“Not exactly an ice-cream van, is it?” chirped a voice as her arm was yanked up behind her shoulder. “Let’s you and me go somewhere and talk, KLF girl.”
“What—” Del grimaced—“the fuck are you on, woman?”
“Justified and Ancient! I’m not stupid, I know how to work Lyric Finder, even though the band split before either of us were born.”
A metallic chinking and the drag of leg irons told Del that she was well and truly in the shit. The bottom dropped out of her stomach as if a trapdoor had sprung open beneath her feet. Fear threatened to choke her. She tried to swing her left hand but there was a manacle on that wrist too, and it twisted behind her back abruptly and then there were chains everywhere, locking her down and leashing her to the Cayenne’s door handle.
The woman walked round in front of her. She had pale skin and spiky chestnut hair and eyes like a police recruiting poster, and if Del had met her in Ruby Tuesday over a couple of beers she might have thought she was cute, but there was nothing cute about this sickening sense of dread, about the chains, about the telescoping baton that kept flickering in and out of visibility in the woman’s hand like a bad special effect. “I dunno what this is about, woman, you’ve got the wrong person, lemme go—”
“Chill.” The woman reached out and tugged Del’s hood back, then as she recoiled tapped her gently on the forehead with one index finger. “We know who you are: Rebecca McKee, age 21, no fixed abode but we know where your mum lives, we know where your dog goes to school, no fixed abode but you’re a demon on two wheels and you’re also the getaway driver for the gang that turfed Hamleys the other week.”
Del flip-flopped like a gaffed fish for a few seconds, then yanked at the leash as hard as she could. With a scream of abused metal the Porsche’s passenger door handle bent and she began to sidestep away, but the chain between her ankles somehow turned into a rigid bar. She began to face-plant and ended up with her nose tucked into the cleft between the cop’s neck and shoulder. The woman smelled of lavender; Del wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to bite, then felt strong arms circling her. “Will you just stop freaking out for a moment and listen to me?”
Del drew a shuddering breath: “Chains—”
The chains were gone, but the woman held her in a bear hug that trapped Del’s arms. “Take a deep breath. And another. That better?” She peered into Del’s blown pupils. “Still freaking. What are you afraid of? Are you on—”
“Don’t kill me—”
“I’m not going to! Will you chill the hell out? I just want to talk, for Christ’s sake!”
The adrenaline spike began to subside, the waves of chagrin, embarrassment, and grief finally washing Del up on the shore of acceptance. “What the fuck you want, then?”
“I’m Wendy, and there’s an ice-cream parlor on the other side of the park: Is yours a 99?” A flashing smile lit up Del’s face and she felt the knot of tension in her chest twist into hopeful incredulity.
“I’ll—” she took a deep breath—“what?”
“If I let go of you, will you come with me and let me buy you an ice cream and explain things? I’ll let you go afterwards, I promise.”
Del managed a shaky nod. Wendy still didn’t let go, but the arms wrapped around Del no longer felt like handcuffs. “You’re not going to arrest me?”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “I’m not a cop, and I’m not on the clock, so no, I’m not—I can’t—do that.”
“But Imp said you were—” She realized her mistake and shut her mouth before she could leak any more secrets.
“Imp is your theatrical friend with the shit fashion sense?” Wendy smirked at her expression. “Yes, I might have told him I was a cop. I might also have been kind of lying: whatever it takes to get the job done. I’m a private sector thief-taker, it’s not my job to enforce the law. And like I said, I’m not working today.” She opened her arms and took a step back, baffling Del. Suddenly she could feel the cold again, up and down her front. “Are you coming for that ice cream?”
Del shook herself. “Woman, it’s fucking December.” She stared at her, openly perplexed. “What?”
Wendy rubbed two fingers together. “My treat.”
“I don’t believe this,” Del muttered, but Wendy held out a hand. She stared at it for a few seconds before she took it. Wendy drew her closer, placed Del’s hand on her arm, then led them back into the park, towards the kiosk.
The Bond sat on a park bench, staring at his phone in faux-idleness. Fucking dykes, he thought, clutching resentment close to the shrivelled cockles of his heart. The burring hum of a quadrotor drone drifted overhead like a nightmare hornet. He squinted at the phone screen, lips curled judgmentally. The feed from the drone’s stabilized imaging platform showed him the sway of the getaway driver’s bundled dreads, the thief-taker’s slyly stolen glances, the slight quirk of her lips. She held her target’s arm too close. Bet they’ll be in bed within twenty-four hours. Assuming they last that long. His imagination leered lasciviously.
Oblivious to the drone, Wendy steered Del towards the coffee and refreshments kiosk. Once they were indoors, the Bond recalled his remote-controlled minion. He opened the aluminum briefcase and packed the drone away to recharge. Then he picked it up and followed his targets over to the kiosk, to rent a seat for the price of a coffee.
The Bond had come to appreciate the benefits of wearing a well-cut business suit and conservative tie. It made you anonymous, at least if you were a clean-shaven white male like him. It was the civilian equivalent