Road Kill

and the wariness was back in full force. She threw me a short, assessing gaze. “He used to be one of the consultants here but I can’t—”

I grabbed a pen from her clipboard and scrawled a rapid set of digits across the corner of a sheet of paper, ripping it off and handing it to her. “That’s his home number,” I said. “He could be here in an hour and a half. Will you at least call him and see what he says?”

She was eyeing me now with outright suspicion, fingering the torn scrap I’d given her. The temptation was clear but she was still dubious. “And how do I explain to Mr Foxcroft where I got hold of this?” she demanded.

I gave her my most winning smile. “Tell him it came from his daughter,” I said.

***

Half the secret of being pushy is knowing when to stop pushing and let the weight of your argument roll all by itself. I went back to the waiting area prepared to dig in for the long haul.

Sam had returned successful from his coffee-gathering foray and seemed to have broken the ice a little with William. When I reappeared they were sitting talking about their own past accidents and lucky escapes, their faces sober.

It was the kind of talk bikers always seem to fall back on at times like these. Any moment now, one of them was going to show the other his scars. I hoped nobody asked to see mine or we’d be here all night.

Sam looked up at my approach, mirroring the hopeful expression I’d worn earlier myself, but I shook my head. I wasn’t quite willing to share the news that Clare might be facing amputation, not quite yet. Not until the young doctor had made that phone call, at any rate.

“Where’s Pauline?” I asked.

“Gone to see if she can track down Jacob,” Sam said. “He’s not answering at home or on his mobile. Pauline said she’d have a run out to Caton and see if the Range Rover’s outside the house.”

The jacket pocket of William’s leathers started playing the theme from Mission: Impossible. He got to his feet, bringing out a mobile phone, and moved away to take the call before the nurses could pounce on him. I took his seat beside Sam.

“So what are you up to these days?” Sam asked then, handing me a coffee. “You’ve been right off the map since the winter.”

I nodded my thanks. “Not much at the moment,” I said, evasive. “Apart from working on the cottage, of course. It belongs to my parents, really. I’m just sorting out the renovations for them and in return I get to live there rent free.”

If I’d hoped that might distract him, it didn’t work. He was regarding me with those sorrowful spaniel’s eyes of his. Eyes that didn’t miss much.

“Rumour had it you’d gone off to be a mercenary and were either dead or in prison.” He said the words with a smile that wasn’t entirely present in his voice.

“Interesting,” I returned, neutral, dipping my nose into my coffee cup again. And close, I thought. “But wrong on all counts.”

“But you’re still tied up with that Meyer bloke, aren’t you.”

It was posed more as an accusation than a question and there was enough hint of sulkiness in Sam’s tone to bring my head round in surprise.

“If you mean Sean, then yes I am,” I agreed calmly, watching him flush and allow our eye contact to slide. “You seem very well informed on the subject.”

He squirmed a little at that. “Yeah well, it just seems kind of odd that this guy turns up out of the blue and next thing I know you’ve gone off gallivanting all over the world with him.”

I refrained from reminding Sam that, not only had I never for a moment given him any cause to believe he was more than just a friend to me, but also that I’d do as I damn well pleased.

“Sean and I were in the army together. We go way back,” I said instead, deliberate, too irritated by his moody behaviour to much care how he put that one together. “He runs his own close protection agency now. I needed a job. He offered me one. I took it.”

What I didn’t add was that my first proper assignment in the States that spring had gone terribly wrong and since then I’d been in a kind of limbo, both with Sean and with my fledgling newfound career. Over the last few months I’d felt almost as though I was watching life from the sidelines without joining in. It was not, I recognised, a state of affairs that could go on much longer.

Sam drained the last of his own coffee and crumpled the plastic cup between his fingers, taking his time over it.

“You’ve changed, Charlie,” he said then, rather sadly.

I glanced at him.

“Yeah well,” I said. “Everything does.”

***

Sam might have been about to say more but at that moment a mismatched couple came storming down the corridor and burst into the waiting area.

The guy was short and squat with huge sloping shoulders inside his badge-covered leather jacket. He had big hands tattooed with snakes and old engine oil and he looked like a brawler. The scar from what was most likely a long-time healed glassing stretched the left-hand side of his upper lip back slightly, giving him a permanent sneer.

With him was a small woman, so slightly built she must have been able to pick her wardrobe from children’s departments. She had a lot of piercings and long dark hair that was scraped back and held tight almost at her crown by a scrunchie. So many silver bangles dangled out of the sleeves of her tasselled leather jacket that she jingled when she moved.