Chapter Twenty-One
Joe had expected a sports car, but he should have known that when Alejandro had said he could borrow a car from his family, it’d be a Range Rover. There on the headrests were the royal crests and the radio, before Alejandro replaced it with his Fierce Mix, blared out the dulcet tones of Radio 4. It was a solid, sensible sort of vehicle, far more sensible than Alejandro’s driving turned out to be.
This’ll be an interesting trip.
The sleet began to fall before they had left London. Joe turned up the heating.
“I’ll drive, if you need a break,” Joe offered.
“I love to drive!” Alejandro assured him, drumming his hands on the wheel in time to whatever pop princess he was subjecting them to. “I’m a good driver, don’t you think? Better than Mamá!”
Joe recalled the lurching gait of the duchess’ driving—the sudden accelerations, the even more sudden braking, the very loud opera on the stereo. “Yes, yes, you are a better driver than your mum.”
“What shall we be for New Year, Osito?” He reached down into the console, blindly fishing into the bag of chocolate buttons that was stowed there. “I’ve brought my makeup, we can practise!”
“We could be matching! What do you think? You know those black and white clowns. Pierrots, we could go as them. Zombie Pierrots.”
“Black and white?” Alejandro frowned, as though the concept were utterly alien to him. “As in, no primary colours and sparkle? With a body like yours, you don’t want to flash some skin?”
“It’s New Year’s. Won’t I get cold?” Joe raised an eyebrow. “Wait, I’ve got it. Bond and a Bond girl? But…Zombie Bond? Could that work?”
“It could, if you like that idea? No skin but a tux instead.” Alejandro grinned. “I’ll do the skin, drag queens can’t feel the cold through all the layers of paint.”
“Or if you want some bare skin, could you paint a tux onto me?” Joe shook his head. “Best not, though, if Princess Vicky is going to be there. Although I don’t have the Taser to hide under my jacket anymore.”
“I love the Bond idea but who has zombies for New Year?” He tutted, grabbing another handful of buttons. “We’ll be the most glam zombies ever, Osito, you and me!”
“I should expect nothing less.” Joe gripped onto the handle above his seat as the car bumped along the road. His phone started to ring in his pocket. At least it wasn’t The Flight of the Bumblebee, so Joe took the call. “Hello there, Commander Holloway!”
“Good morning, Sergeant. How fare the travellers?”
“Very well,” Joe replied. “It’s so nice to leave London. I was beginning to forget what fields look like! And the sleet’s turning into snow here. What’s up?”
“I have a few bits of news, none of it bad.” Patrick was silenced as Alejandro slammed his hand onto the car horn as they pulled round a slow-moving vehicle, a string of apparently good-natured Spanish pouring from his lips. “Are you able to talk, Joe? Sounds rather…frenetic.”
“We’re fine, we’re just heading out along the M2. Currently overtaking a caravan.”
“Escaping all the news, eh? Rather disconcerting to see flashback photos of one’s bloodied body being carried out on a stretcher over one’s morning cuppa,” Patrick told him jovially. Yet it must hurt, Joe knew, to have the explosion that had left him broken suddenly front-page news again. ‘Brothers in Terror’, screamed the headlines, ‘Family of Fanatics’, and he and Alejandro were escaping it. Patrick didn’t have that choice. For now, at least, he was still the commander.
“It’ll do Mr Fuente the world of good to get out of London,” Joe said. Even the freedom of driving down a motorway in the snow seemed to have filled Alejandro with cheer. “Is there any news on Mr Smythe-Unwin, by the way?”
“That’s the main reason for my call. Our uniformed colleagues are looking at breaking and entering and assault for the Highgate attack. I’m afraid we couldn’t get a bite on the incident at your address.” Patrick was silent for a moment, then went on. “The CPS is chewing over blackmail as we speak. Sorry business, all told. Sorry indeed.”
“There were no prints from the break-in at my house? I suppose if there’d even been one solitary hair, the sort of barrister his family can afford would topple the whole case over and say I accidentally carried it into the house on my trousers.” Joe sighed. “Look, I don’t know how much weight this has, but Mr Fuente and I have been talking about him, and we were saying… Mr Smythe-Unwin needs medical help. He needs rehab. It’s the drugs he shoves up his nose that make him do what he does.”
From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Alejandro nodding his agreement. He leaned across, his eyes just on the road as he called into the phone, “We don’t need to have some sort of revenge on him. He needs help.”
Joe heard Patrick’s answering sigh across the miles. “Really, Joe? Did we train for all those years to give his sort the proverbial clip round the ear and send them off to rehab?”
“You didn’t see him like I did, when he hit me with that chair. He was a total mess, and it was the drugs that did it,” Joe said as he rested his hand on Alejandro’s knee. “I wouldn’t be surprised that if he had rehab, he’d have the time to really think about why he even does all those drugs to start with. You don’t turn into a bully like that without something going wrong in your childhood.”
“All I can ask is that you leave it with me. He’s been bailed and is happily ensconced with Ma and Pa in Richmond as we speak. The other piece of news concerns you and the erstwhile Peanut.”
Joe stared straight ahead at the snow swirling and gusting across the motorway. He hasn’t found out, has he?
“What’s that, sir?”
“Security on Peanut is to be scaled back over the next few weeks. You’ll be fully briefed when you get back to London, but as long as we have no unforeseen disasters, you’ll be working with a new principal by February. I know this goes against Ironclad’s well-publicised feelings regarding the rotation of officers but it’s out of my hands. We can only do what the politicians tell us.”
February.
Joe would need to give four weeks’ notice. He could write his letter of resignation on the way to Mel’s New Year’s Eve party.
“And Peanut won’t have a CPO after I’m reassigned?” Joe swallowed. He offered Alejandro a smile. Alejandro glanced at him, his eyes growing wide.
“The girls in line to the throne don’t—just ask their furious father,” Patrick told him lightly. “Peanut won’t have a CPO, and I’m rather pleased to say that we don’t think he’ll need one now this sorry episode is concluded.”
“I hope he’ll be safe too.” I know he will be. “No more threats being made against him, everything appears to be fairly normal again. Or at least, as normal as it gets around Mr Fuente!”
“And I have it on good authority, though you didn’t hear it from me, that you’re in line for a bit of a promotion up the ranks.” Patrick laughed softly. “Not quite the top job yet, but give it a decade or so and you’ll be sitting in my old chair!”
Well done, Sergeant Wenlock!
“Actually, when I’m back in London again, Commander, I’d like to meet up with you and have a chat. About my career. If that would be okay?”
“Of course! I flatter myself I can still pull a few strings, Sergeant. Now forget us slogging away in the smoke and enjoy the sea air. Goodbye, Joe.”
“Bye, Patrick!” Joe ended the call and turned to Alejandro. “No more CPO for you after February. You’ll just have your very own ex-CPO looking after you.”
“Will they really let you?” Alejandro chanced another glance before he put his gaze on the motorway again.
“I can do whatever I like, more or less, once I’ve resigned.” Joe couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the thought. It was what he’d been raised to do, after all. His father would’ve been so proud at the thought of him being promoted, but he couldn’t walk that path anymore. He had to find his own way in the w
orld. “We’ll be at the cottage soon, won’t we? Can’t wait to get settled in.”
“Do you really want that? A new start with a shrill queen?”
“We’d never see each other if I carried on as a CPO. You’ve seen the kind of hours I work. And I want to be with you. I want to do this properly.” Joe gently squeezed Alejandro’s knee.
“Will you still be a copper?” Alejandro slowed a little, the snow falling onto the windscreen in fat, white flakes as he did. “Or do you fancy something else? Butch drag maybe?”
“Me, a drag queen?” Joe laughed. “I really don’t know what I’ll do. Retrain as a swimming instructor? Could set up as a private investigator, maybe.”
“Saving the day for damsels in distress like me?” Alejandro laughed. “Honestly, Osito, if you heard some of the things my friends tell me, things people get away with because not everyone wants to involve the police.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Joe’s thoughts returned to Zak’s blackmailing attempts. Carefully, he said, “By the way, Commander Holloway told me that Zak’s been bailed. He’s with his parents. I thought you should know.”
Alejandro absorbed that in uncharacteristic silence, concentrating his gaze on the thickening snow. For a few minutes the only sound was that of the music then he said, “I don’t believe he’s truly bad. He’s just unwell.”
“I know.” Joe nodded. “And if he ends up in a prison where people are smuggling in crap like Spice and Black Mamba, he won’t get better, will he?”
“If I can help him, I will.” He reached across to pat Joe’s thigh then drove on in silence a little longer. By the time they left the motorway the snow was thicker than ever, settling undisturbed on the world around them. Even Alejandro was forced to slow down further, and when he silenced his music, Joe knew that the weather must be really bad. Alejandro without a soundtrack of thumping pop seemed akin to receiving a tornado warning.
Joe peered at the satnav. “It’s not too far to go now, is it?”
A cottage with a view of the sea. It’d be very different from anywhere he’d stayed before as a CPO.
It was another half an hour through increasingly winding, snow-covered roads where no vehicle tracks disturbed the cold, white blanket before the Range Rover finally cruised onto a narrow track and there, emerging through the flurries, was their cottage. Its white walls emerged from the snow like something travelling through time, the gentle lamplight within and the crooked red door as welcoming as a beacon in a storm. Their unassuming sanctuary.
A place to just be.
They settled in at once, with their wood-burning stove providing a cosy centre for their temporary home. While Alejandro practised makeup ideas for Mel’s party, Joe spent time wondering about his new career. If he was going to be a private investigator, he’d need to know what he had to do to act within the law. But it sounded promising, as Alejandro had told him stories about his friends who could do with a man like him to help them out of situations that they couldn’t resolve by any other means.
Delicate blackmail situations, compromising texts and emails, and powerful men and women who showed a friendly face to the public but a far more sinister aspect in private. Joe knew full well that the work could be dangerous, but he knew very well that continuing as a CPO had significant risks too.
And as he watched Alejandro work, Joe wondered if he would be a private investigator on his own. He was in love with a master makeup artist who could come up with all manner of disguises.
Perhaps between them, they could be Sherlock and Watson, with a hefty dose of drag thrown in.
Safe in their snowy hideaway, the threats they had once faced seemed almost unthinkable. How could that peaceful landscape, a Christmas-card made real, contain anything that could do harm?
Joe was losing track of time. Had they been there two days or three? He wasn’t sure. But he hadn’t felt so rested in a long while. Or so sure of what his future held.
Then someone knocked at the door.
“Are you expecting anyone, Alejo?” Joe asked. He checked his phone, but there was nothing from Control to say that they were sending a visitor. “It’s not a delivery driver, is it? Not this late?”
“I didn’t hear a car.” Alejandro was on his feet, his voice trembling. “Maybe it’s someone to welcome us, now the snow’s stopped?”
The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. Joe put his tablet on the sofa. “I’ll get it.”
He kissed the top of Alejandro’s head as he went to the front door.
There was no chain, no spyhole. But Joe reminded himself that Leviticus was ashes in a burnt-out studio now. It was probably a local who’d seen the crests on the Range Rover’s headrests and wanted to see which of Abuelita’s clan had come to stay.
Joe slowly opened the door a crack, using his body to block it from opening farther.
What the hell?
“That’s not very welcoming, is it?” Zak’s voice unspooled a coil of fear in Joe’s stomach. He sounded high again, his face red and his eyes bloodshot.
“Just happened to be passing, did you?”
“Let me in! It’s fucking cold out here!”
Joe looked over Zak’s shoulder into the dark lane outside. There was nothing but snow, sparkling in the light thrown from the open front door. Bearing in mind that when Joe had last seen Zak, he’d just beaten him over the head with a chair, Joe was all for sending him packing. But the man was ill. He knew full well that people on coke did strange things. He’d probably walked all the way here from the nearest railway station. And besides, Zak was on bail. It wouldn’t go down well if he’d taken himself off on a jolly. Joe could at least get him inside and send for a police car to collect him.
Joe stepped aside. “Come on in, Mr Smythe-Unwin. Bet you’d like a warm drink after being out in the cold.” He called over his shoulder to Alejandro. It took an effort to use his official name. “Mr Fuente? It’s…erm…Mr Smythe-Unwin.”
Zak went past Joe, through the slatted wooden door into the lounge beyond. The stove was on, the lights were low. It must’ve looked so inviting after being outside.
“Al?” Zak held out his hand to shake. Joe wondered if he was seeing things. Alejandro looked as though he had been presented with a ghost, and for a few seconds he shrank back towards the paints and make-up he’d spread out across the newspaper-covered coffee table. Then he held out his hand and approached, like a man approaching a coiled snake.
“You must be freezing, Zak.” Alejandro took his hand. “Do you want a lovely hot cup of tea?”
Zak shook. Clumsily. Like he wasn’t used to shaking hands. As if—
The gun came out of nowhere, aimed for Alejandro’s head. Everything went in slow motion as Joe strode across the room.
Why the hell didn’t I pat him down? Idiot!
“Put your weapon d—”
Zak whacked the gun across Alejandro’s head before Joe could reach him, then the gun turned on him. Alejandro crumpled to the floor, falling heavily against the table as he went down.
“Zak, put it—”
The gun went off, and Joe fell to the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Shhh.”
Joe blinked. What had happened? He felt as though he’d been kicked in the ribs by a cart-horse. As Joe saw Alejandro leaning over him, his face streaked with tears and a purple bruise colouring his forehead, everything came thundering back. Zak had shot him. Alejandro held up a bloodstained finger to his own lips then leaned down to kiss Joe’s forehead. He pressed his lips to Joe’s ear and whispered, “He’s talking to somebody on the phone.”
Alejandro’s hand was covered in blood, he realised with a start. Where the hell was it coming from?
“He’s fucking well—” Shot me. Joe couldn’t speak. The pain in his chest was so intense that he had to dare himself to breathe.
He should never have let Zak in. But how the hell could Joe have known he’d have a gun?
Unless one of hi
s plastic gangster mates might not have been quite so plastic after all.
“The bullet hit your vest,” Alejandro whispered urgently. “He’s locked us in here. He said Leviticus drove him here, Joe, and is going to sort me out now you’re out of the way! I’ve got a plan though.”
The blood was coming from Alejandro, Joe realised, but not from his veins.
Why does Alejandro have a willow-pattern teacup full of blood?
“You know I—” Joe hissed in a mouthful of pain, but was determined to speak. If a charred corpse could drive a car, then he could crack a joke. “I won’t make a convincing woman!”
“No, but you’ll make a convincing dead man.” Alejandro dabbed his finger into the cup, then drew a line of blood down from the corner of Joe’s mouth. “Zak said a man met him from the police station, that he made contact because he wanted to help and called himself Leviticus. He’s fed him God knows what drugs, Joe!” Alejandro glanced back to the door, where Zak’s voice could be heard, indistinct. “He thinks you’re dead, so I’m doing my best to make you look it. I need you to just lay here and get your strength back because when Leviticus, whoever he turns out to be, gets here, I need you to get the jump on him if I go for him from the front. Have you got your Mace?”
“It’s in my coat.” Joe hungrily sucked in a lungful of air as if he were drowning. Everything inside him felt broken. “Up-fucking-stairs.”
“I think you’ve broken a rib. I did it once with a corset, it hurts like hell but you’ll live,” Alejandro whispered urgently, looking to the door again. “I don’t know how long we’ve got.” He scrambled to his feet and crossed to the hearth, where he picked up a fire poker. Then he came back to Joe, slipping the poker between his arm and the carpet. “That’ll do as a weapon, yes? You can’t move, Joe, not if they can see you. Wait until I go for it, okay? Please, Osito, I know it hurts, but… Us being dead is going to hurt a lot more, right?”
The Reluctant Royal Page 29
