Читать книгу Hot Pursuit - Gemma Fox - Страница 8
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ОглавлениеWhile supper cooked, Nick Lucas nipped the phone between cheek and shoulder and hung on as instructed, waiting for someone, anyone, to talk to him.
‘Your call is currently in a queue,’ repeated a cool synthetic female voice. ‘All calls are being answered in strict rotation. If you would like to hold the line, one of our operators will be with you as soon as they are free…Your call is currently in a queue…’
Nick sighed with frustration and glanced out of the upstairs window in Maggie Morgan’s country cottage, wishing there was some way that it could still be his. Roses crept stealthily up over the sill, framing the view. The long summer’s day was fading fast into shades of old gold. Here and there, sunlight reflected off windows in houses on the far side of the common, tinting them with a fiery glow. Across the unkempt lawn a swing under an apple tree struggled to take advantage of the evening breeze. It was the most glorious summer’s evening.
Nick sighed again. Maybe it had been too good to be true after all. Hadn’t his first impression been that the house was too far from any where, too exposed to be safe? Even though Nick had been amazed and relieved when Coleman’s men dropped him off at the cottage, in the back of his mind, wasn’t there a part of him that would have felt safer in the anonymity of a city? He was used to London. He had wondered what would happen next, and now he knew.
‘…one of our operators will be with you as soon as they are free…’
Nick Lucas closed his eyes. His unguarded thoughts were fragmented and disordered; for months now there had been no peaceful place inside his head. But oddly, however disruptive and unexpected, there was a part of him that felt more comfortable now that Maggie and her kids were there with him. Nick had been uneasy about being alone after months and months of longing for his privacy. It had felt so odd to have a house to himself, and unnerving, too, almost as if he had been forgotten. Like everyone had moved on without him. For the last year or so Nick had had police protection twenty-four hours a day. Shifts of police officers coming and going, a stream of constantly changing faces who were sometimes there day after day for months but occasionally were there only for a few hours – whoever it was, there had always been someone close by.
Since he’d arrived at the cottage he’d toyed with the idea of buying a dog. It felt wonderful to be able to walk outside again, to amble down to the shops for a paper – but frightening, too, as if at any moment something terrible might happen. For what had to be the hundred-thousandth time Nick wondered if he would ever feel truly safe again.
‘…Your call is currently in a queue…’
‘Oh for God’s sake, come on,’ Nick muttered, tapping his fingers impatiently on the windowsill.
Finally, at the far end of the line there was a man’s voice – although not Coleman’s – and with that Nick tried to explain how his brand-new life had already turned sour.
‘So,’ Nick said, after a five-minute unbroken monologue, ‘I’m in the shit really. It’s complete madness. You promised that I would be safe here, but a whole family apparently lives here already – I mean what the hell’s going on? Would it be possible for me to talk to Danny Coleman?’
‘Ummm,’ said the disembodied voice thoughtfully after a second or two’s reflection. ‘I’m afraid not, your handler isn’t on duty at the moment but I’ll see to it that he gets a full briefing regarding your current situation. It’s all a bit odd, isn’t it, eh?’ The man sounded unreasonably cheerful. ‘We don’t usually get problems this early on. Not that we get many problems at all really,’ he added hastily. ‘It does sound very strange. But don’t you worry, just leave it with me and I’ll get back to you. A.S.A.P. My advice – if the woman who owns the house is agreeable – is to stay where you are for the time being, keep a low profile, and we’ll sort something out,’ and with that the man hung up.
‘My handler?’ snapped Nick into the empty, burring line. ‘What do you mean my bloody handler? And what do you mean you’ll sort something out? What about the family whose life I’ve just walked into, for God’s sake?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Not to mention your bloody fail-safe, extremely secure, sodding…low profile my arse.’ From the bottom of the stairs the younger of Maggie’s boys watched him suspiciously from behind big blue eyes. Nick reddened under his unflinching stare and struggled to control the great rip of fury nestling in his belly. He tried out a smile; the child didn’t move a muscle.
Wafting up the stairs came the rich smell of tomatoes, peppers, onions and garlic, all simmering away. The aroma made his mouth water, a sensation that took Nick totally by surprise. He took a longer, deeper breath, savouring the smell. It seemed like a long, long time since he had been truly hungry. God, how bad was that for a man who had made his living by cooking? Had he been so lost, so far away from himself…Nick stopped and let the sensation roll through him. Over the last few months his guts had been crocheted into a tight uneasy knot, so hunger, strangely enough, felt like a good omen. Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, Nick hurried downstairs. The little boy scuttled away from him before he was even halfway down.
By the time he reached the kitchen Nick’s new ready-made family were sitting around the table and turned to look at him as one as he crossed the threshold. He stopped mid-stride, uncomfortable under the gaze of the two small boys. Nick noticed that alongside the salad and the cutlery, Ben still had Maggie’s mobile phone close to hand.
Maggie, at the sink straining the spaghetti through a huge stainless-steel colander, nodded towards the nearest chair. ‘You’d better sit down, take the weight off your alibi. How did you get on?’
‘It didn’t go quite how I imagined, if that’s what you mean.’
Maggie laughed. At least she had disposed of the baseball bat. As Nick pulled out a chair Ben’s hand hovered over the phone like a gun fighter waiting to make a quick draw.
Maggie shook her head. ‘No, love. It’s all right. Why don’t you go and get some apple juice for you and Joe?’ she said gently. Ben sniffed imperiously, eyes not leaving Nick as he went to get the glasses out of the kitchen cupboard.
Fifteen minutes later Maggie mopped up the last of the pasta sauce from her plate with a rip of french bread. Ben and Joe, hunger having finally overcome suspicion, had eaten their supper with the unbridled passion of the young and were now preparing, very reluctantly, to go to bed.
‘Right,’ said Maggie to Nick, shovelling the last remnants of supper into her mouth as she got to her feet. ‘I want it all and I want it now. The whole sordid story. You can tell me all about it while I make us some coffee.’
Nick groaned. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Maggie, but I can’t – I’m not supposed to tell anybody. Not anything. Not a word,’ he added lamely, pushing his plate away. Despite Maggie’s cavalier approach to preparation the pasta sauce had been delicious and had tasted as good as it smelt. ‘You know too much already. If you knew any more you could be at risk, too.’
Maggie snorted, stacking the dirty crockery in the dishwasher. ‘So, dropping a complete stranger into my life with my ex-husband’s name wasn’t just a little bit risky, then?’
Nick puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’ve already said that I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say to you – and I can’t explain how this has happened because I’ve got no idea. But don’t worry, the people who brought me here know now. I’m sure it’ll all be sorted out soon. They said that they would speak to Coleman, the man who’s dealing with my case, and get back in touch. A.S.A.P.’ Nick reddened. Said aloud it all sounded pretty pathetic.
Maggie lifted an eyebrow, observing his growing discomfort. The born-again Bernie Fielding was either very naïve or very desperate, although whichever it was, it was quite endearing; he probably still believed in the tooth fairy, too. As she studied him he pushed his fringe back up over his forehead and smiled. If he was a puppy in a pound no woman on earth could have resisted him bringing him home.
Maggie sighed. Her mother always said she was a soft touch.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t look altogether convinced, Nick. What I mean is I’m not planning to hold my breath until the cavalry show up. I’ll make you up a bed in the spare room for tonight; Joe wants his bed back, and then tomorrow I’m afraid you’ll have to hit the road. Okay? Why did you sleep in Joe’s room anyway? You look more like a double-bed man to me.’ As she said it Maggie blushed and cursed the bit of her brain that let her say what she was thinking without considering the consequences.
But it’s true, protested her brain. Worse still, Nick Lucas looked like the kind of man that she had always hankered after but never quite found. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a strong gentle face – nice eyes. Beautiful hands too, kind of good looking in a lived-in way. Under other circumstances…Maggie stopped herself from thinking the whole thought and shook her brain into submission. These were not ‘other circumstances’ and being taken for a ride by a total stranger was just the kind of thing you warned your children about. Even so, her mystery guest most definitely had the air of a man who preferred not to sleep alone if he could possibly help it, the kind of man who liked life best if there was a woman in it.
Maggie took two mugs down off the shelf and then forced herself to concentrate on spooning coffee into the filter, hoping that he couldn’t read her mind.
‘What I meant to say is that as you’re quite tall, a double bed has to be more comfortable –’ Maggie continued, as smoothly as she could manage, attempting to cover her tracks. He had amazing blue eyes, the corners crosshatched with humour.
Maggie tightened her grip on the rogue thoughts that chattered busily through her mind, reminding herself that she didn’t know a thing about Nick Lucas except what he’d told her – which wasn’t much – and that he lied very badly, and that her track record was pretty terrible when it came to men. Her first impression of the real Bernie Fielding had been that he was a really nice man, too. It was a salutary thought, as effective as a cold shower.
Why was it exactly that Nick Lucas had turned up at her house with Bernie’s name? It wasn’t the first time that the idea had gone through her mind but it was the first time Maggie had let it settle. Why here, why now? Surely Bernie wasn’t big enough to have had a hand in this? In which case, why did every instinct tell her that this had the real Bernie Fielding’s paw-prints all over it?
Across the table Nick Lucas said nothing, staring blankly ahead as if collecting his thoughts. Finally he turned to look at her, lifting his hands to encompass the room. ‘I’ve already said that I’m sorry about all this. I don’t know what else to say to you. It’s totally crazy.’ He looked uncomfortable, as if he’d been caught out.
Maggie, chewing on the nub end of the French stick, said, ‘Just how crazy is that, then, Nick?’
He continued almost as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Things like this shouldn’t happen to people like me. I used to run a great little restaurant, you know. Good food, reasonable prices, in an up-and-coming area. We were beginning to build a reputation, getting to be well-known locally. They even did a feature on us in the Evening Standard. It’s ridiculous – why did I think for a moment that this would come good?’ He sounded increasingly upset. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’ As he spoke his gaze met Maggie’s, looking at her as if she might have the answers.
Maggie stood the coffeepot down between them on the kitchen table and slapped two mugs alongside it.
‘You could tell me what’s going on. Maybe I could help?’ Her tone was gentle and conspiratorial. ‘After all,’ she grinned mischievously, ‘we were married.’
Nick groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
She pushed a mug towards him. ‘Don’t worry, I’m good in a crisis. What was it exactly that you witnessed?’
Nick ran his fingers nervously through his hair. ‘To be honest I wish to God I knew. It seemed such a small thing really. As far as I was concerned they were just regular customers. Vegetarian lasagne, green salad, home-made game pie with vegetables of the day –’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Maggie, wondering if the bottle of Italian red that they’d shared over supper had confused the issue. ‘Are these the cryptic clues?’
Nick looked up. ‘No, no, that’s what the two of them always had when they came into my restaurant. Nice safe choices. They usually came in once, sometimes twice a week.’ He looked uneasy. ‘I thought they were just the sort of clientele we wanted, you know. Respectable, regular business customers. Nice, quiet, appreciative; something off the sweet trolley, two cappuccinos and they always tipped well – no fuss, never complained. Ideal customers.’
Maggie sniffed. ‘Whoa there. Hang on a minute. I think I’ve lost the plot here somewhere. You have been relocated, renamed, given a completely new identity, because of two nice regular respectable lunchtime diners? I don’t understand, Nick – I thought you must have seen something really – you know – awful, terrible.’ Maggie paused as the images of innumerable TV crime shows, police reconstructions and photo-fit pictures trickled through her mind in a gory slide show. ‘Messy, murderous, violent.’
Nick, still deep in thought, glanced up. ‘Sorry?’
‘What I’m saying is that I thought you must have seen something, you know, really ghastly to put you in so much danger that they needed to relocate you.’
He nodded. ‘Me, too, but it seems you don’t have to witness something messy for it to be dangerous. One morning two guys turned up at the restaurant with official-looking bits of paper and asked if I’d give my permission to have my regulars’ table bugged. I was totally amazed. My two nice tidy customers turned out to be up to their eyebrows in God knows what. The fraud squad had been on their trail for months trying to tie the pair of them together.’
‘So what was it?’ said Maggie leaning closer, while trying hard not to look too eager or too pleased with herself. She knew that she’d cracked it. She could tell by the look on Nick’s face that he’d made up his mind to tell her everything.
He shook his head. ‘To be perfectly honest I still don’t have any clear idea. Something to do with stocks and shares – some sort of international computer fraud, I think.’
Maggie stared at him, feeling totally deflated. ‘What? Is that it? But you were a witness, weren’t you?’
Nick nodded. ‘Uh huh, I suppose so, but not in a Perry Mason big courtroom drama kind of a way. All I had to do was to identify them as the two people in question, give a few details from my bookings diary. When they’d met, how often – and of course it was me who gave permission for the bug to be planted at their table in the first place –’
‘And they relocated you for that?’ Maggie knew she sounded slightly incredulous.
Nick’s face reddened. ‘Yes. The unfortunate thing was the two of them came from different sides of the tracks. One was a highly respected financier in the city of London and the other one was something very, very iffy in organised crime.’
There was a long pause. ‘And?’ prompted Maggie. It was like pulling teeth.
Nick sucked his bottom lip and slowly turned the coffee mug between his long fingers. ‘And after they were arrested the two of them tried to persuade me not to testify.’ His voice was low now and very controlled as he turned the mug around and around. ‘It got very nasty very quickly once they’d been picked up. They’re not the sort of people you mess with. They threatened to rearrange my anatomy so I could bear children, they firebombed my restaurant and filled my basement with raw sewage. Not them personally, of course, but their hired help.
By the time the case came to court they’d blown up my car, ruined my business, destroyed my marriage, terrorised my staff and driven me to breaking point.’ He sighed heavily. ‘The pair of them systematically destroyed everything I had built to try and stop me from taking the stand. The authorities extradited one of them to the States. The police had already decided by that time that I was at long-term risk from reprisals.’ He drained the dregs of his coffee. ‘So there we are, now you know, Maggie. That’s what I’m doing here.’
She stared at him, not quite sure, now that she had dragged the story out of him, what to say. ‘My God. So what happened to the two men?’
Nick shook his head, uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Which two men?’
Maggie looked heavenwards. Nice eyes but not too bright obviously. ‘The two men you gave evidence against? Your two regulars? Mr Vegetarian Lasagne and Mr Home-made Game Pie.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Oh no, you’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t two men I testified against, it was two women – and if they find me they’ll have me killed.’
Maggie swallowed hard. ‘Two women?’ she whispered.
Nick nodded.
‘Oh bugger,’ murmured Maggie, ‘You really are in trouble.’
Nimrod Brewster and Cain Vale had booked into the large anonymous hotel adjoining the airport. They had shed their suit jackets, turned on the TV and raided the mini-bar by the time their contact arrived. He was a man so undistinguished, so grey that he managed to render himself practically invisible. He stepped quietly into their hotel room and smiled without warmth.
‘All set then, are we, lads?’
Nimrod nodded and removed his mirrored shades to reveal the palest ice-blue eyes rimmed with piggy-white lashes. Outside, beyond the triple glazing, a silver jet rose noiselessly into the late evening sky.
‘Yeah, all fired up and ready to go. Brought everything we need, have yer?’ he asked, tucking his shades into the top pocket of his immaculately pressed shirt.
The man nodded and dropped a large manila envelope on one of the single beds.
‘There we are. Half now and half on completion, all expenses paid, as agreed. Oh and I thought you might like this.’ He pulled out a radio scanner and set it on the bed alongside the envelope. ‘You know how to use it?’
Nimrod nodded. ‘Nice touch. I always like to keep an ear out for the feds.’
The man paused and then looked at Nimrod thoughtfully as if weighing up just how much to tell him. ‘I want you to be especially careful with this one, Nimrod,’ he said in a low, unremarkable monotone.
‘Of course. We always are,’ said Nimrod, slightly affronted by the slur on his professionalism.
‘I know, I know, but just hear me out. Is your friend here with us?’ he said, stony-faced. Across the room Cain was stretched out on the other bed, his attention firmly fixed on the TV screen.
‘Don’t mind Cain, he loves all them crime reconstruction programmes, CCTV footage, anything like that, watches them all the time in case he sees someone we know. Saw his dad on there once. But when it comes down to the job, we’re there, you know that. Totally focused – one-hundred-and-ten per cent or nothing at all. It’s just that the planning side of it isn’t his forte.’ Nimrod’s tone was icy.
The little man nodded his head. ‘Sorry. I’m most certainly not implying that you’re normally careless. We wouldn’t have hired you if we thought that was the case.’ He paused. ‘It’s just that I think that somebody somewhere out there may already have got a sniff that something’s going down.’
Nimrod raised an eyebrow. He liked violence; he didn’t like unnecessary risks involving the law.
‘Yeah? What makes you say that, then?’
‘My clients are very insistent that Mr Lucas pays for his faux pas, and if you don’t take the hit someone else will, but what I’m saying is that if you don’t want it, it’s not too late to pull out.’ The man sucked his teeth, waiting for Nimrod’s reaction.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Nimrod. ‘Cough it up. We’re here now.’
‘My sources at Stiltskin have informed us that our friend, Mr Lucas, was all set to be relocated as one James Anthony Cook. Three days later and James Cook Esquire has vanished completely from their computer records only to reappear as one Mr Bernard Fielding.’
Nimrod nodded knowingly although he hadn’t got a clue what the man was going on about, his only real experience of computers involved creaming countless hoards of screaming aliens, but he did know when to keep schtum.
The little man continued. ‘My instincts tell me this may well be a complex double-bluff to throw us off the scent. I’m still convinced that James Cook is our man. The powers-that-be have just tried to dig him in a little bit deeper, added a soupçon more camouflage. Made it a little more difficult for anyone to find him. Maybe they suspect someone is hacking into their database, maybe they suspect a leak, who knows? One thing is for sure: if they knew for certain it was us then the likelihood is we would have been pulled in by now.’ He pointed towards the envelope on Nimrod’s bed. ‘We’ve already turned up several bank transactions in Banbury for our Mr Cook. New suit, good shoes –’ He grinned and tapped his nose. ‘Don’t ever doubt that Big Brother has his eye on you, lads.’
Nimrod grimaced. He sincerely hoped not; he had kneecapped his big brother back in ’86.
Across the room Cain was flicking through the channels while delicately stirring a maraschino cherry on a cocktail stick through the froth on the top of his Advocat snowball.
‘So, you’re saying that Nick Lucas is definitely now this James Cook bloke, then?’ Cain said slowly, suddenly looking up at their undistinguished visitor. ‘You’re certain? Only it could get very messy if you’ve got it wrong.’
The man sniffed, his smile opening up like an icy fissure.
‘Yes, absolutely. His new address is in the envelope, courtesy of the bank’s computer, then there’s photos, all the usual stuff that you need. He’s holed up in a caravan site near Banbury apparently, presumably sitting tight until they find him a house. So there we have it, lads. Your mission if you choose to accept it.’
Nimrod looked at Cain. For a moment their eyes met and Cain gave a barely perceivable nod.
Nimrod picked up the money. ‘Seems like the deal is on, then,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said their contact. ‘I knew you two wouldn’t let me down.’ He paused as he got to the door. ‘Ring me when it’s all over. And don’t blow it, lads. I don’t have to tell you that my clients are very influential people. Mr Lucas is to be made an example of. We can’t have people of their calibre being screwed over by some moronic little gimp in a pinny, now can we?’
Over the years Bernie Fielding had developed a sure-fire way to get women into bed; he led them to believe that he was impotent. It always worked like a charm. A few veiled references to things not being quite right. A murmur of regret at being unable to take a relationship any further. A tender plea not to get involved because he could never give a woman what they truly wanted or needed and could only bring them heartbreak and he was in like Flynn. It seemed that a plea for understanding and consideration brought out the Florence Nightingale in them all.
Women, he had realised early on in life, loved a challenge; loved to feel that they were special, different, needed. It didn’t take very much to have them thinking that perhaps they were that special someone, the one to provide the sexual elixir that would miraculously cure him of his tragic affliction – and of course, as it turned out, they always were.
Stella Conker-eyes was proving no exception. Snuggled up beside him in a quiet corner of the lounge bar in the Lark and Buzzard, compassion was her middle name. She had delicately teased out of him the full story of his poor dead wife, wiped away a tear as he spun her a long and complicated yarn with many thoughtful pauses – which Stella took to be grief, but which were actually Bernie trying to think up something heartrendingly tragic. It was only halfway through the evening and already Bernie had successfully wiped out his wife, the family Labrador and his sex drive. Not bad going for a slow night.
And now, after four large gin and lemons and something greasy in a basket, Stella’s little leather skirt was riding higher up her thighs than Bernie thought physically possible. Her dark eyes glistened as she leant towards him, her floral perfume so strong it was making his nose run.
‘Oh, James, you poor, poor man,’ she purred, easing herself closer still so that they were sitting thigh to thigh. ‘Life really hasn’t been very kind to you at all, has it? No wonder you’re always on the move. I can understand it. It must be so hard to put down roots after everything that’s happened; you’re afraid of getting hurt all over again, aren’t you?’
Bernie sighed theatrically. ‘Not everyone sees it like that. You’re a very perceptive woman, Stella,’ he said, damp-eyed. ‘You’ve made me realise just…’ he paused for added emphasis, ‘…just how empty and pointless my life has been for the past two years.’ He let his hand rest lightly on her knee.
Stella let out a strangled throaty sob. ‘Oh, James,’ she said softly and guided his head down into the cleft between her expansive breasts.
Bernie shivered, drinking in her warmth and the scent of her skin as she held him tight against her. Shit, the way he was going he’d have her knickers off before closing time.
Meanwhile, in the Gotcha production office, now that the creative kindergarten had all gone home, Robbie Hughes was pitching his story to the show’s producer. He had waited patiently for this moment. Bernie Fielding was far too important a pearl to be cast before the rest of the Gotcha swine. Robbie was hoping, if he played it right, that his boss would let him have that magic one-off special – a whole programme devoted to the machinations of Mr Bernie Fielding. She had given him ten minutes.
‘Double glazing,’ he said, stabbing a pile of brochures with one doughy finger. ‘Conservatories, pyramid selling, security alarms, pension plans, time-share. Jesus, what more do we want? What more do we need? He’s quiet at the moment – probably regrouping, going for the big one. I think now is the perfect time to get him. Bernie Fielding has been into every money-grabbing, stitch ‘em up cowboy con trick you can think of, and more besides. The man is a real menace, a social evil, he needs putting away. We have to put him away. We’ve got complaints, affidavits, reports, letters, photographs. We’ve got all the evidence we’ll ever need to nail him.’ Robbie picked up a letter at random from the pile. ‘Eighty-year-old pensioner lost her entire life savings in one of his pyramid scams. He took her for every penny she’d got and then backed over her cat in his Jag –’
His boss leant back in her swivel chair and peered for a moment or two at her long scarlettipped fingernails. He could sense that she was deliberating; Robbie held his breath.
‘We’ve been here before Robbie so I’ll cut right to the chase. This isn’t research; it’s a personal vendetta. It’s an obsession. A hobby gone bad. I have heard this damned story dozens of times. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Robbie, but it’s old news, darling. Stale. Let’s face it, these days everyone is bored shitless by all this sort of stuff. It would be different if you could prove that this guy had actually killed somebody. Even maiming is better than nothing –’
The smell of her perfume, the odour as memorable as sulphur, permeated the entire room. She picked up her pen and pointed at the rows of hessian-covered pin-boards that dominated the office walls. Each one was a précis of a story that they were currently working up for broadcast.
‘Organs. That’s really hot at the moment. Unwashed proles being hoicked in to have their tonsils out and waking up to find someone’s whipped out a kidney. Nineteen-year-old mother of four goes in to have her appendix out, wakes up with an eye gone – emotive stuff.’
She swivelled a little further round on her chair, pen aimed at the pin-boards like the staff of Moses. ‘What have we got – toxic teddies, some guy poisoning toddlers, that’s always a good angle. Family pets into fun furs, tabby tote bags. Dodgy doctors, a nun selling smack outside an orphanage. It’s all ground-breaking stuff. Pyramids are very passé, Robbie, very passé. Does your man do organs?’
Robbie looked down and closed the bulging dossier he had on Bernie Fielding.
‘Just give me a little bit longer,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’