Читать книгу Final Target - E. Seymour V. - Страница 17

‘If you have to lie, at least make it a good one,’ I said.

‘I’m not lying.’

‘So all the stuff about Lars and his right-wing connections was an elaborate smokescreen?’

‘Not at all.’ She looked most put out.

When I spoke next my voice was clipped. ‘Lars had no interest in Benz. In fact he loathed the man. Lars stood about as much chance of penetrating his outfit as me running for Parliament.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Which was why I finally decided he’d be no good for the job.’

‘Was that after you’d slept with him or before?’

She issued another cold, sullen look. No way was she getting away with silence. I’d drag it out of her if I had to. ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘And next you dispensed with his services?’

‘Correct.’

‘But by then he was in love with you.’

‘It happens.’

‘Really?’

She ignored my question.

‘Whatever you asked the poor guy to do, he did because of you.’ The irony that I’d also risked exposure for McCallen did not escape me. ‘If anyone got him killed, you did.’

She glanced down, chewed her lip. The fabric of her jacket shivered. ‘His death,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘the fact that Lars had begged to meet me on the day he died made me less certain about him. I wondered if I’d missed something. I thought he might have been compromised, or that I’d read him wrong.’

‘Which was why you dragged me into it – to find out.’

‘Yes.’

Except I had discovered nothing new. In truth, I hadn’t been in Berlin long enough to check Lars out, let alone Benz. ‘You rinsed me.’

‘I did not.’

‘And now you’re switching your story.’

‘I am not switching my story.’

‘Of course not, you’ve just dragged Billy back from the dead for a little local colour.’

‘For God’s sake, I –’

‘Why didn’t you mention Billy before?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Because first I needed to be sure about Lars.’

‘It didn’t occur to you that you were putting me in danger?’

‘You’re a big boy who can take care of himself.’ She flashed a smile in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. I wasn’t buying into it.

‘This is what I think.’ I poked her hard in the chest. ‘You’re feeding me titbits to see how much I swallow.’

The spots of colour on her cheek flamed crimson. I straightened up. ‘You know what? I don’t trust you. I don’t believe you and you can go to hell.’

She shouted something after me, but I was already up the steps, crossing the graveyard, back towards Henrietta Street. There was no use denying it. Like a fond greeting wrapped in barbed wire, McCallen was lethal to my physical and mental health and well-being. What angered me most was that I’d fallen for it.

Fact: by the time Billy Squeeze was exposed as a genocidal maniac, he had not a single friend left to defend him, nobody from whom to call in favours, no one who would give him sanctuary. Many rejoiced when he fell from grace, his reign of terror over, his ‘manor’ already carved up by others on the make. Nobody would seek revenge on his behalf now. Not the wife who knew nothing of his extraneous activities, not his three daughters, all of whom were in their mid-teens.

As for surviving the ‘accident’, I’d witnessed the fear in his eyes, the trapped scream in his voice, watched him tumble onto the tracks, his bones crushed beneath a train.

Billy Squeeze was dead. No doubt about it. Only one question remained: who had tried to kill me?