She slipped out of her bathrobe, hung it on the back of the door and pulled her old T-shirt over her head. As she stepped under the warm water, her mind was already racing. There had to be a way to get her dissertation done in her own way. She just needed to use her imagination. And she was good at that. She was a problem-solver, a creative thinker. She reached for the shampoo and was already massaging it into her hair when she remembered she hadn’t meant to wash it at all. “Oh hell,” she muttered. But she couldn’t’ stop now. She’d have to dry it and brush it, too.
A knock at the door. “Are you nearly finished in there?”
“I won’t be long,” Cally called. She started rinsing the shampoo away. If she skipped the conditioner she’d be ready in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
***
Gemma was waiting for her in the kitchen. “Come on Your Ladyship,” she said. “I thought you wanted to get going.”
Cally smiled. She put on a posh voice. “One must always choose one’s clothes carefully when attending an act of civil disorder.”
“Yeah,” Gemma said. She extended her leg to show a bright red boot. “These may look like Doc Martens, but actually they’re from the La Croix Urban Riot collection.” She laughed and jumped to her feet. “Come on. We don’t want to miss the champagne and caviar.”
As they left the house, Cally took deep breaths of cool morning air. The street was quiet. Most houses still had all their curtains closed. The area was popular with students and the Saturday morning lie-in was a god-given right. As they walked along the street, Cally enjoyed the peace. I must do this more often, she thought. A morning walk would set her up for the rest of the day. Maybe she could even go for a run. She smiled to herself. No. That was going a bit far.
Gemma linked arms with her. “So, how does it feel to be a member of the awkward squad?”
Cally nodded. “Yeah. Good. It feels good.”
“That’s my girl.” Gemma grinned. A green bus trundled past them and Gemma let go of Cally’s arm. “That’s our bus. Come on, we might just make it.” She broke into a jog.
Cally chuckled and hurried after her. So she was going for a run after all.
For once, the bus driver was kind enough to see them running and wait for them. As they showed their passes, Cally made sure to give the man a smile. The seats were all taken, so they stood, holding onto the handrails, swaying as the bus lurched into motion.
Gemma smirked and nodded toward the driver. “I think you’ve made a friend there.”
“Oh please,” Cally said. “He’s probably about fifty.”
“Yeah, but think of the perks. Show him a good time and he’ll show you the world—well, as far as the ring road anyway.”
Cally laughed. “You’re wasted in law. You should be on the stage.”
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “The seedy characters, the high drama, the strange men in wigs—just three reasons why I chose law.”
Cally cracked up and snorted with laughter. A few of the passengers glanced at her and frowned wearily. One middle-aged man smiled at Cally until his wife noticed and nudged him in the ribs. Cally turned to face the window. She had to look away from Gemma’s impish grin, or she’d burst out laughing again. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and watched the Saturday morning traffic crawl past. As the bus swung into a bus lane, a huge, black four-wheel drive car pulled up alongside. It was a Range Rover or a BMW, or something like that. A gas-guzzler. She hated them. What did they call them? That was it: Chelsea Tractors. This one even had the windows tinted black so you couldn’t see into it at all. Who did these people think they were? Cally shook her head. The bus lane branched away from the road and they left the car behind, stuck in a long queue of stationary traffic. Serves him right, Cally thought. He should’ve taken the bus.
Cally looked back at Gemma, but her friend was busy with her phone, tapping out a text message with her thumb. She watched her for a moment. Gemma was so together, so certain of everything she did. Cally had never really spent much time alone with Gemma. She’d always found her a bit brash. But now, she couldn’t help but admire her friend’s self-confidence. I should make more of an effort—get her know her better. Cally smiled to herself. Yes. Today would be good. She was certain of it.
“I should’ve taken the bus,” Andrew muttered. He checked the satnav for the fifteenth time then sat back and stared at the line of motionless traffic that stretched out in front of him for as far as he could see. He splayed his fingers out on the steering wheel and drummed a rapid rhythm on the faux leather. He’d woken up at the crack of dawn so he could get to Exeter in time to see the subject leave the house, and everything had gone according to plan. But his attempt to tail the bus from the comfort of his Range Rover was a miserable failure. He hadn’t considered the bus lanes and now the bus would easily beat him to the city centre.
He twisted in his seat and scanned the road behind him. If he drove in the bus lane would he get away with it? No. There were enforcement cameras. This was supposed to be covert surveillance and the Range Rover was a departmental car. It wouldn’t look too good if he was issued with a ticket on his first operation.
“Damn it.” He thumped the steering wheel with his palms. I shouldn’t be here—I’m not a field agent. But Crawford had insisted: Andrew was to follow the girl personally. Of course, there’d been no explanation—that wasn’t Crawford’s style—and Andrew had known better than to ask questions. If you wanted to get on in the office, you put your fears aside and did as you were told, or you sat safe in your cubicle and became part of the furniture. Now, Andrew wondered if he’d made the right choice.
“Come on,” he told himself. “You hate that bloody cubicle.” He took a breath and blew it out. You can do this. He nodded to himself. He’d just had a bad start, that was all. He could recover the situation easily enough. He still knew exactly where she was headed and he’d find her among the protesters somehow. After all, this wasn’t London—there probably wouldn’t be more than a few hundred people on the march. How hard could it be?
The traffic lights changed to green and the cars in front of him moved on. Andrew eased the Range Rover forward, enjoying the purr of the engine, the sense of restrained power. At least he got to drive this beast for a day, so the task was not without its rewards. He reached out and adjusted the climate control. A gentle stream of cooled air flowed around him and he breathed deeply. The hairs on his arms stood to attention. “Oh yes,” he said. “I could get used to this.”
The car was a definite perk, but not all of the equipment he’d been given was so glamorous. He glanced down at the passenger seat. The small rucksack contained what Crawford had called a standard extraction kit: zip ties, a black hood, a pen-style injector filled with anaesthetic, even a Taser. Andrew frowned. Surely he wouldn’t have to actually use any of these things—he just didn’t have the training. He’d tried to explain this back in London, but Crawford had simply smiled and assured him that there’d be a highly trained extraction team standing by. This equipment was purely a backup—a set of spares for use in an emergency. “It’s standard operating procedure,” Crawford had said. “But if you’re not up to the task, Andrew, you’d better say so.” And Andrew had reached out and taken the bag from Crawford’s hands. What else could he have done?
“It’s just spare equipment,” he muttered. “Just in case.”
But if he wanted to be taken seriously, he couldn’t afford to be squeamish, couldn’t afford to have doubts. Whatever happened today, however the mission played out, he’d just have to grit his teeth and see it through. “I’ll get the job done,” he murmured. “Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 16
2014
TOM STOOD IN THE LIVING ROOM DOORWAY and stared. His credit card statement lay on the floor and that wasn’t right. He’d wanted to check he had enough in his bank account for this month’s payment, so he’d folded the statement carefully and placed it on the table to remind him. And there was someth
ing else. Someone had clearly rifled through his DVD collection—the plastic cases were crooked on the shelf. Maybe the credit card statement could’ve slipped from the table, but his DVDs had not moved themselves. Someone had definitely been in his home.
A burglar? Tom chewed his lip. The TV and DVD player were the only things of value in the room, and they were untouched. Sometimes they just want cash or jewellery, he thought, small things they can pocket and get away with fast. He didn’t have much worth stealing, but he did keep some emergency cash tucked away in his sock drawer, up in his bedroom. He nodded to himself. He’d check the whole house, every room. But first, he needed to know if the burglar was still in the house. He tilted his head to listen. Was that a creak from the floorboards upstairs?
Moving as quietly as he could, Tom crept down to the hall. He frowned. He’d left his baseball bat in its usual place, hadn’t he? It should be right there, propped up against the wall, next to his jumble of trainers. He bent down and moved a pair of Nikes, but there wasn’t much point. The baseball bat was too big to hide; it was clearly missing. He stood up and ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he’d made a mistake. He’d been so stressed last night, so angry, so confused, he must’ve put the bat somewhere else. He replayed the sequence of events in his mind: he’d come in, closed the door behind him, and leaned the baseball bat against the wall. Yes—it was there this morning. He’d noticed it as he’d made his way out to work. Tom’s skin crawled. He pictured the burglar, hiding behind the bedroom door, jacked up on crystal meth and wielding the metal bat. He’d crack Tom’s skull open and wouldn’t think twice about it.
Tom backtracked into the kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer. He had one good cook’s knife, ten solid inches of carbon steel, which he kept razor sharp. He reached out toward the handle, but hesitated, his fingers trembling. What did he always tell the lads at work? One cut was all it took. Pick up a knife and you’re one cut away from a life sentence, or a nice cold shelf in the morgue. He curled his fingers into a fist. He couldn’t make that mistake. He wasn’t like that. Not anymore. He had to use his brain instead.
He cocked an ear to listen. No sounds from upstairs, but that didn’t mean much. He should go to the living room and phone the police. He grimaced. The phone was still unplugged. He’d have to get down on his hands and knees and fumble about with the cable. And his mobile phone was still upstairs. He’d turned it off last night and hadn’t bothered to turn it back on this morning.
There was nothing for it. He’d have to go and ask a neighbour if he could use their phone. He tilted his head, thinking. Last night he’d run down the street wielding a baseball bat, and now he was calling the police. Word would get around. Everyone would think he was a troublemaker, or worse. But what else could he do?
He walked to the front door and opened it, not worrying about being quiet. If the burglar heard him leave, he might make a break for it himself. Tom stepped outside and closed the front door behind him. He had his keys in his hand, but he hesitated. Would it be better to lock the burglar in, or let him escape as easily as possible so he wouldn’t cause more damage? Tom left the door unlocked and pocketed his keys. And that was when he heard it.
The car’s horn sounded three times; long, deliberate blasts. Tom spun around, already knowing what he would see. Even so, it made his blood boil. The dark blue Renault hatchback was parked along the road, its engine running. There was no mistaking it. He could see the dent in its bonnet. Tom clenched his fists. “You,” he muttered. “You bloody…”
The car’s engine revved. The driver indicated then pulled out into the road. Tom stood and stared as the car came slowly toward him. As it passed, the driver turned and looked Tom in the eye. It was the same pale face, the same tired eyes. But now, Tom could see the man was a mess; hair pushed back from his receding hairline in a mass of greasy tangles, eyes red-rimmed, jowls sagging and unshaven.
“What do you want?” Tom whispered. He watched the car drive away. “What the hell do you want from me?”
There was only one way to find out.
Tom fished in his pocket for his keys. His blood pounded in his ears as he walked toward his Vauxhall Astra. He pressed the button on his key and the locks clicked open. And then his hand was on the handle, pulling it toward him, opening the door. He swung himself into the driving seat and slammed the door closed. “You won’t get away,” he said and started the engine. “Not this time.” He released the handbrake and drove onto the road, pulling on his seatbelt as he went. Within seconds, he was on the main road, separated from the blue Renault by only two cars. He grinned. “You didn’t get far,” he said. “You didn’t think I’d follow you, did you?”
The Renault stayed on the main road, keeping below the thirty miles per hour speed limit. Tom nodded to himself. The man drove like an old lady. He couldn’t know he was being followed. Soon, they approached the large roundabout that Tom used every day on his way to work. What if the man went back to the visitors’ car park at the detention centre? Tom bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t confront the man there. He was in enough trouble at work already.
But no. The Renault indicated left and crossed carefully into the lane for the ring road. Tom followed. Now there was only a white van between his car and the Renault. The roundabout was busy but the Renault driver was in luck. Tom scowled as the hatchback drove away while he was forced to wait his turn. Tom inched his car closer to the white van. “Come on, you old fart,” he muttered. But the van driver was in no hurry. He wound down his window and dropped the butt of a cigarette onto the road. Tom seethed. “You should’ve gone forward then,” he hissed. “You missed your turn, you bloody idiot.”
And then there was a gap in the traffic. The van juddered forward, but too slowly. Already, another car was coming around—a flashy BMW—and Tom would have to wait all over again. There just wasn’t time for him to get onto the roundabout.
“The hell with this,” Tom hissed. He pressed hard on the accelerator and dropped the clutch. The Astra’s wheels spun and the car surged forward. Tom cut across the next lane and veered around the van. A car horn sounded behind him. No doubt the BMW’s driver was not happy. “Sod off,” Tom jeered. He grinned, changed gear and put his foot down. The exit he wanted was two lanes wide and he sped toward it, overtaking several cars as he accelerated onto the ring road. What a buzz. “Yes!” he yelled. “I’ve still got it.” He changed gear again, chuckling as the engine roared. God, he’d missed this. Ahead, a Ford Mondeo pulled out into Tom’s lane. “Get out of my way,” Tom shouted. But he didn’t slow down. Tom flashed his headlights and closed the gap between them until the two cars were almost bumper to bumper. “Wake up,” Tom snarled. He pressed down hard on the button to sound the horn, and held it. The Ford wavered back and forth across the lane, and for a fraction of a second Tom thought the panicked driver might slam his brakes on. If he did, it was all over. But no. The Ford accelerated and swerved into the inside lane. Tom caught a glimpse of a waved fist as he sped past. He fought the urge to swerve toward the idiot, just for the hell of it, just to teach him a lesson. But he had to concentrate.
“Where are you?” he whispered. He needed to find the blue Renault, and soon. For all he knew, the man could’ve left the ring road already, but Tom had to hope the hatchback was just up ahead. He drove on, peering through the windscreen, scanning every car.
And there it was. Tom almost laughed. The blue Renault was still dawdling along. You’ve no idea what’s going on, mate. Tom slowed down and matched the Renault’s speed. He took a couple of slow breaths. Did he want the man in the Renault to see him? “Not yet,” Tom whispered. He chose a space, a couple of cars behind his target, and pulled in. Perfect.
Tom took it easy, careful not to catch up to the car in front. The speed limit here was fifty miles an hour and the Renault slowed to a steady forty-five. The driver in front of Tom shook his head, then indicated and pulled out to overtake. Now there was just one car to hide behind. But it would be enough.
For now.
Tom settled in for a wait. He reached out and turned on the car stereo, flipping through the channels, but they were all playing middle-of-the-road pop—it was all the same. He switched the stereo over to CD and smiled as Rage Against the Machine filled the car. “That’s more like it,” he said. This track, Know Your Enemy, was perfect, and Tom moved his head to the beat of the drums. Those speakers were worth every penny. A car pulled up alongside and Tom glanced across. The Ford Mondeo. The man behind the wheel was middle-aged and balding. He wore a striped shirt and a tie. His suit jacket hung from a hook by his rear window. Sales rep, Tom thought. The man glared across at Tom then started mouthing off. Though Tom couldn’t hear him, it was obvious the rep was letting fly a stream of abuse. Tom narrowed his eyes and held the man’s stare for a moment. That look was enough warning for most people, but the rep was still waving his fist and scowling. Tom shook his head slowly and turned away. I don’t have time for this crap. He slowed down and let the Ford go on ahead. Deprived of his target, the Ford’s driver gave up and sped away.
Tom turned his attention back to the Renault. But it wasn’t there. He craned his neck to peer around the car in front. There. Ahead, a separate lane led to an exit from the ring road, and the Renault was already pulling into it. Tom glanced at the road signs. “Good,” he muttered. They were travelling back toward the town, heading for his old stamping ground. He knew this neighbourhood like the back of his hand. He braked hard and swung the Astra into the exit lane. His heart beat faster. Now he was right behind the Renault. The speed limit dropped back to thirty miles per hour and as the Renault slowed down, Tom kept his distance. It won’t be long now, mate.
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 13
