piece of fairing over in his hands like he was reading sign.
“You’re sure it’s Slick’s?”
I shrugged. “It’s the right colour scheme and his bike was pretty distinctive,” I said. “Mind you, if Gleet built and sprayed it for him in the first place, that could be an old piece.”
“Or Gleet could have done one the same for someone else.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “Gleet’s a bit of an artist, so I’m told. He does one-offs, not a production line. He might do something similar, but I don’t think he’d copy.”
“So does this mean Gleet’s got Slick’s bike?” Sean mused. “And if so, why?”
“Good question. The police would have impounded it, I suppose. Maybe used it to prove how fast he was going at the time of the accident.”
