by Chris Ewan
It was a postcard.
*
Six days previously, Miller sat in a canvas restaurant chair beneath a parasol, his arm resting on Kate’s freckled shoulder. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt over linen trousers. The remains of an octopus salad were on the table in front of him, next to an empty bottle of Sauvignon blanc.
Across the table, Becca smiled lazily from behind her Jackie O shades, her bosom straining against the material of the patterned sundress she had on. Hanson was bent forwards over the last of his lobster dish. He looked different with his new contact lenses. Younger, if that was possible, though perhaps Miller was swayed by the pink polo shirt and skinny shorts he was wearing.
The early-afternoon heat was intense, even in the shade of the restaurant terrace, and the tourists ambling along the limestone esplanade seemed wearied by the ceaseless sun. Miller could feel the warmth of Kate’s skin through the thin cotton of the pink vest top she had on. He could smell the sea and he could hear the wheeling gulls. He felt drowsy from the wine and the heat. He was relaxed and content.
‘It’s been so good seeing you both.’ Kate reached across the table to squeeze Becca’s hand.
‘You too, sweetie.’
‘Really good,’ Hanson added, sucking lobster juices from his fingers. ‘So what’s next for you? Have you decided?’
Miller felt the muscles ripple and tighten across Kate’s back.
‘We’ve been talking,’ she said, glancing at him. ‘And I think I should go back to the UK. It’s safe for me now with Connor gone. And I’d like to meet my brother. Or try to, at least. Thanks to you.’
She kicked Hanson’s feet under the table, and he smiled broadly, his lips shimmering with grease.
Becca pushed her sunglasses down on her nose, staring at Miller over the frames as if she expected him to intervene.
But Miller had already talked with Kate. They’d discussed it many times. There’s no going back. That’s what he’d told her right at the beginning. And maybe he’d been wrong where Kate was concerned, but he’d been right about himself. There were crimes he’d have to answer for, decisions that held consequences he’d be required to face. Lloyd might have allowed him to run once, but if he tried to go home for good, she couldn’t ignore what he’d done. He’d conspired to fake his daughter’s death by concealing the murder of Anna Brooks. He’d broken the law countless ways to identify and protect his clients. And besides, people were reliant on him. There were Pete and Emily to think about. There was Darren and Agata. There was Melanie, Timo, Nico and Mia.
Becca kept staring, hitching her eyebrows, and when he remained motionless, she sighed and shook her head.
‘Honey,’ she told Kate, ‘you know there’s something else you can do. Miller will never ask you, or tell you that it’s what he really wants, so I guess it’s down to me. You can stay and work with us. You can help us to carry on with what we do. We have people who need us. People to look after. And you can bet there’ll be more of them soon.’
‘We could definitely use you,’ Hanson added. ‘You’ve proved that already.’
‘Plus, we love you, sweetie. And Miller loves you – in a different, down-and-dirty kind of way. You’re good for him.’
‘You humanise him.’
‘Hey.’ Miller raised a hand, sneaking a look at Kate. A lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well?’ he asked her. ‘What do you say?’
‘I don’t know.’ She half smiled, half winced. ‘Maybe. I want to say yes. I do. But there’s my brother to think about. I want to try and meet him. I need it.’
‘Yeah, about that.’ Hanson dabbed at his lips with a cotton napkin. ‘We’re great at hiding people, Kate. And we’d be better at it with you, no question. But don’t ever forget we’re also pretty great at finding people.’
He nodded to a point somewhere behind Kate, winking encouragement when she still didn’t turn. Miller lowered his hand from her shoulder and swivelled with her, looking along the sunlit esplanade, lined with seventeenth-century stone buildings, towards a tall bell tower and a giant, ornate brick fountain.
A red-haired man was standing at the base of the domed fountain in a white button-down shirt and beige chinos with a travel bag slung over his shoulder. He was shading his eyes with one hand, scanning the plaza.
Kate pushed back her chair, the metal legs scraping on the flagstones.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Trust me. It’s Richard.’
‘Hanson.’ She shook her head as she rose slowly to her feet. ‘I am seriously impressed by you right now. But don’t think I don’t know what this is really about. I get what you’ve done here. Because how could I possibly say no to working with you guys after this?’
She smiled against the tears in her eyes and started towards her brother, one hand trailing in her wake, fingers spread, beckoning to Miller.
‘You go with her,’ he said to Becca and Hanson. ‘See that she’s OK.’
‘You should come too.’
‘I will. Soon. I just have one thing to do first.’
He laid down enough cash to cover their bill, then glanced over at Kate, who was stepping towards her brother hesitantly, accepting his outstretched hand, the two of them shaking formally before her brother laughed and dropped his bag, opening his arms, pulling her close.
Miller watched them a moment more, then nodded once at Hanson and crossed the street, passing through the blazing sunshine into the shade beneath an arched colonnade, where he contemplated the display of postcards outside a souvenir shop.
*
Lloyd stared at the postcard for a long moment, her heart clenching, her vision seeming to throb.
The image was a view of a sun-bathed harbour. She saw azure waters, a dun-coloured citadel, moored yachts, and a cascade of white houses with terracotta roofing tiles.
Slowly, she flipped the card over. Dubrovnik. It was postmarked six days ago, addressed to her in a slanted biro scrawl.
Dear Jennifer
You were right in what you said to me. This is what I’m best at. Please don’t look for us in Croatia. We’ll have moved on by the time you get this. But as Kate tells me now, even the best runners eventually tire. Every now and again you have to stop and catch your breath. So that’s what we’re going to do. We’re catching our breath. At least for a short while.
The card wasn’t signed. Lloyd glanced up and turned it over, weighing it in her hand, imagining Nick Adams writing his message in a seafront hotel room; thinking of him picking up his luggage and strolling away hand-in-hand with Kate to post the card before moving on.
She checked her watch. She was running a little late. She had a packed schedule of meetings ahead of her and a new case file to oversee. She should go. She should hurry outside and catch her bus.
But instead she walked back to the waiting elevator, hit the button for her floor and returned to her apartment. She entered her kitchen, took a magnet from a drawer and stuck the postcard to her fridge. Then she stepped back with her arms folded and lost herself in the blazing sunshine and turquoise waters of Dubrovnik. For a few precious minutes, she caught her breath.
Acknowledgements
As ever, this book only exists because of the support and hard work of a lot of fine people. Huge thanks to my agent, Vivien Green, and the teams at Sheil Land Associates, Georges Borchardt Inc. and the RWSG Literary Agency.
To my editors, Katherine Armstrong and Angus Cargill, along with everyone at Faber & Faber.
To Louisa Kermeen (of the Milan Veterinary Practice, Douglas, Isle of Man); Gill Young, Sabine Lemmer-Brust, Dr Lucy Hanington and Dr Saleel Chandratre.
To Hart Hanson and Andrew Miller, for trusting me with their names (the fools . . .).
To Mum, Dad and Allie.
And to my wife Jo, my junior editor Jessica, and Maisie.
About the Author
Chris Ewan is the award-winning author of The Good Thief’s Guide to . . . series of
mystery novels, which are in development for US television. His debut, The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam, won the Long Barn Books First Novel Award and is published in thirteen countries, and was followed by The Good Thief’s Guide to Paris, Vegas, Venice and Berlin.
Born in Taunton in 1976, he now lives in Somerset with his wife, Jo, and their daughter. Safe House, his first stand-alone thriller, was a number-one bestseller in 2012 and was shortlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award. Dead Line was published in 2013 and is optioned for film. Dark Tides was shortlisted for CrimeFest’s eDunnit award for the best crime fiction ebook.
www.chrisewan.com
@chrisewan
www.facebook.com/chrisewanauthor
By the Same Author
Safe House
Dead Line
Dark Tides
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2016
by Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2016
All rights reserved
© Chris Ewan, 2016
Cover Design by Faber
Cover images © Getty/Nico De Pasquale Photography; Getty/Shioguchi
The right of Chris Ewan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–30750–0
