Yulexis released her grip and carefully moved her face out of the line of fire. She looked up at her boss. ‘Xavier?’ she said quietly.
‘Yes?’ he gasped.
‘Xavier… I’m pregnant.’
His eyes widened in surprise but he was incapable of speech as a stream of ejaculate flew past her left ear.
Yulexis quickly moved backwards and handed him a small towel. ‘I’m pregnant.’
He frowned, not wanting to believe it.
‘Almost twenty weeks,’ she added.
‘Twenty weeks?’ Xavier sniffed. That sounded quite a lot. He looked her up and down and felt himself begin to harden again. Shouldn’t he be able to notice that sort of thing? She didn’t look any different. Giving himself a quick wipe, he resisted the urge for seconds and zipped up his trousers. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’
Buttoning up her blouse, she fought back a sob. ‘Of course it’s yours. Who else’s could it be?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said airily, ‘we can get it sorted. I know a good man in Harley Street.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yulexis asked, taking a step backwards.
Xavier frowned. He was beginning to think this girl was a bit dumb. ‘Well, you can’t keep it, obviously.’
‘Xavier! It’s too late for an abortion! Anyway, I want to keep it.’
The look that passed across his face made her shiver. But then he managed a smile. Not much of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. Taking hold of her shoulders, he reached over and kissed her on the top of the head.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get an appointment arranged.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Harry Allen stepped through the non-existent Customs check and into the arrivals hall, scanning the assorted taxi boards until he found the one with his name on it. Nodding curtly to the driver, he handed over his bag and followed him out to the waiting car. Settling in the back seat, he reached into his pocket, and instantly realised that he’d left his mobile in the bag which was now secured in the boot. Cursing gently to himself, he thought about getting back out to retrieve it, but he couldn’t summon up the energy. Half a bottle of wine on the plane had made him sleepy, besides he’d be home in an hour. There was nothing so important that it couldn’t wait until then.
Allen opened the car window an inch, as they pulled away from the kerb and into the slowly moving traffic. For once the weather was fine, but that only served to make him more depressed to be back. London was a place designed for poor weather: whenever the sun came out, you should be somewhere else. Closing his eyes, he tried to tune out the traffic noise and began planning his next trip.
The next thing he realised was that they had come to a stop. Slowly, he opened his eyes, yawned and stretched. His body felt stiff after his nap, his legs ached and his mouth was dry. The atmosphere inside the car was stuffy and he felt dizzy. Fumbling with the handle, he tried to open the door. It was locked.
‘Hello?’ he said in a feeble voice that could barely be heard even inside the car.
Where was the driver?
More to the point, where was Allen?
Shielding his eyes against the glare, he looked around. The car was parked by the side of a single-lane road in the middle of a patch of wasteland that stretched for as far as he could see. In the distance rose some electricity pylons. To his right, a goods train slowly made its way across the horizon. A jet screamed low overhead as it approached the airport.
Fully awake now, he could feel his heart racing. He tried the door again, to no effect, and began banging his palm on the window.
‘Hello? HELLO?’
The sudden beep made him flinch. For a second, after the door popped open, he didn’t move. Then, pushing himself up, he stumbled out of the car. Standing with his hands on his hips, he took a moment to clear his head. Feeling a little better, he started walking. Knowing that he had no idea of where he was, he struck out in the direction of the train tracks, walking away from the road. He kept up a steady pace without ever quite breaking into a run.
Minutes later, the sound of the car engine starting up again made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Beginning to jog, he immediately felt his chest tighten and cursed the fact that he hadn’t done enough exercise for years. Behind him, the car gently bounced towards him over the uneven ground. Ignoring the pain, Allen started to run. But the vehicle was on him in seconds. When he sensed it right behind him, he finally turned to look – just in time to glance off the left-side wing and cartwheel into the air, before landing in the dust in a broken heap.
Spitting blood from his mouth, he gasped in agony. Rolling on to his back, he tried to sit up but fell back into the dirt. Through the tears in his eyes, he squinted up at the sky. The excruciating pain in his left leg told him that it was broken even before he saw bone protruding through the skin. But that was a mere distraction from the footsteps now steadily heading towards him. Allen turned his head to see a pair of dirty trainers stop just inches away from his face. Looking directly into the sun, he could only make out the silhouette of a man. There was something glinting in one of his hands.
‘Who are you?’ Allen croaked through teeth gritted against the pain.
‘Don’t worry about me.’ The shadow leaned forward to show him the knife. ‘You just worry about this.’
Allen felt the toe of a trainer in his back as he was flipped on to his stomach. A mixture of soil and gravel shot into his mouth and up his nose. He was crying like a baby now, as he realised that he would be found like this.
Humiliated.
Destroyed.
Violated.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ he whimpered, ‘please.’
‘You people are all the same,’ the silouette grunted. ‘Stop whining. I haven’t got much time to waste. This won’t last long.’
TWENTY-FIVE
With three days left until the election, Carlyle had read in the paper that Edgar Carlton would be holding a press conference to discuss his party’s social policies. Despite the narrowing opinion polls, victory still seemed the most likely outcome for the golden twins. The conference was scheduled to start at 10 a.m. at the Royal Academy of Engineering building, close to St James’s Park. Joe Szyszkowski had left for Cambridge, to visit Clement Hawley’s brother, so Carlyle decided to decamp to the park with a coffee and a copy of The Times while he waited for the presser to start.
It was a beautiful morning, with a clear blue sky. The temperature had not yet climbed above fifteen or sixteen degrees, so there was a pleasant nip in the air. He sat on a bench, with Buckingham Palace way off to his left, Downing Street on his right, and watched other people going about their business while he himself took a short time out. If he wasn’t exactly feeling blissed out, there was still a distinctly positive vibe flowing through the Carlyle veins. Things were moving now. Harry Allen’s death had been a new blow to the investigation, though not as big a blow as it had been to Allen himself. The silly sod should have spoken to me sooner, Carlyle thought. But at least his death showed that it was still game on. While that was the case, he remained confident that they would get their man.
Thinking of Allen, he pulled out his phone and deleted the dead man’s voicemail. No sense in leaving that hanging around in case there were any accusations of slackness further down the line. With hindsight, Carlyle knew that he should have tracked Allen down while he was abroad, rather than waiting for him to come back to London. He didn’t need Simpson or anyone else using that mistake as a stick to beat him with later.
