‘People are scared to say what they think any more,’ Best continued.‘Even more afraid to do anything about it.’ Again he looked at Leary. ‘Are you prepared to do something, Keith? To back up your opinions?’
Leary regarded him warily. ‘What kind of thing?’ he asked.
‘You tell me. How far would you go to support your opinions? Or are you just all mouth like so many of the others? They say what they’d do but when the time comes, they haven’t got the balls.’
Leary shrugged. ‘What kind of thing are you talking about?’ he persisted. Best stopped the car. ‘Get out,’ he said.
Leary looked puzzled.
‘Get out,’ Best snapped, more forcefully. He watched as the younger man pushed open the door and clambered out on to the pavement.
‘If you want to find out more then be here tomorrow night at eight,’ said Best. ‘If you’re not here then I’ll know you’re all talk.’
He reached across, slammed the passenger door shut and drove off.
Leary squinted in the gloom and picked out the registration number of the car.
‘Oh, I’ll see you again,’ he whispered as he watched the car disappear around a corner. ‘Count on that.’
SEEING IS BELIEVING
Ward wondered, briefly, if he might still be drunk Perhaps in some alcohol-induced haze he had imagined watching the finished pages fall from the printer. Maybe he had dreamt the entire bizarre episode.
Failing that, there had to be an electrical fault of some description with the machine. But, if that were the case, why were the pages pouring from the printer filled with words? Lucid, perfectly formed prose the like of which he would have typed himself.
What the hell was happening?
He stood frozen until the printer had finished, then advanced slowly towards the desk, scanning the pages that had been vomited forth with such frenzy.
Ward sat down and picked them up carefully, scanning each one.
No spelling errors. Everything in context. These, surely, were not the fumblings of some alcohol-fuelled episode.
So, what were they? Where had they come from?
He had no answers to his perplexing questions.
Ward numbered the pages and added them to the rest of the manuscript. He was breathing heavily as he did so, squinting myopically at the numbers. On more than one occasion, his vision blurred and he was forced to stop. The beginning of a headache was gnawing at the base of his skull.
He looked at the blank screen almost fearfully. Very slowly, he rested his fingers on the keyboard. And began to type.
LONDON:
Doyle watched the knife as it whipped back and forth with dizzying speed.The cuts were uniform.
One of the three chefs who cooked for Sheikh Karim El Roustam was aware of his gaze but acknowledged it with only an indifferent glance.
‘Mind your fingers,’ said Doyle quietly.
The man looked at him again and returned to chopping shallots.
Doyle wandered out of the kitchen and ‘towards one of the sumptuous reception rooms on the first floor. It smelt of air freshener and polish. The whole house smelt the same. As if the moment anyone touched anything, one of the hordes of cleaners descended to remove any trace of human contact.
He stood looking at one of the paintings that hung above the ornate marble fireplace then crossed to the window that looked out over Upper Brook Street.
Down below Joe Hendry was running a doth over the windscreen of the Daimler, wiping away some of the rain that had fallen during the night, ensuring that he didn’t get his navy suit wet.
Hendry was thirty-seven. A tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark hair and bags beneath his eyes.
Over the years Doyle had convinced himself that he could perceive a person’s character within thirty seconds of meeting them. Instinct, he maintained, was as important as his ability with weapons.Those instincts had rarely been wrong.
With men he looked for the strength of their handshakes. Whether they held his gaze when they spoke to him.
Hendry had met both these criteria. He also had a good sense of humour and, another plus in Doyle’s book, he didn’t talk too much.
‘Nothing better to do?’
The voice caused him to turn.
Melissa Blake was standing in the doorway of the reception room dressed in another of the dark suits she seemed to favour.
‘Sorry, was I neglecting my newly found duties?’ Doyle asked.
‘Prince Hassim is ready for school,’ Mel smiled.
Doyle nodded and followed her down the stairs to the hall where the boy stood obediently, flanked by two servants. Both were big men with swarthy features.
One, Doyle noticed, had a deep scar on his left cheek.
The boy was dressed in his dark-blue school uniform, a brown leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He eyed Doyle as he descended the stairs then made his way outside.
‘Set?’ said Doyle, glancing up and down the street.
Hendry nodded and slid behind the steering wheel of the Daimler.
Doyle motioned towards the two servants and they walked out on either side of the boy who walked towards the rear door of the vehicle then stood still.
‘Open the door,’ he said, looking up at Doyle.
His accent was faultless. It should be, Doyle reasoned, it was an eight grand a term accent.
The former counter terrorist looked down at the boy.
I said, open the door,’ Hassim repeated. ‘Now, you fool.’
Doyle clenched his teeth and did as he was instructed.
The boy smiled and climbed in.
Little shit Eleven years old. Want to see twelve, you little bastard?
Doyle clambered into the passenger seat while the two servants arranged themselves in the back of the Daimler, one on either side of Hassim.
‘Let’s go,’ said Doyle.
The Daimler moved out into the traffic.
The trip to Beauchamp Place took less than twenty minutes.
Hendry brought the Daimler to a halt ten or twelve yards from the main gate of the school and looked in the rear-view mirror at Hassim and the two servants.
One of them, the man with the scar, made to scramble out of the vehicle but Hassim held up a hand.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Let him do it.’ He jabbed a finger into Doyle’s back.‘Open the
door for me,’ the boy insisted.
The knot of muscles at the side of Doyle’s jaw throbbed furiously but he swung himself out of the car and opened the rear door.
The boy slid out and, once more, looked up at Doyle with that supercilious grin on his face. He waited a moment longer then walked towards the gate of the school where several other children of all races and nationalities were gathered in front of a matronly looking teacher. , Doyle could see other cars parked around the entrance. Rollers. Jags. Land Rovers.
None of these little fuckers had to worry about waiting for buses, he mused.
He climbed back into the car and exhaled deeply. ‘Fucking kid,’ he murmured under his breath.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ said Hendry, barely able to suppress a smile.
I was hoping for something stronger,’ Doyle said, through clenched teeth.
