“And?”
“And I’m not in the habit of sharing information with total strangers.”
This was not unexpected. When it came to getting to know a bit about Abbie, Bobby was obviously going to be a dog with a bone. Of course, her name meant nothing. She could give it. Something held her back. Was it worth it? Travis was not the stranger she had come to help.
But this chicken shop was the first place she’d visited, and the only empty seat in the house had put her opposite the little altercation with Ronson. Coincidence? Possibly. That didn’t mean it wasn’t worth learning a little more.
“Name’s Abbie,” she said. “Who’s the thugs’ boss?”
“Nice to meet you, Abbie.”
“Who pays their wages?”
Bobby sighed. “Like I said, I don’t know for sure. If they were hired muscle and up to no good, my guess would be Francis Roberts.”
“And what do you know about him?”
Bobby glanced to the table Abbie had left. Michael had stood; Travis and Clarissa were shifting out from the bench. Michael had his head down, silent. Clarissa was still flushed red. As he stood, Travis made a joke. Only he laughed. Anger flashed across his face.
Then they were leaving. All three glanced back to Abbie at different intervals before exiting through the front door.
“What’s your interest in this?” Bobby asked.
“General.”
“Really?”
He didn’t believe her. Why would he? Having appeared from nowhere, Abbie had stood in the way of a thug talking to an annoying kid. Now she was asking questions about a man people seemed to believe was dangerous.
Still, she reiterated. “Really.” Thankfully, this didn’t seem to deter Bobby.
“About Francis Roberts,” he said. “Local businessman. Owns property. Bars, mostly. Also a hotel, a spa, a restaurant. Couple of houses. He wouldn’t threaten the Times Rich List, but as far as this town goes, he might as well be Elon Musk. He likes to throw his weight around. Like a sensible person, I try steer clear, but rumour has it he deals in more than legal goods. And punishes people who upset him. Or makes them disappear.”
Abbie listened, internalised, nodded. “Thanks.”
Bobby stared. “That’s it?”
“No, actually. I need a hotel for the night. Somewhere I can book a room at half-two in the morning.”
“But you don’t want to know any more about Francis?”
“Do you know more?”
“Not really, but—“
“Well then.”
“I want you to understand,” Bobby went on, “what I said was rumour. Not the stuff about him being rich and owning property, but the illegal goods dealing and violence.”
“I understand,” said Abbie. “And this hotel?”
Bobby’s mouth was hanging a little. He didn’t know what to make of this mystery woman asking the strangest questions. He was suspicious. Also intrigued. Abbie could have warned him: you know what they say about curiosity and the cat.
“Sure,” said Bobby, taking the path of least resistance. “I know a hotel that’ll take you, even this late. Can give you the address and number. Got a phone? I’ll write it down.”
Abbie routed in her bag and withdrew two items: a pen and another scrap of paper, this one blank. She dropped them on the counter. Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“What’s wrong with this modern world that we must insist on doing everything digitally,” said Abbie.
“You not got a phone?”
“Everyone has a phone.”
Bobby opened his mouth to respond, then shook his head. Leaning over, he took the pen and began to scrawl on the paper. Once done, he handed her both, and she glanced at the latter.
“This place has two numbers?”
“The second one’s mine.”
She rolled her eyes. Folded the paper and stuffed it in her pocket.
“Any chance you had of me calling went out the window when you sold me that drink,” she said, pointing back at the table. “I don’t make friends with people who try to poison me.”
Without missing a beat, he said, “I get the impression you don’t go in for friends at all.”
This actually drew a smile from Abbie. Though it was bittersweet. How right he was. The sad thing was he believed it was her choice. How could he know she’d never wanted to be this cold?
“Good night, Bobby.”
“Night, Abbie. I hope to see you again.”
Having already used her flowers line on Ronson, Abbie only raised a hand in a half-wave as she left the counter and departed Perfect Chicken—aka Vomit Inducing Pigeon—into the night.
Three
It was almost three in the morning. Despite this, the friendly-sounding Glenda Obafemi answered Abbie’s call on the third ring. There was no hint of grogginess or annoyance in her voice as she said she’d be delighted to offer Abbie a room.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I might get held up.”
“Turn up whenever, darling. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
The hotel was only a fifteen-minute walk from the chicken shop. Abbie had halved that distance when she heard voices.
By the time she had left Perfect Chicken, the last of the clubbers had drained away. The only noise came from people leaving the same place as Abbie and disappearing into the dark. After a few minutes, silence had enveloped her.
Until the voices.
She’d told Glenda she might get held up. If asked to suggest a percentage chance that a random encounter would waylay her progress to the hotel, she would have lied because 50-50 sounded ridiculous to any ordinary person—anyone without Abbie’s experiences.
She was walking through a commercial neighbourhood when she heard them. At least two men. Arguing.
Offices flanked her. All silent. Dark. Between two buildings, an arched alley offered enough room for a car to pass under into what was presumably a carpark at the back of the two offices on either side of the tunnel.
The tunnel itself was shrouded in darkness. The voices came from its other end, in the carpark.
Most people would walk on. After all, the argument was probably private. It didn’t sound as though anyone was under attack. And who wanted to put themselves in danger when they hadn’t been spotted, when they could rush home to a warm bed?
Abbie was on the other
