Читать книгу All Fall Down - Mark Edwards, Mark Edwards - Страница 15

Paul watched the car containing Kate and Agent McCarthy retreat into the distance. He clenched his fists, kept his breathing slow and deliberate, and counted to ten in his head. The BMW he and Harley were in started its own slow crawl out of the airfield, and Paul thought he would snap if Harley tried to speak to him now.

The last couple of years, this anger was something he had to deal with whenever he was under pressure. His therapist, the same woman who talked to him about the bad dreams that soaked his sheets at night, had taught him a number of anger management techniques. Breathe deeply. Count. Remove yourself from the situation.

Paul exhaled through slightly parted lips, closed his eyes for a moment, and regained his composure. He did not like this new, bitter, person he seemed to have turned into. Often, he wished he could turn back the clock to become once again the man he was when he first met Kate, before the discovery of what had happened to Stephen had knocked his world off its axis. His faith in humanity had been badly damaged and he wanted to regain it, to see the good in people again.

He wanted to find peace – so he could move on, be the man he was meant to be, a supportive, dynamic partner, a great stepdad, and maybe a dad too, if Kate was up for it. But it was hard for him to get close to that peace when some of the men who were connected to Stephen’s death were still free.

Finally, when his heartbeat had returned to a steady pace, he turned to Harley. ‘Where are we going?’

‘First thing tomorrow we’re heading to the field office in San Francisco,’ Harley replied. ‘Once we’re there, we’ll find somewhere to put you up while you wait for Kate. Or you can return to the UK, if you prefer.’

‘No way. I’m staying right here till she’s done.’

‘OK. But you realise you could have a long wait?’

Paul felt the anger coming straight back again. Fucking Harley. He had never met anyone who was able to wind him up so easily. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Harley shrugged. ‘It’s your choice. Anyway, it’s been a long day. We’re going to check in to a motel and rest up till the morning.’

‘Whatever,’ Paul replied, giving the floor once again to his inner teenager. Turning to the dusky landscape rolling by the window, he began counting to ten again.

Agent DiFranco pulled up by a motel on the west side of Bakersfield. Despite the hour, it was still stiflingly hot. Paul was desperate for a shower, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. Harley was right; it had been a long, long day.

The motel clerk, a skinny brunette with her hair piled up on her head and a tattoo of a panther on her upper arm, checked them in to three rooms.

‘Y’all from England?’ she asked on hearing Harley and Paul’s accents. ‘Do you know Radiohead?’

‘Not personally,’ Harley replied drily.

Paul caught her eye, shooting her a look that said, ‘Yeah, this guy’s a jerk,’ and she smiled at him, revealing a gap in her teeth you could drive a motorbike through. She handed each of them a key and told them their room numbers. Paul and Harley were in adjacent rooms; DiFranco a few doors down.

‘Cellphone reception is lousy in the rooms,’ she said, ‘but we got wi-fi if you need it.’

‘Great,’ said Paul, drawing another smile from the receptionist. She reminded him a little of poor Amy Winehouse.

‘I don’t think we’ll be needing that,’ Harley said. DiFranco snickered, for no good reason Paul could tell. When the receptionist turned to get their keys, Paul saw DiFranco take a good, long look at her behind, actually tilting his head to one side. Creep.

As Paul unlocked his room, he heard DiFranco say to Harley, ‘Hey, we should have a talk.’ He kept the door open a crack and listened, hoping he might catch something they said, but they had moved out of earshot.

He stripped and showered, then took a clean T-shirt and pair of boxers out of his suitcase. The room was like the inside of a car that had been parked in the sun all day; dog-killing weather. He examined the air-con unit and concluded that it was a piece of junk. A great weariness washed over him. He didn’t have the energy to complain or ask for another room.

Instead, he opened the window, which gave a view of a row of cars and the freeway beyond, and lay down on the creaky bed. He picked up his iPhone, wanting to call or at least text Kate. The receptionist was right: he had half a bar of signal that flickered on and off; he sent a text telling Kate he loved her, was sorry about earlier and would call her in the morning. He added four kisses.

He closed his eyes. He’d slept in worse places – prison, for one.

When he next opened his eyes it was dark. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. A crap motel,

a long way from home. Alone.

He could hear someone talking outside the window. He rolled on to his side and groped for his phone to check the time. Half past midnight. He crept to the window and stood behind the curtain. The voice outside belonged to Harley. After a moment, when he couldn’t hear another voice, Paul realised Harley was on the phone, obviously forced outside by the poor mobile reception.

He pressed his face to the glass. Harley was standing by their car, his back to Paul, who could make out the odd word. ‘Report … spreading fast … Bakersfield …’

Paul quickly pulled a chair across the room and stood on it so he could listen through the open window, his body concealed by the curtain and the darkness inside the room. If he really strained he found he could hear almost everything.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ Harley went on. ‘No, I’m heading back to San Francisco in the morning. I’ve

got Paul Wilson with me. Yeah, yeah … I know.’ He laughed. Paul didn’t think the person on the other end of the phone was praising his good qualities. What was that expression about people who eavesdrop never hearing good things about themselves? ‘Thankfully, Kate Maddox is a lot more cooperative. Yeah, I know – I had to tell her a white lie to get her to agree.’

Paul got that feeling you get in your stomach when you go over a bump in the road. His suspicions were right: Harley couldn’t be trusted.

The MI6 man went on: ‘Yeah, Wilson is obsessed with what happened to his brother, Stephen. The guy that Gaunt was …’

To Paul’s great frustration, Harley began to wander away, his voice growing quieter until he couldn’t hear it any more. He slapped the wall with frustration.

Hearing Harley talk about Stephen in such a dismissive fashion enraged him, especially when Harley knew all too well what had happened, and why Paul found it hard to let go. There were still people out there who had been involved in Stephen’s death. Or rather, one man. Charles Mangold.

And then it came to Paul what he should do.

He wasn’t going to allow Harley to take him to San Francisco. Because now, for the first time, he had a chance to avenge his brother’s death – and maybe find the inner peace he craved.