by CJ Carver
‘Give me a moment.’ The man vanished.
‘Joanna Loxton.’
‘Dan Forrester.’ She tried to hold his gaze but her eyes slid away. Not so confident after all.
‘Why were you following me?’
‘I was asked to.’
‘By whom?’
‘A friend.’
‘Like a friend with the firm?’
She considered his question. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I wasn’t told.’
‘What was your brief?’ Dan asked her.
‘To tell them where you went, who you saw.’
‘Why?’
‘I wasn’t told that either.’
‘Who’s the friend?’
She shook her head.
Dan held her eyes. ‘Who’s the friend?’
‘Sorry.’ Her voice was surprisingly firm against the fear in her eyes.
She glanced past him as her companion returned. He came into the living area and put Dan’s glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ he said.
‘You really want to piss me off?’ Dan whispered, looking pointedly at her companion walking back outside. ‘I could break his arm before you made it halfway across the room.’
‘Don’t.’ Her face pinched.
‘Then tell me what I need to know.’
She chewed her lower lip.
‘You used your own car to follow me,’ he stated. ‘But called in the firm when you needed it. Does this mean you’re following me in your own time?’
From the flash of anxiety that crossed her face he took the answer to be yes.
‘You’re off the books.’ He clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at her. ‘I wonder what your boss will say when they find out.’
She closed her eyes briefly, as though she was saying a prayer.
‘I need a name, Joanna. Give me a name and I’ll go. Leave you alone. But until you do, I am going to stay here and—’
The doorbell shrilled.
Joanna jumped. Turned her head to the bow window but the curtain was drawn.
‘Who are you expecting?’ Dan wanted to know.
‘Nobody,’ she said, but her face turned hopeful.
The doorbell shrilled again, long and loud, setting Dan’s teeth on edge. When Joanna’s companion didn’t turn up to answer it, he pulled Joanna to her feet. Marched her over to the window. Had a look.
A man in his fifties, dressed in a double-breasted camel coat with a fedora and a pair of leather gloves, stood on Joanna’s doorstep. As Dan stared, unable to believe his eyes, the man turned his head and looked straight at him. He raised a hand and made a beckoning motion with his finger.
Dan dropped the curtain. Spun to face Joanna.
‘What the hell is Sirius Thiele doing here?’
‘Who?’ She sounded genuinely puzzled.
He pulled back the curtain, pointed at Sirius. ‘Him.’
Sirius raised his hat to Joanna.
‘Oh, God.’ The colour drained from her face.
‘You know him,’ Dan stated.
‘Well, yes . . . He’s, er . . .’
‘A cleaner.’
She gulped.
‘Who is wanted for multiple murders,’ Dan added.
‘I didn’t realise it would be him who came . . .’ She was still staring at Sirius. ‘I mean, we have a panic alarm but I expected a couple of colleagues . . .’
He could have kicked himself. Of course she’d have a panic alarm, and no doubt her boyfriend had activated it when she’d given him a prearranged code earlier, probably the name Baz or vodka, even the mention of an HR Operations Manager could have been a tip-off. No wonder the man hadn’t introduced himself. He’d known Dan was a threat.
‘How come he got here so soon?’ Dan asked.
She swallowed audibly. ‘We thought you might come here. He must have been on standby somewhere near.’
Whoever was pulling Joanna Loxton’s strings were one step ahead. He didn’t like it.
‘Let him in,’ Dan told her.
When she hesitated, he snapped, ‘You invited him.’
She went to the intercom. Buzzed the door. Nothing happened.
‘Mr Thiele?’ she said. ‘Could you come in?’
‘No,’ Sirius said, and even though his voice was small and tinny through the speaker, Dan still felt a chill brush over him. ‘If you could send Dan Forrester outside, I would be grateful.’
Joanna looked at Dan.
‘Don’t make me do something you will regret,’ Sirius added.
Joanna threw a look at Dan. Please?
Dan shook his head.
‘Please tell Dan Forrester that I’m not here to harm him. I just have a message to deliver.’
Dan stepped to the intercom. ‘Really?’ His voice was disbelieving.
‘You have my word.’
Dan closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the events of last year. Sirius was probably one of the most frightening men he knew, and one of the most dangerous. He wasn’t just a cleaner but an assassin – one of the best and most ruthless in the business. That said, Sirius was renowned for having his own peculiar code. He was also known for never having knowingly broken his word. If he said he was going to strangle someone to death, he did it. If he said he was going to save a drowning kitten, he did it. Dan didn’t want to trust Sirius but he needed information from him.
He fixed Joanna Loxton with a hard look. ‘We haven’t finished, OK?’ Then he stepped into the hallway. He heard Joanna Loxton close and lock the door behind him. As he opened the front door, the chill running through him turned to fire. Although he looked relaxed, his shoulders dropped, arms loose, his hands open, every muscle in his body was ready to fight.
‘Hello, Dan.’
Sirius moved back a few paces, giving him plenty of room. His gloved hands were open wide and spread at his sides, showing he wasn’t holding a weapon.
Dan moved on to the path, his steps steady and careful, braced for Sirius’s slightest move.
‘Sirius,’ he said.
‘My message is simple and perfectly clear,’ the man said. He spoke calmly and with absolute clarity. ‘You are to stop investigating your father’s death. You are to let the police do their jobs and not interfere. You are to go home to your wife and daughter and return to work as normal.’
‘My father was murdered.’
Sirius tilted his head fractionally. ‘My condolences.’
‘If your father was murdered, wouldn’t you want to know why?’
‘My father died before I was born.’
Both men stood in silence as a car drove past. Only when it had gone, did Dan speak. ‘Sirius, who sent you here?’
A little moue touched the man’s mouth. ‘You know I can’t divulge such information.’
‘Have you heard of Project Snowbank?’
There was no change in his expression, no indication Sirius had even heard Dan speak. He just looked at him, face perfectly blank.
‘What can you give me?’ Dan said.
Sirius thought for a moment. Then said, ‘Do you know why I didn’t come through the back door as requested?’ The man’s shiny black eyes held his, as emotionless and cold as pebbles. ‘Why I didn’t disable you and threaten you with death to convince you to leave your father’s case alone?’
Dan opened and closed his mouth but couldn’t think of a word to say.
‘I chose to be civilised about this because you are a friend of Grace Reavey’s. I thought you deserved more respect than what was asked of me.’
‘Grace?’ Dan’s voice was incredulous.
‘She’s a very brave woman.’
‘Well, yes. But—’
‘Now I have warned you, I shall go. Please send my best to Grace.’
Dan wanted to race after Sirius, grab his arm and demand more information, but there was no point, not unless he wanted a full-on street fight. He watched Sirius walk down the street, his gait jaunty, as though h
e was out to meet a friend for a drink. Dan didn’t move until he was completely out of sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Grace wouldn’t normally conduct a home visit on a Friday evening unless it was urgent, but she felt the need to get away, to try and settle her thoughts before the weekend. So she’d offered to go and see Alistair Tavey, who was, according to his wife, suffering from a particularly nasty bout of flu.
Grace wasn’t entirely convinced about making a house call for someone too stubborn to come to the surgery, but when she remembered her chat with Dr John Buchanan in Edinburgh earlier (what was she going to say to Ross? Dare she say anything to Ross?) she knew she needed some time out before she headed home to Lone Pine Farm.
The Taveys lived in a bothy on the other side of Ben Kincaid at the end of a long, rutted track. Even at low speed, her Golf bounced and juddered, making her flinch at each thump into another trench. If she stayed up here she really ought to invest in a 4x4 of some sort, a sturdy Land Rover that would take this sort of punishment in its stride. But she didn’t want a 4x4. She loved her Golf. She could feel herself becoming petulant and told herself to grow up, dammit, but her mind couldn’t drop the vision of John Buchanan’s smart modern surgery on the website – she bet his practice manager wouldn’t allow anyone into the doctor’s rooms without permission – or the photographs he’d sent of the flat he’d let to her if she took the job. The master bedroom was huge, the kitchen sleek and modern, the bathroom to die for. No mould or damp patches. No rotten floorboards. No building site.
Plus, the flat was around the corner from a street lined with restaurants. Italian, French, Moroccan, Mediterranean. She wouldn’t have to learn to cook if she lived there during the week. She wouldn’t have to catch her own fish and gut it. Boil haggis and burst it, or whatever you did with it.
And what about John Buchanan? They’d Skyped for forty minutes, an informal interview, and his energy and enthusiasm for proper consulting were infectious. She’d hung up bubbling with excitement, which quickly turned to dismay when she pictured herself returning to the flat alone without Ross. She couldn’t live apart from him. It was ridiculous, what was she thinking?
Confused, muddled and getting more distressed by the minute, Grace wished her mother was still alive so she could talk things over with her. She hadn’t asked her often for advice but when she had, her mother had always listened carefully and objectively and the ensuing discussion invariably helped Grace see things more clearly.
Talk to Ross. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.
But he’ll go berserk. Won’t he?
Grace was so absorbed in rehearsing what she might say to Ross, I just happened to be offered a spectacular job in a spectacular practice, and I’ll be home every weekend – that she almost ran over the Labrador that suddenly appeared in front of the car.
Grace rammed on the brakes, forcing the Golf to slide sideways and it was only thanks to the fact she’d been driving so slowly that she narrowly missed being plunged into the ditch. Sweating, heart pounding, she inched forward, trying to ignore the dog trotting alongside. She groaned when she saw her way ahead was barred by a rickety five-bar gate.
When she’d started her journey the evening had been beautiful, the hills drenched in sunshine, but as soon as she turned off the main road the clouds had rolled in and it was now pelting rain.
Idiot, she thought. You left your waterproof in the boot. She opened the door and scrambled out into the wind. Head ducked, cursing, she popped the boot and hauled out her waterproof, pulled it on. The dog pottered around her, tail wagging.
By the time she’d driven the car through the gate and closed it behind her, she was pretty much soaked.
Bloody weather, she thought. Bloody everything.
As she made to open her car door, she heard a whistle. She couldn’t see anyone at first, but then she spotted a figure standing to one side. Barbour, wellies, tweed cap. He was whistling for his dog, which was ignoring him.
‘Go on,’ she told it. ‘Go back to your owner.’
The dog looked up at her, tongue lolling.
Grace decided to let the two get on with it and hopped inside her car, out of the rain. She watched the man, obviously reluctant, walk over. Put the dog on a lead.
When she saw who it was, she buzzed down her window.
‘Christopher? Whatever are you doing all the way out here?’
‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ His face was anxious.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m trespassing.’
‘A fine day to be doing it.’ Her voice was dry.
‘It’s the only time I can.’ His mouth twisted. ‘When I know everyone’s indoors.’
‘Like who?’ She was curious.
‘The new owner. A horrible Russian oligarch.’
When she frowned, not understanding, he added, ‘We used to own this estate. Dad had to sell up fifteen years ago.’ He looked into the distance, expression haunted. ‘Glenallen was in the family for three generations. I miss it. And with Connor . . . gone, I find it’s the only place where I can find any kind of solace.’
He was so obviously troubled, in such pain, her heart went out to him. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Thank you.’ He wiped his face of rain. ‘I expect you’re visiting Alistair.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s worked on this estate since he was sixteen.’
She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she put the car into gear. He gave her a nod and turned away. Grace left Christopher walking up a long knoll, his dog loping alongside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dan awoke after too little sleep, his mind unable to stop replaying every minute of yesterday’s events, and he felt tired.
Could he risk ignoring Sirius’s threats? What if the German police didn’t find his dad’s killer? What if he got no answers? What had his father stumbled upon? It was serious enough to involve some pretty heavy types, and he didn’t like the fact that Joanna Loxton had been working off the books. If whatever had scared his father was true, what should he do about it? He was itching to get back into the fray, and despite Sirius’s warning, he knew he couldn’t turn his back on what had happened to his father, let alone allow whoever had killed him get away with it.
Sirius threatening him hadn’t warned him off. It had, in fact, had the opposite effect.
‘Hi, love.’ Jenny wandered into the kitchen. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’
‘No.’
She came and kissed him. ‘Me neither.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault someone murdered your poor dad.’
‘I know. But even so . . .’
He’d got home after midnight. He hadn’t meant to wake her, intending to sleep in the spare bedroom, but Jenny was a light sleeper and the moment he’d stepped into the hallway Poppy had given a soft woof awakening Jenny. She’d pottered downstairs in her dressing gown and poured him a brandy, made a mug of hot chocolate for herself.
They’d talked well into the small hours. He hated doing it – he wanted to protect her, not send her into paroxysms of worry – but he’d laid everything out for her. How things were far more complex and dangerous than he could have imagined. His father dead, an old friend of his using codes to meet. Project Snowbank, and now a team backing up the woman who’d been following him. And then there was the DSI in charge of the case, who’d told him about his father’s visit to the Isterberg Cemetery.
Jenny looked at him, an expression of resignation on her face. ‘You want to go to Germany.’
‘I can’t see how else I can find out what’s going on. It wouldn’t take long. Two days, three max. I want to meet the detective in charge of the case as well as visit Arne.’ He looked at her straight. ‘But I want to be with you too.’
She returned his gaze steadily. Then she sighed.
‘I have to be honest, Dan. I don’t like it, but I think you should go. Otherwise it
will drive you crazy. Plus, if I stopped you going, it could come between us. You might blame me . . .’
‘I’d never do that,’ he protested.
Her mouth twisted. ‘I’d rather not risk it.’
While she went back to sleep, he crept around the house, picking up an overnight bag and some spare clothes, a razor, his passport. He also unlocked the gun cabinet and withdrew a passport in the name of Michael Wilson. Although he’d used it in January and it didn’t expire for another six years he couldn’t be sure it still worked. He should have handed it in to the security services but since they hadn’t asked for it, he hadn’t surrendered it. He’d also kept the wallet litter; a credit card, a couple of membership cards and receipts in Wilson’s name. He took the lot.
Finally, he packed some photographs of his father, including one taken at Christmas. He’d come and stayed for three nights, making himself useful not just by helping fix a broken gutter, but taking Aimee out for lunch and giving Dan and Jenny some luxury time to themselves on Christmas Eve. Jenny had taken the photo in an unguarded moment as Bill was telling Aimee a story. His face was in repose, relaxed and content, but it also held a sense of concentration too. It was his dad to a T.
Now Jenny was looking at his carry-on bag, which was on the kitchen floor, all packed. Her expression was guarded.
‘Are you still OK with my going?’
‘I know you must go, because if you don’t . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘What I hate is that you’ll be overseas . . .’
He should never have contemplated it. She was almost due to give birth. How could he think of leaving her? He lifted the bag on to a kitchen chair and started to unpack.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘It was wrong of me to even think it. I won’t go.’
‘What? And have you pacing around the house like a caged tiger? Please, Dan, go because if you don’t you’ll only drive me and Aimee nuts. And as you said, you’ll only be gone a couple of days.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As long as you promise you’ll be with me when I have this baby.’ It was both a challenge and a plea.
‘I will be there,’ he promised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
