Still no sign of Neil.
Tony searches through his pockets for a packet of chewy antacids, pops one in and grimaces his way through it. Bloody balti lamb.
Finally…
He nudges Julie and points across the road. Neil’s marching down the hotel steps and out onto the pavement. The big man looks left, then right, then left again – like a good little boy – then hurries across to the car and clambers in the back seat.
‘Bloody freezing out there, like.’ He shuffles forward. ‘Turn the blowers up.’
‘Yeah…No. I gotta go, OK? Bye, Darling.’ And Julie hangs up. Doesn’t turn around. ‘What’s the score on the doors?’
Neil grins. ‘You were right: we
She nods. ‘Told you.’
‘He’s staying in room Three Twenty-Two.’
‘You sure?’
‘Followed him down the corridor, like. Watched him go into his room – it’s a king-sized double, if it helps?’
Julie turns in her seat and smiles at him. ‘You did good, Babe.’
‘Checked out the back too. There’s a loading dock we can jimmy open and a couple of CCTV cameras. But the cables run along the wall, so you can cut them without the daft sods seeing nowt.’
Tony pops another antacid. ‘You want to take him tonight?’
She pauses, head on one side, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘Think we’d better call the boss first, don’t you?’
Neil nods. ‘Then grab something to eat?’
Tony burps and winces. ‘Not bloody curry again.’
Then Neil asks the
‘What about him?’
‘Well…shouldn’t we be doing something? Getting ready, like?’
‘All in good time, Babe.’ She draws a smiley face on the inside of her window with a fingertip. ‘All in good time.’
19
Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, blinking, head reeling. The lights were all on, the TV grumbling away to itself in the corner. ‘Urgh…’
Steve Polmont’s journals were scattered across the lounge carpet, one open on the coffee table, the tatty pages marked with the occasional bright yellow Post-it note, where Logan had found something at least partially legible.
Blink. He checked the time on the DVD player. Quarter to midnight.
Yawn.
‘Sam? You home?’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. The message on the answering machine said she was pulling yet another green shift – saving up for a new tattoo.
And then the doorbell went again.
‘Bloody hell, Sam…’ He peeled himself upright, then lurched to the front door, shivering and feeling like crap. Hadn’t even been drinking, just came home, microwaved some vegetarian lasagne, and sat down with Polmont’s journals and a rerun of
Cold leached through Logan’s socks as he padded down the stairs to the communal front door. The bell went again, an irritating dringing buzz. ‘All right, all right.’ He undid the latch. ‘Why can you never remember your damn —’
Reuben.
The big man’s face was a mass of bruises, radiating out from a nose covered in gauze and white bandage. His eyes were swollen, shrouded in blue and purple. The left one didn’t have any white left, it was a sea of scarlet, with the iris floating in the middle. An angry olive in a bloody Mary. Butterfly stitches on his forehead.
Logan tried to slam the door shut, but Reuben had his foot jammed in the opening. It didn’t budge.
Run. Turn around right now and run like hell up the stairs. Maybe he’d get into the flat before Reuben caught him and beat him to death.
Logan took a step backwards.
The big man held up a package. It was about the size of a laptop, only thicker, wrapped in cheery yellow paper tied up with a blue ribbon, the ends all curly and worked into a bow.
‘Compliments of Mr Mowat.’ Voice all bunged up.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Look, Reuben, I—’
