‘All done?’ shesaid, sounding rather disappointed.
‘Alldone.’ Morton thanked her and hurried from the claustrophobic building.
Once outside,the sweat on his forehead instantly abated. He breathed deeply, gratefulto be out of the stuffy office, and made his way down the steps. One ofthe smokers standing in front of him, a man in his forties, wiry and grubbylooking with crew-cut blond hair, dropped his half-smoked cigarette to thefloor and dragged a heavy black boot across it before ascending the steps twoat a time. As he levelled with Morton, a box of cigarettes fell from hisjacket pocket. Morton picked them up. ‘Excuse me, you’ve droppedyour cigarettes.’
The manstopped in his tracks and turned, allowing Morton a full view of his face; notthe most aesthetically pleasing chap he’d ever clapped eyes on. A giantpink fleshy scar ran from his right eye almost to the corner of his mouth.
‘Thanks,’ hesaid tersely, snatching the box.
‘That’s okay,’Morton said, mesmerised by the man’s magnificent scar. He wondered whatkind of accident, operation or fight could have caused his face to open fromeye to mouth. Morton watched as he disappeared inside the building.
He looked athis watch – he had more than half an hour before he had to meet Juliette. He pictured her trying on a veritable mountain of clothing but not actuallybuying as much as a pair of knickers. Wrong size. Wrong colour. Wrong style. Wrong label. He never could work that out. Thenagain, there wasn’t an awful lot in the female psyche that he felt he did fullyunderstand.
Taking aleisurely saunter through the crowded North Lanes, Morton stopped occasionallyto look at passing window displays of the tiny shops which adorned the rabbitwarren of thin passageways. He paused at an antique shop specialising inwar memorabilia and studied the items in the window. You never know whatyou might find in such places. The highlight of an extensive ten-weekresearch job into one lady’s family history was his serendipitous locating ofher grandfather’s First World War medals in a junk shop in Hastings Old Town. No such trinkets sprang out at him today.
Morton passedinto a quieter part of the city where the shops gave way to café bars andrestaurants, outside of which sat half-dressed youths on metal chairs. IfMorton had been more six-pack and less family-pack he might have removed hisown shirt, such was the heat of the day.
As he turnedinto a side street, Morton heard the heavy thud of footsteps behind him,quickly becoming louder. He turned at the last second, just as his bagwas brutally ripped from his shoulder, spinning him round from the force of thetheft.
He stooddumbstruck, his brain frozen.
A flash of greyand denim disappeared out of sight, carrying his bag.
‘Damn it! Stop! He’s got my bag!’ Morton yelled, as soon as he was able to assimilatehis thoughts into the understanding that he’d been robbed. By then thethief was long gone.
A group ofmiddle-aged men wearing identical yellow t-shirts with a red fish logo on thebreast pocket were sitting outside the nearest café, just metres away fromwhere Morton stood. Christians. They were bound to help. TheGood Samaritan and all that. They must have seen the perpetrator. ‘Excuse me, I’ve just had my bag stolen,’ Morton said shakily. ‘Didanyone see the bloke who did it?’ Most looked away. One or twoshook their heads.
‘All I heardwas you shouting and swearing,’ one of them said.
Morton ignoredhim and looked at the rest of the crowd, all ardently avoiding his gaze. ‘I think he was about five-ten, grey hoody,’ Morton persevered. ‘Didanyone see him?’
‘No. Wedidn’t see him,’ another said. ‘Now, if you would kindly leave us alone.’
‘Thanks,’Morton muttered, walking away. He headed in the general direction takenby the mugger in the vain hope that he might find the bag discarded in a shopdoorway. Not that it mattered: the important, valuable things like hislaptop and wallet were bound to be long gone.
Just as Mortonwas taking a long breath in, trying to stop himself shaking, a hand fell ontohis shoulders. He whirled around, ready to hit whomever was touchinghim. Juliette. His body went limp.
‘What’s thematter?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just beenmugged. Had my laptop bag stolen.’
‘What? When? What happened?’ Juliette probed, taking his hand and staring him inthe eyes.
‘Just somebloke came out of nowhere and wrenched it from my shoulder. Five-ten witha grey hoody – that’s about the only description.’
Juliette pulledher phone from her pocket. ‘Right.’
‘What’re youdoing?’
‘Finding outwhere the nearest police station is.’
Morton put hishand over hers. ‘No. I don’t want to report it,’ he said firmly.
Juliette lookedincredulous. ‘Why on earth not? At the very least you can report it, geta crime number and claim for it on the insurance.’
‘I’m just notfeeling much confidence in the police at the moment. Come on, let’s gohome. I’ve had enough of this place.’
With adisbelieving shake of her head, Juliette pocketed her mobile and the pairwalked silently back to the car park.
The drive outof Brighton was a welcome one for Morton. A whole ugly, shadowyunderworld faded into the hills behind him like a bad dream. A den ofiniquity, his father had once called the city. Maybe he wasright. Christians, robbers and weirdoes. Juliette had been uncharacteristicallyquiet for some time, which he guessed was the after-effects of his refusal toreport the mugging. He knew that when he told her that, she’d never beable to detach herself from her job and see it from his perspective. All shewould see was that a crime had been committed which needed reporting. Itwas as simple as that in her world. That might have been what was buggingJuliette initially but there was something else wrong now. She wasgripping the steering wheel so tightly that the sinews rose defiantly on thebacks of her hands. Morton’s suspicions were confirmed when thespeedometer crept over seventy. On a sixty road. Very un-Juliette.
‘Are you okay?’he asked.
‘Yeah,’ sheanswered half-heartedly. ‘Just a car behaving strangely behind us.’
‘Behavingstrangely how?’ Morton began to crane his head.
‘Don’t lookround! Jesus, Morton!’ Juliette snapped. ‘It’s been following usfor the last six miles.’
Morton inchedback into his chair, trying to
