by Chris Ewan
He gazed at the child’s sketch of the cowboy on a horse he was clutching – the crayon faded, the surface crinkled and distressed, the edges worn and ruffled by the swirling sea breeze – and he thought about a lot of things. He thought of the hired killer lying dead in Kate’s bedroom. He thought of the man’s body being discovered, and of the police officers who would be searching for her soon. He thought of how he’d held the man’s phone in his hand. Of the call he hadn’t answered. Of the men who would come hunting for them both.
Kate hadn’t thanked him for any of it. Perhaps she hadn’t understood how badly it might cost him or how much he was putting on the line. More likely it was because she understood that no favour this big could come without an obligation to match and she was afraid of what she now owed him. If so, she was probably right to be concerned.
The drinking bar at the stern of the ship was loud and busy behind Miller. But out here on deck, he was alone and unwatched.
He folded the drawing away the same way he always did, the paper collapsing like a perfect origami structure into a tight square that fitted securely in his wallet. Then, reaching inside his jacket, he removed the gun Kate had fired and the dismantled remains of the phone she’d contacted him on. He leaned over the railings and he opened his hands and let go, watching the Irish Sea swallow everything down.
Part II
Weston-super-Mare, England
Chapter Five
Kate woke to the sound of beating wiper blades. She must have fallen asleep some time after they’d joined the M5.
‘Where are we?’
‘Guess.’
It was dusk and a fine grey drizzle was swirling around them. They were driving along a seaside promenade. Kate could see blocky, crassly functional apartment buildings, Victorian guesthouses, crumbling grand hotels and derelict ice-cream kiosks. She could see a low stone wall, drenched mud flats, and the outline of a pier flickering dimly through the murk.
‘Looks like hell.’
‘Close. Weston-super-Mare. Play your cards right and maybe you’ll have time for a donkey ride on the beach.’
Kate groaned. She was too warm under the fleece Miller had insisted she put on and her head was fuzzy. She couldn’t quite shake the sickly, seesaw sensation of the ferry crossing or the tainted air she’d breathed inside the suitcases. Her body felt cramped, contorted, like it sometimes did when she craved a run.
Miller drove away from the entrance to the pier, sweeping past a string of fast-food concessions and amusement arcades, then along a narrow back alley to a gravel parking space behind a terraced house. A sign fitted to the pebble-dashed wall read: PARADISE APARTMENTS. VACANCIES.
‘Wow.’
‘Problem?’
‘I’m starting to think I’d have been better off getting shot.’
Miller stepped out of the Audi and thrust his arms into the air, stretching his back, his plaid shirt hitching up and exposing a midriff laced with fine, dark hairs. He was unkempt and scruffily dressed, on the wrong side of his forties, but there was no pretending he wasn’t handsome in a rugged sort of way.
Which was a bad thought to be having right now.
Kate remained seated and listened to his feet crunch gravel as he came round from behind the car and lifted her holdall off the back seat before flinging open her door.
‘Paradise awaits.’
She held back a moment, feeling sluggish and leery, then tramped after him into an unlit vestibule smelling of mildew and damp, and on up a cramped staircase to an unfinished door, where he turned a key in the lock and moved to one side, gesturing for her to go in ahead of him.
The holiday apartment reeked of stale cigarette smoke and had a decor straight out of the seventies. It was heavy on the brown striped wallpaper and dense green carpet. There was a lot of teak furniture. A lot of striped rayon upholstery in autumnal shades.
‘Paradise,’ Kate muttered.
‘Problem?’
She turned to Miller.
Who was this man, really? He’d been a stranger to her until two days ago and she still knew very little about him. They’d hardly talked during the five-hour drive they’d taken to get to this place. Kate had so much she needed to ask that she hadn’t known where to begin.
Tears stung her eyes. She felt dazed and close to despair. There were times when she’d experienced similar emotions following a big athletics meet. All the training and the build-up, all the pressure, then the mad thrill of competition and, finally, the inevitable comedown afterwards. But this was more extreme.
She’d made a mistake coming here with him. She must have, she reasoned, because why else would she feel so undone?
Miller tipped his head to one side, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheek grazing his shirt collar. His dark hair was long and curled, threaded with silver. His chest and arms were massive, like those of a shot-putter.
‘Not the type of place you’d come to on holiday?’
‘Not in a million years.’
‘What about the town? Have you ever been here before?’
She shook her head.
‘Which is exactly why I chose it.’ He set her holdall down and managed a fleeting smile. ‘I’m just across the hall. Get some rest. Take a shower. Come and knock when you’re ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘To begin your new life.’
*
Kate burst through the door to the apartment across the hall less than three minutes later.
Then stopped.
‘Whoa.’ A young black man reared back from behind a bank of computer monitors. ‘Looky here, people. We have a new all-time record.’
He grinned at Miller, who was pouring himself coffee from a percolator on a tiled kitchen counter, then leaned way back in his desk chair and looked behind him at a plump, attractive woman over by the window.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant, Nick. You might have wanted to mention that she was stunning.’
Kate recognised the woman right away. Not because she knew her. Or at least, not directly. Back when Kate had been a law student with a mild addiction to daytime TV, Becca Jarvis had starred in Haymarket Close, a Manchester-based soap on a lesser terrestrial channel. Since Becca had left the show in a storyline that involved her character fleeing her abusive spouse for a new life in Australia, Kate had occasionally caught her voice on radio dramas and adverts, though she’d never seen her face on television again.
Becca was big, brash and sexy; memorable for her ample bosom as much as her raucous laugh. And now she was standing in the same dingy room as Kate. In Weston-super-Mare.
‘You want coffee?’ Miller asked her.
‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘You’re tired, Kate. I told you to get some sleep.’
‘You’re not sleeping.’
Miller toasted her with his mug. ‘Hence the caffeine.’
‘You never said there’d be anyone else involved. I didn’t agree to this.’
But what had she agreed to, really? She barely knew.
‘Oh, I like her.’ The young man was immaculately groomed with wiry black hair trimmed close to his scalp. He had on a bright pink polo shirt and designer specs with electric blue frames. ‘She’s feisty.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Relax, honey.’ Becca pushed off from the windowsill. She had a sinuous walk, all hips and ass. The bold green dress she was wearing featured a blocky geometric print and a plunging neckline. ‘We’re on your side.’
‘And which side is that?’
‘The good guys, obviously.’ The young man pulled down his spectacles and peered over the frames. ‘We’re too fun and irreverent to be the bad guys. Apart from Miller, maybe. But he already saved your life, so you can give him a free pass.’
Miller was sipping his coffee and taking his time over it. He seemed to be enjoying Kate’s reaction, which just made her madder and more confused.
‘Ten seconds.’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And then
either you start explaining what’s going on here, or I’m leaving.’
He lowered his mug. ‘Hanson’s my computer whizz.’
‘A-mazing,’ Hanson said. ‘Do you have any idea how old you sound?’
‘Don’t be fooled by his appearance. I know he looks like he should be in a boy band but he can create the perfect new ID and erase all trace of your old one.’
Hanson spread his arms to take in all the computer equipment around him. ‘Miller really needs to work on his intros. Because I am so much more than just that. You’re going to be seriously impressed by what I can do.’
‘And not at all surprised by what he can’t.’ Becca winked at Kate and wiggled her little finger in the air. ‘Wow, are you going to be something to work with.’
‘Becca will handle your physical makeover,’ Miller explained.
‘My what?’
‘Relax, honey. We’re just going to refine a few things.’
‘I don’t need refining.’
‘Amen.’
‘Easy, kiddo.’ Becca clipped the top of Hanson’s head, nodding between Miller and Kate. ‘This one is spoken for.’
Kate shot Becca a warning look. Miller echoed it.
‘Ooh, OK. So I guess you guys haven’t picked up on the pretty blatant chemistry you have going on just yet.’
‘Actresses.’ Miller shook his head. ‘You’re going to need to alter the way you talk, the way you interact with people, your physical mannerisms. Becca will teach you how to do all that.’
‘You make it sound like you want to change everything about me.’
‘No, not everything. Just enough to keep you alive.’
Chapter Six
Connor Lane watched from the lawn of his private estate on the shores of Lake Windermere as the sailing yacht drifted towards him. The fifty-foot craft was the centrepiece of a charity Connor had set up to assist youngsters with disabilities and learning difficulties. She’d been adapted for wheelchair users and Connor’s foundation had employed and trained a specialist crew. The hull and the mainsail were branded with the name of his company: www.anycashcredit.com.
‘Do you have a name for her yet?’
Connor returned his attention to the pretty blonde journalist sitting opposite him. She was mid-to-late twenties, more than ten years his junior. Not that age was usually an obstacle for Connor. In his experience, extreme wealth compensated for many things.
‘How about Samantha?’
She clutched a hand to her breast. Was it Connor’s imagination, or had she loosened another button on her blouse?
‘But that’s my name, Mr Lane.’
‘Connor, please. And a beautiful yacht should be named for a beautiful woman, don’t you agree?’
The hull of the yacht nudged against the newly installed pontoon, its sails ruffled by the soft evening breeze. Tomorrow, at a lavish garden party Connor was hosting with his wife, Yvonne, eight disabled youngsters would experience the thrill of sailing for the first time. It was a sport that Connor’s father, Larry, had lived for – the very reason, in fact, why the Lane family had moved to their sprawling Windermere home when Connor was just seven years old.
‘It’s a really wonderful thing you’re doing . . . Connor. I’m sure the children will be very grateful.’
He flashed her his best grin. He even allowed the smile to reach his eyes.
‘But I wonder . . .?’
‘Yes, Samantha?’
‘Don’t you think it’s just a little inappropriate, given the charges your brother is facing?’
Connor tried to maintain the grin. He tried very hard. But he could already feel his muscles tightening, jaw tensing, lips morphing into a predatory leer.
It had always been this way when someone attacked Russell. Connor had been just nineteen when their parents disappeared from his father’s sailing dinghy, presumed killed in a gangland hit, their bodies rumoured to be weighted down somewhere among the muddy depths of Windermere. Both boys had been orphaned that April night, but Connor had been left with an eleven-year-old brother to raise amid the sudden extreme demands of the criminal enterprise his father had overseen.
From day one, the hyenas of the underworld had probed and tested him. A lesser man would have crumbled. An ordinary man would have walked away. But Connor did neither of those things. He defended what was rightfully his. He dirtied his hands.
And meanwhile, he did everything in his power to shelter Russell from the violent reality of the world that swirled around them. Because Russell was special. He was sensitive and generous and kind. He was pure.
And now, to think that he was in custody, awaiting trial for murder . . .
‘My brother is innocent. His legal team will establish that soon enough.’
‘Perhaps. But there’s also the matter of your own recent conviction, isn’t there?’
Samantha gestured with her pen to Connor’s left ankle, which was crossed over his right thigh, resting on the ironed pleat of his chinos. She couldn’t see it. Nobody could. But there was an electronic tag fitted under Connor’s sock. The strap was a constant menace, snagging his skin, itching like hell. But the tag would remain there for the next four to six months while Connor was under curfew, restricted to the grounds of his estate.
‘I made a mistake. I was provoked by a journalist asking me offensive questions about my brother.’
‘You were convicted of actual bodily harm.’
Connor fixed another smile to his face. Six months ago he could have placed a call to Samantha’s editor and had her fired. Now life was more complicated.
Not that Connor was surprised by how rapidly his stock had fallen. He knew better than anyone that he’d never be widely admired. In part, that was because he’d inherited his father’s fortune and had multiplied it countless times over by establishing one of the first, and certainly the biggest and therefore most reviled, of the UK’s payday-loan companies.
But it was also because the original source of his family’s wealth had been even less respectable. Larry Lane had been a notorious loan shark. He’d started his business empire in Manchester, then expanded into Liverpool. And while some of the stories surrounding his activities were wild exaggerations, there was no getting away from the fact that Connor had made his millions – many multiples of millions, in fact – by refining his father’s old business model to apply a veneer of legality to the exploitation of those desperate enough to borrow money they couldn’t possibly hope to repay.
So now, instead of the vig there were prohibitive rates of APR. And where once Connor’s father might have threatened to break someone’s legs, these days his company wielded the menace of bankruptcy or the seizure of assets.
Small differences perhaps, but significant where Connor was concerned. Because slowly, patiently, he’d been working to rehabilitate his family’s reputation in the same way he’d refashioned their business. A high-profile charitable gesture here, a timely political donation there.
Not that any of it could begin to compensate for the latest scandal Russell had dragged to their door.
A stiff wind skimmed over the lake, rocking the yacht. Connor stood up from his lawn chair and buttoned his linen jacket.
‘I believe we’re done here, Samantha. Lovely as they are, you can go ahead and pop your breasts away now.’
She glared at him, baring her teeth. ‘I still need a portrait shot for the piece.’
But Connor wasn’t listening. His attention had been drawn to the south lawn, where a team of men were in the final stages of erecting a giant marquee. Beneath the flapping canvas, a small army of catering staff and a handful of volunteers from the Fresh Start Shelter for teenage runaways (also bankrolled by one of Connor’s foundations) were busy setting up tables and fold-out chairs. And there, waddling through the middle of them all, was the shambolic figure of Mike Renner.
‘Mr Lane? One picture by the yacht?’
Connor almost shuddered at the thought of being anywhere near the ponto
on. He was afraid of very little in life but he was fearful of the steel-blue waters of Windermere.
‘You can see yourself out, Samantha. And please, don’t ever come back.’
He turned and walked off towards the stone steps leading up to the main house, the arched windows glowing now with the burnished orange light of the dipping sun. There was an ornamental fountain out front and Connor lingered beside it, looking across the wind-streaked lake at the lights coming on in Bowness, the sky stained in shades of purple and ochre, the wind picking up as if it might storm.
Renner was breathing hard by the time he joined him. Physically, he was a mess. Sartorially, he was even worse. But this balding, overweight man in the creased suit with the carelessly knotted tie and the scuffed loafers was Connor’s most loyal and trusted lieutenant, just as he had been for his father before him.
‘Nice boat.’ Renner made a small puffing sound as he caught his breath.
‘It’s a sail yacht.’
‘Yeah? What’s the difference?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Guess Larry would have been able to tell us.’
The two men watched the blonde journalist stride away across the lawn, a camera bag swinging from her shoulder, bashing her hip.
‘He’d be proud, you know? Of what you’re doing here.’
Connor knew that Renner was talking about more than just the yacht. He was also referring to the steps Connor was taking to protect Russell.
‘I have some news you’re not going to like.’
Which was something Connor had anticipated. He hadn’t been scheduled to see Renner until tomorrow.
‘I sent Wade to the Isle of Man to clear up after the man we hired. I thought it was sensible to sweep the place where he’d been staying before the cops found it. The man we hired was recommended to me. I was very specific about the levels of service we expect.’
‘And?’
‘And either my instructions weren’t sufficiently clear – which I seriously doubt – or this guy had something else in mind. Maybe he was hoping to make a little extra cash on the side.’
