She leaned closer to Ryan, making her intention clear.
“I wondered whether you knew Mr Moore? We understand he lives here.”
“You mean Sweet Darwin, the scholar?” Barcode asked, showing another deep sneer.
“Yes, he’s the one. You wouldn’t be him by any chance, would you?” Lara said, even though the big, angry man looked nothing like the photos on Darwin Moore’s university ID card or his driver’s licence.
Lara didn’t want the local hooligans knowing she and Ryan had access to information they shouldn’t have.
Barcode barked out a derisory laugh. “Nah, wo-man. Do I look like I needs to go to school? Do all my learning on the streets, innit.”
“Might help you with your grammar, son,” Ryan said.
He sounded calm and conversational enough, but Lara knew better. Ryan was seething.
“You talkin’ to me, old man?” Barcode growled at Ryan, stomping nearer, growing ever closer to what, for him, would be an unexpected and intense embarrassment.
Things were deteriorating fast.
“Maybe you need to clear out your ears, son,” Ryan said, his delivery cool but uncompromising.
“Say what, you short-ass muthafucker?”
“Mind your language. There’s a lady present.”
Calmly, Ryan took three steps towards the loudmouthed fool and they faced each other, only a few metres apart.
Barcode, shaking with eye-popping, muscle-rippling anger, had a full ten centimetres of height and reach on Ryan, and maybe thirty kilos of brawn. The younger man couldn’t possibly have known it but, even with the help of the two idiots near the alley, they were still hopelessly outmatched.
“I don’t see no ‘lady’,” Barcode growled. “I see a be-atch hidin’ behind a dwarf, muthafucker.”
Ryan straightened. “Whereas there’s much to be said for maternal love, young fellow,” he said, “you need to learn some manners.”
Even though Ryan had his back to Lara, she could tell he was smiling through the words.
Barcode, wide nostrils flaring, blood vessels on his neck and temples distended, raised a warning finger in the air. “See here, old man. This here is my turf, an’ you ain’t welcome. You just found you-self a whole world o’ pain.”
Lara, a pacifist at heart, should have been terrified but, for some reason, she felt calm, confident in Ryan’s reading of the situation. He’d never overreact or knowingly lead her into danger.
Ryan shot a quick glance at her, and she shook her head as emphatically as possible. He nodded in return, the ghost of a smile stretching his mouth, before turning to face Barcode once more. He took another step closer and said something so quietly that, despite the relative silence around them, Lara couldn’t make it out. Next, Ryan dipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open. He added a few more near-silent words, and their effect on the bully were instant.
Barcode peeled back his lips into an evil grin that could have passed for a snarl, shouted, “See you later, old man!”, dipped his head, and turned away. He marched back to his posse, gathered them to him, said something low and guttural, and pushed Dylan into the darkness of the covered alley. The rest followed.
Ryan remained where he was until all three young men and the kid on the bike were lost to the shadows before breathing out.
“Interesting welcoming committee,” Ryan said, his smile now real and aimed right at her.
“What’s in the wallet, and what did you say to make him back down?”
“Tell you later. Shall we try again?” He pointed to the door behind her. “This time, knock even louder. Students can sleep through a rock concert, and it is a Saturday morning. No telling how late he was up last night, bopping.”
“Bopping?”
Ryan hiked an eyebrow and shrugged. “Or whatever the younger generation gets up to these days.”
“Oh dear, Bill Griffin’s fifty-three, not seventy,” she said quietly, before returning to the door.
Chapter 4
Saturday 18th February – Morning
Walthamstow, NE London
Kaine relaxed a little. Instead of buckling under the pressure, Lara had handled Barcode’s aggression with calmness and confidence, as he knew she would.
Her bright hazel eyes shone with intensity and, in spite of her dowdy disguise, the woman oozed pure class. Lara Orchard was, and always would be, way out of his league. Anyone who said he was punching above his weight couldn’t have been more accurate. She was, without doubt, far more than he could ever have hoped for in a life partner.
Had they met in a different life, she probably wouldn’t have spared him a second glance. On the other hand, if he hadn’t exploded into her life and taken her away for her own safety, they would never have met in the first place.
Kaine nodded his encouragement.
“On you go.”
She leaned forwards, rapped on the weathered door with her gloved fist for the third time, and waited.
They stood back from the door and turned towards each other.
God, she was so beautiful. Kaine swallowed hard. To think of the trouble he’d dragged her into. He needed to put things right. But if he did that, if he closed the loop, proved his innocence, and removed the bounty on their heads, he’d probably lose her forever. He’d argued the point with himself and with Rollo ever since taking Lara to the relative safety of the villa. Even if he published the evidence to prove his innocence, it wouldn’t automatically mean the evil men would cancel the contract on their lives. It wouldn’t necessarily guarantee Lara’s safety, either. He’d made enough enemies in his life, and there were plenty of evil men in the world who’d be happy to use Lara to get to him.
At least that was what he told himself. It was how he justified his reluctance to go live with the evidence. But, deep down, he knew different.
Ryan Kaine, you are a selfish bastard.
Beneath his old-fashioned cloth cap—chosen to age him at least ten years—his hair flapped in the wind, fluttering against his ears and the back of his neck.
“Bill, we need to think about getting you a haircut, or a comb,” she said, still playing the wife to the hilt.
She didn’t mean it, about the hair. In the quiet safety of the villa, she’d complimented him on the unkempt style many times and, in intimate moments, would often run her fingers through it.
He coughed to clear his throat and the memory.
Concentrate, Ryan. This is work.
Though they faced a low-risk meeting, there were always potential dangers, as the run-in with Barcode had shown. On top of everything else, he could be recognised at any time, and then they’d be in real strife.
For the whole of his adult life, Kaine had kept his scrambled hair military short—number four on top, number two on the sides—but since his fall from grace, he’d been forced to let it grow long and woolly. The colour of aged molasses flecked with salt, it currently matched the full beard for colour and scruffiness. On the rare occasion he glanced in the shaving mirror these days, he barely recognised the aging, whiskered face staring back at him, which was, of course, the whole point. The occasional but judicial use of coloured contact lenses, or glasses with non-prescription lenses, helped him keep under the radar during his brief but regular trips in the field, which was fine by him.
The beard had taken months to bed in enough to stop driving him nuts, but his hair had recently grown over his ears and he’d discovered a new annoyance and new decisions to make. Should he comb it back, or let it fall where it pleased?
“You’re dead right, Beth,” he answered, then lowered his voice to little more than a murmur. “Given the chance, I’d hack off this mop in a heartbeat. I look like a ruddy vagrant.”
“Nonsense. You’re rather distinguished. I really like the soft look. Much less the military officer.”
He frowned, adding a grunt for good measure.
Lara shook her head, said, “Let’s give this one more go, shal
l we?” and hammered on the door again.
A muffled, “Hang on a second. Be right with you,” from deep inside the house made Kaine stand to attention.
Game on.
“Finally, we appear to have woken the dead.”
Footsteps thumped loud on stairs with bare treads. The noise echoed off walls and bounced around behind the front door, indicating an open space with no carpet.
A chain rattled, a lock snapped, and the door screeched open to reveal a slightly built, and clean-shaven man of mixed race. Horn-rimmed glasses, corrected for short-sightedness, partially hid a narrow face beneath a tightly cropped head of jet black hair. Despite the evident rudeness of his awakening, the man was smart-looking and presentable.
Intelligent brown eyes behind the glasses narrowed as the young man studied first Lara, then Kaine, and finally fixed back on Lara again.
Apparently satisfied they were neither a danger nor Jehovah’s Witnesses, Darwin Moore opened the door fully and stood back.
As expected from the hollow echo of shoes on wooden treads, the floorboards were bare, the hallway empty of furniture, and the walls partially stripped of paper. The place looked prepped and almost ready for redecoration, but the build-up of dust in the corners and the cobwebs on the ceiling suggested it had been ready for months.
“Can I help you?” the young man asked, his accent nondescript, and his tone educated.
“Mr Moore, Darwin Moore?” Lara asked, offering a professional smile. She showed him a badge identifying her as an official of The 83 Trust, a charity with very little public profile, but millions of euros at its disposal. “I’m Dr Elizabeth Griffin, and this is my husband, Bill. We represent—”
“Sorry, Dr Griffin,” the young man interrupted, raising the hand that wasn’t holding onto the edge of the door, “I’m a student. As you can see”—he waved the hand in an arc behind him and stood sideways on to let them see—“I’m a little strapped for cash right now. Can’t really offer a donation, but I wish you well in your endeavours. Now, if you’ll please excuse me …” He offered an apologetic smile and started to close the door.
“No, Mr Moore,” she said, continuing to hold up the ID badge, “we’re not looking for donations. Exactly the opposite, in fact. May we come in, please? It won’t take us long to explain, but we’d rather not do it outside in the street. We have some confidential matters to discuss and the neighbours don’t appear too friendly.”
“Neighbours?”
“Yes,” Ryan said, leaning forwards. “An unpleasant young man going by the rather colourful handle of Barcode.”
Darwin’s pained expression told Kaine their target had crossed swords with the thug in question.
“Oh,” he said, simply. “Best to steer clear of him and his friends. Not a pleasant bunch.” His gaze lowered to take in the damage to the lower panel of his front door.
“Might we come in?” Lara repeated, more insistent.
Darwin shook his head. “No thanks. Whatever you’re offering, I can’t use. Now, I have some coursework to do. Big assignment next week, you understand. Thanks, but—”
“We’re here because of what happened to your mother, Elise.”
The door opened fully again. Darwin stood in the doorway, feet apart, one hand still holding tight to the inside handle, the other clenched into a fist.
“What about my mother?”
“She was one of the unfortunate victims of Flight BE1555, yes?”
The young man raised his head and nodded.
“Yes,” he answered, barely loud enough for Kaine to hear.
“A terrible thing. We are really dreadfully sorry for your loss, Mr Moore,” Lara continued, professional but gentle.
Darwin’s jaw muscles tensed. “That bastard, Ryan Kaine, murdered my mother months ago. And I’ve since lost my Pops. Leave me alone, will you?”
Kaine swallowed. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the accusation, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Every time someone said something similar, his guts churned, but he couldn’t argue the matter. His finger had been on the trigger of the rocket launcher. To Kaine’s undying shame, he did end eighty-three innocent lives. One of them, Elise Moore, Darwin’s mother, and Glenmore Davits’ daughter.
“Mr Moore,” Lara continued, “we understand your position, but … the charity we represent was formed to offer its support to the families of the victims. Support in any way we can. Financial …”
She let the word hang in the air. Usually, the mention of financial support was the equivalent of “Open Sesame” to the people they talked to on a regular basis.
“Not interested.” Again, the door started to swing shut.
“Last month, we contacted your grandfather, by letter. Did he tell you?”
The door stopped moving. She’d finally piqued Darwin’s interest. His eyes narrowed again, this time, in suspicion.
“No. What did the letter say?”
Lara patted the handbag hanging by a strap from her shoulder.
“I have a copy in here, Mr Moore. May we come in, please? I promise you, this won’t take long.”
Darwin read the time on his wristwatch, an old-fashioned wind-up analogue with a steel case and scratched glass. A family heirloom, inherited from his grandfather perhaps. He stepped aside and pointed them along the hallway.
“Okay, then. You’d better come in. Keep your coats on though. The central heating hasn’t kicked in yet.”
Chapter 5
Saturday 18th February – Lara Orchard
Walthamstow, NE London
Darwin Moore led Lara and Ryan part way along a narrow, poorly lit, and chilly corridor, into a cramped and even colder front room.
“Please sit,” Darwin said, pointing to the two-seater sofa situated in the bay window that was facing the street.
Ryan wouldn’t have felt comfortable with his back to a window, and she wondered whether he’d be able to stay deep enough in character to overcome the reluctance.
Darwin bent at the knees and threw the switch at the side of an old-fashioned, three-bar electric heater. Nothing happened until he knocked the side above the switch, and the lower bar started to glimmer. The young man held his open hands to the weak red glow.
“Blooming thing’s a little temperamental, I’m afraid,” he said, embarrassment clear in his voice. “I tend not to use this this room in the winter.”
Shivering against the chill but trying to hide it, Lara perched on the front edge of a sofa that had seen much better days. Some of its seams had split, and the leather was cracked and worn thin with use. The breath condensed around her head in much the same way as it had done outside.
As expected, Ryan crossed to the window and peered through the net curtains, which would once have been white, but had yellowed over time. While Lara and Darwin studied each other in silence, Ryan stood, stiff and alert for a full thirty seconds before relaxing and turning to face the room.
“That was … interesting,” Ryan said. He chose an uncomfortable dining chair, whose slightly elevated position enabled him to see both Lara and Darwin, who had dropped into the only other upholstered chair in the room—a single wing-back. From his post, Ryan could also take in the view through the window. “You clearly know that young … fellow, Barcode?”
“He stepped into your business?” Darwin asked, his voice rising in pitch.
Ryan tilted his head to one side. “He tried to.”
“You faced him down?” he added, surprise showing on his youthful face.
“Couldn’t simply stand by and listen to him insulting my wife. To be honest, I was really rather terrified.”
Ryan lowered his head, trying to make himself appear as worried as he professed. Lara wasn’t buying it, but people who didn’t know him, people unaware of his skills, might easily have been taken in. Foolish people regularly mistook Ryan’s average height and slim build for an absence of physical prowess. If they pushed him too far the wrong way, those same people were often made t
o regret their stupidity and their mistakes.
Ryan was slow to anger but implacable in his reaction to bullies.
The frown lines on Darwin’s brow deepened. “I can’t see any bruises on you. How did you make him back down?”
“Nothing I’m proud of.”
“Is it a secret?”
Ryan studied the nails on his left hand and whistled silently, a study in nonchalance. “I simply asked him to reconsider the error of his ways, and …”
“And?” Lara asked, desperate to know how he’d sent the bully packing without resorting to violence.
“…showed him my passport card.”
“You did what?” Lara demanded, sitting up straight.
Ryan took out his wallet and flipped it open to the clear plastic window to reveal a perfect—and valid—Irish passport card. His photo graced the left-hand panel, and the official harp hologram stood out clear on the right. Ryan’s index finger held the wallet open, “accidentally” covering the Éire/Ireland/Irlande script along its upper edge.
“You scared him off with a passport?” Darwin asked, his frown deepening ever further.
“Well,” Ryan said, wincing a little, “I did tell him I was a member of the National Crime Agency, investigating gang crime in Walthamstow. I also asked him if he’d like to accompany me to Scotland Yard to answer a few questions.”
After a silence long enough for Ryan to return the wallet to his pocket, a high-pitched and infectious belly-laugh erupted from Darwin’s throat. “You scared off Barcode with a passport? Ha! That bugger’s vicious, but I didn’t think he was dumber than mud. Who’d have thought he’d fall for that?”
“Well, I, er … imagine he’d have recognised a standard police warrant card. No doubt having seen a few in his time. Which is why I opted for the National Crime Agency. They tend to keep a lower profile than the Old Bill. I didn’t think he’d have much of an idea what their IDs look like.”
On the Money Page 5
