Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

  Angel put her hands primly on her belly. ‘Well, please don’t demonstrate. If the baby can hear classical music I’m sure it can also hear swearing.’

  Luke rolled his eyes but said nothing, pausing the recording and giving Angel a significant look. She nodded. Big Brother would think it was weird if they didn’t hear a conversation going on.

  ‘Was there something I could help you with?’ he asked Angel.

  She draped her coat over the kitchen counter and leaned against it. Her baby-blue eyes were calm and bright.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I need you to come shopping with me.’

  Luke blinked. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you just said shopping.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re pregnant, so I’m going to assume some crazy hormone has made you forget that my girlfriend, who also happens to be your best friend, is on the run from a murder charge and if I don’t clear her name soon, it’ll never get cleared.’

  Her face remained calm. ‘And I’m going to assume you’re under a lot of stress right now, so I’m going to disregard that hormones comment.’

  Luke ran his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘I can’t go out now,’ he said.

  ‘Why? You’ve clearly been investigating this for Sophie – I won’t ask what your boss thinks of it – and I doubt any more information is going to come to light in the next few hours. Besides, you’ve got an iPhone, haven’t you? You can keep Googling while I try on maternity dresses.’

  Luke stared at her, trying to work out how to ask if she’d gone crazy without getting slapped.

  Angel wandered round the counter into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  ‘You want something to eat?’ Luke asked doubtfully. ‘Drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She stared at the contents of the fridge.

  ‘What?’ Luke said.

  Angel shook her head. ‘Beer, cold pizza, more beer, remains of a Chinese takeaway, and some vodka.’

  ‘There’s Coke in there, too,’ he said defensively.

  ‘This is not food,’ she said, turning back to him.

  ‘You try grocery shopping when MI5 are watching your house!’ Every time he went out he had to resweep for bugs. It was getting insulting now, like they thought he was too stupid to notice.

  Angel ignored this. ‘When was the last time you had a shave?’

  Luke ran his hand over his jaw and tried to remember. ‘It’s not high on my list of priorities.’

  She put her hands on her petite hips. ‘Luke Sharpe, as the Official Best Friend of your girlfriend, I’m staging an intervention.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be. Precisely how much use do you think you are to Sophie in this state? You said you were between cases. I’m going to read between the lines here and –’

  ‘Don’t,’ Luke said, suddenly weary beyond belief.

  Her gaze softened. ‘You need to get out,’ she said. ‘Get some fresh air, and think about something else. My dad always said when he was having trouble with something, he needed to stop thinking about it and the answer would quite often come to him all by itself.’

  He ran his hands over his face. That packet of Dunhill’s was calling to him from the kitchen cupboard where he’d hidden it.

  ‘Is this trouble of the song-writing variety, or of the spying kind?’ he asked, because Angel’s late father had taken time out of his busy career writing chart-topping hits to do a little bit of light espionage on the side. As one does.

  ‘I always assumed it was music, but knowing what I do now it could be either,’ she said crisply.

  Luke stared longingly at the cigarette cupboard.

  ‘Besides,’ Angel delivered her killer blow, ‘you’re under surveillance. Wouldn’t you like to waste their time all day?’

  I stopped for petrol outside Grenoble and bought some very strong coffee to keep me awake. Jack, who’d flaked out almost as soon as we hit the motorway, woke up and asked if I wanted him to take the wheel for a bit. I wanted to say no, it was my car (well, more mine than his) and he’d be all weak from the drowning, but I found myself handing over the coffee and switching seats.

  The next thing I knew, it was daylight and we were in Italy. I woke up and saw road signs for Turin and Milan and, rather stupidly, asked where we were.

  ‘Germany,’ Jack said, straight-faced.

  ‘Ha ha. When did we cross the border?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. You really can sleep through anything, huh?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That I had to get your passport out of your pocket and you never noticed.’

  I scowled at him, until I remembered the borderless state effect. ‘Pervert,’ I said.

  Jack grinned at me.

  ‘Especially since I happen to know there’s no passport check between France and Italy, so if you really have been digging in my pockets, I’m going to want a better explanation.’

  His smile faded. I let him think about that for a few minutes, then said, ‘All right, I have my alias. Does your passport say Jack de Valera or do you have something better?’

  ‘If anyone asks, I’m Jacques Dubois, I’m French, and you’re my English girlfriend, Alice. We’re visiting my cousin.’

  ‘Who lives where?’

  ‘Just outside Milan. Little town called Maniago.’

  ‘Boy, you thought about this a lot.’

  He shrugged. ‘An alibi is a useful thing.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. What’s her name?’

  ‘Valentina. Vallie.’

  ‘Her address?’

  ‘Piazza della Repubblica 12a.’

  ‘You really need to get out more.’

  He gave me a sideways look. ‘That’s her actual address.’

  ‘You mean there really is a Vallie?’

  ‘Yep. We’re a couple of hours away.’

  ‘Does she know we’re coming?’

  Jack gave me a sideways look. I guessed not.

  This was confirmed when we turned up at Vallie’s flat, a tiny couple of rooms off a pretty market square, and a tiny, model-gorgeous girl threw her arms around Jack and gabbled and scolded in that terribly demonstrative Italian style of talking where they look like they’re having a major fight, but are probably talking about the weather.

  Then he said, ‘La mia ragazza, Alice,’ and yanked me into a threeway hug, whereupon Vallie kissed both my cheeks and babbled a bit more.

  I really hoped he’d just introduced me as his girlfriend, and not as some kind of swinger who wanted a fling with his pretty cousin.

  Eventually Vallie wafted off towards the bedroom, leaving us alone.

  The apartment consisted of a cramped living room, even more cramped kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, and the bedroom into which Vallie had disappeared. From the glimpse I’d caught before the door slammed, it was too small to contain her possessions. But then, given the sheer quantity of shoes, clothes, expensive lingerie and cosmetics nearly bursting from the room, I doubted even the grandest palazzo could have held it all.

  ‘She says we’re early,’ Jack said into the sudden silence.

  ‘I thought she didn’t know we were coming.’

  ‘No, I mean early in the morning.’

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten.

  ‘Late night?’

  ‘Looks like it. And,’ he listened, ‘not a solo one, either.’

  I could hear a male voice coming from the bedroom, rumbling low between Vallie’s giggles and the slamming of wardrobe doors.

  Jack flicked on the kettle. ‘You been to Italy before?’

  I nodded. ‘To Venice with my school, and then to Rome about a year ago.’ My first assignment with SO17. Seriously, was that a whole year ago? ‘What does Vallie do?’

  He shrugged, opening cupboards and closing them again. There was little sign of any actual food. ‘Something in fashion.’

  Probably modelling. She was exquisite
.

  ‘So … We’re staying here?’

  ‘Yep. She’s going out this afternoon so we get the place to ourselves. Including her laptop.’

  ‘Great. I’ve been meaning to check my Buffy the Vampire Slayer message boards,’ I said sarcastically.

  ‘To look up news articles. See if we can get into MI5 files.’

  Am I the only person in the world who thinks that getting into highly confidential, madly protected, government files might be hard? Jack and Luke and Docherty all seemed to think it was a piece of cake.

  Eventually Vallie wafted out, towing a handsome stubbled man who was about twice her size and looked me over before purring, ‘Ciao, bella.’

  God, if he thought I was bella when he’d spent the night with Vallie, he really needed an eye test. Or maybe she was secretly covered in scales or something.

  ‘Jack, Giovanni,’ Vallie waved her hand between the two men and babbled a bit more. She gestured to me. ‘Alice.’

  The way she said it made the name sound very sexy. Maybe being an Alice wouldn’t be so bad.

  Giovanni took my hand and kissed it, murmuring things that I’m sure were quite inappropriate for someone whose girlfriend was standing right beside him.

  Jack grabbed my hand and pulled it away, glaring at Giovanni. Oh yeah. I was supposed to be Jack’s girlfriend.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said primly, which Vallie and Giovanni seemed to think was hilarious.

  Vallie said something to Jack that I think was along the lines of We’re off, ta ta, and he responded in kind.

  ‘Ciao, Alice,’ she called, and Giovanni echoed it as the door shut behind them and Jack and I were left alone.

  ‘Wow, he liked you,’ Jack said, sounding surprised.

  ‘You know, I used to be quite hot before all this.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he unearthed a laptop from under some debris on the table, ‘sure.’

  I flipped him the finger behind his back.

  ‘Saw that,’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking a watch,’ Angel chattered, as Luke carried her bags through the busy shopping centre. ‘Something classic. Something that will last. Something he can pass on to his son.’

  ‘You’re having a boy?’

  ‘I have no idea. But there’s always next time,’ she sparkled.

  Luke shook his head. ‘Doesn’t Harvey already have a watch?’

  ‘Oh, yes, one of those boring practical ones. Shoots grapple hooks or emits toxic gas or something. I meant a proper watch.’ She grabbed his wrist. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Tag Heuer.’ Another present from a dutiful relative. Luke was surprised they hadn’t monogrammed it so he’d be stuck with the damn thing forever; but on second thoughts, they’d probably forgotten his initials.

  ‘Beautiful. Do you think Harvey would like something like this?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Luke said. ‘Tag Heuers are for people of class and breeding.’

  She bashed his arm. ‘That’s my husband you’re talking about.’

  ‘I know.’ He grinned. Winding Angel and Sophie up about Harvey was always fun. The guy was just too good to be true. Nobody had the right to be handsome and smart and brave and nice all at the same time.

  Luke would hold his hand up to the first three, but he’d never considered himself nice in any way.

  ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo for a minute, okay?’

  Luke nodded, and turned to idly gaze at the watches on display in the jewellery shop window. That one was too flashy. That one too dull. That one was too … English for Harvey. And that one was right next to the engagement rings.

  When Angel reappeared, Luke was still staring at the shop window.

  ‘Pretty rings,’ Angel said, standing beside him.

  He made a non-committal sound.

  ‘I’m a diamond solitaire girl myself, but I think something more colourful would be Sophie’s style. Sapphire or emerald. Perhaps a cluster.’

  He stared determinedly at the display.

  ‘White-gold would suit her. Her complexion’s too cool for gold.’

  ‘We need to look at watches,’ Luke said, a shade coldly, and Angel, bless her heart, agreed with him instantly.

  She bought Harvey his ludicrously overpriced watch – Luke seriously had no idea how much had been spent on his own but he honestly couldn’t see the point of it – and dragged him round Mothercare before she finally admitted defeat. Luke smiled and chatted and explained to every single person they met that he was just a friend, and Angel didn’t mention Sophie again.

  But she was there, with them, all the time. She was there when Angel saw a pendant with a cat on it that Sophie would love. She was there when Luke saw a Buffy poster in the window of HMV. She was there when they passed the shoe department of John Lewis, from which Sophie had needed to be escorted many times before she spent her annual salary on frivolities she’d never wear.

  She was there, heaped upon his heart, weighing down every smile he summoned up.

  He drove home and packed Angel’s bags into her Mini, helped her behind the wheel and stood waiting for her to close the door.

  She bit her lip and looked up at him. ‘Are you going to marry her?’

  Luke stared at the car door and saw Sophie in white.

  She was a lunatic. She had no prospects, even when she wasn’t on the run. His family hated her. She was fast-mouthed and sharp-tongued and soft-hearted, and she’d turn his home into a lost-cat sanctuary given half a chance. She was young, irresponsible, bright, mad, and everything he’d spent his life ordering himself to believe he’d never wanted.

  He nodded. ‘Think I am.’

  She smiled, not the girlish smile she’d been giving all day but an honest, tired, slightly watery smile.

  ‘These hormones will make me cry,’ she muttered. Louder, she said, ‘Keep in touch, yes?’

  Luke nodded again, and Angel drove away.

  He let himself in, made two cups of coffee and took them down to the Ford parked outside.

  ‘Here,’ he said when the spooks inside wound down the window. ‘Surveillance is boring as hell.’

  Then he went back to his flat and stared at the wall until the white dress and the diamond ring faded from his vision.

  I called Luke but his phone went straight to voicemail. Hoping this meant he’d turned it off for security reasons, and not that he’d lost it or the phone had been compromised, I left him a message about Jack and Irene Shepherd.

  ‘We’re safe for now,’ I added. ‘We … we had to move on, but we’re safe. I’m safe.’ I paused. ‘I love you.’

  If I concentrated hard, I could almost hear him saying it back to me.

  Jack stood at the stove, cooking something that smelled delicious. This was a new sensation for me. I sometimes cooked for myself, and sometimes for Luke too, but he always maintained he was terribly institutionalised and that his idea of cooking involved the defrost setting on the microwave. I suspected this was a lie, and he just did it to annoy me, but the fact remained that the only time I ever saw men cooking was on TV.

  ‘So did you get anything?’ I asked, gesturing to the laptop as we started eating.

  ‘Got your detailed work history. Reads like a movie plot.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘A bad movie. Have you ever met anyone you haven’t ended up shooting?’

  ‘You,’ I said chasing a bit of pasta around the bowl, ‘but the day is still young.’

  He ignored this. ‘What did you tell lover-boy?’

  ‘You mean Luke? I told him our exact location. He’s sending a task force out here to catch you.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Should be here in five.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Who said I was joking?’ I sighed. ‘You done with that laptop?’

  ‘You cannot check your horoscope.’

  ‘I want to look up some news sites.’

  He gestured to me to use it, and I flexed my hacking fingers.

  Unfortunately,
while I am perfectly willing to work alongside computers, they hate me with a passion. Even Italian ones. I had to stumble through the language options and switch settings to English before I could make sense of anything, and even when I’d done that I could find out nothing useful. I ran a search for Irene Shepherd, but all I got was that she’d been found dead two weeks ago in her home in Connecticut, shot in the head by a gun that was found at the crime scene and registered to one Jack de Valera, a British-born bounty hunter whose beat was miles away in Ohio.

  A thought occurred to me, and I reached for the little care package Docherty had sent me. Fingertip and iris scans in America. A crime scene in America.

  Slowly, I typed in a few search terms. I’d need 72 hours’ notice to get an ESTA visa waiver to get into America, but once I’d got it, it was valid for two years.

  Please God, I wouldn’t still be in need of it by then.

  Quietly, without quite knowing why, I applied for authorisation.

  To cover my silence, I asked Jack, ‘What were you even doing in Connecticut?’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was in Ohio.’

  ‘But you said you went to see Irene. And she was found dead in Connecticut. And I might be a little shaky on American geography, but I’m really pretty sure they’re quite far apart.’

  Jack blinked and slowly set down his coffee. ‘I went to see her, and then I left and got on a plane, and when I landed I found out my gun had never got on the plane with me.’

  I shook my head, my airport training taking over automatically. ‘That’s impossible. You handed your gun in at check-in, yes? Then the police –’

  ‘ – were obviously intercepted by someone who got a hold of it and took it back to Irene’s house and shot her with it.’

  ‘While you were on the plane?’ I asked. ‘That’s what we call an “alibi”.’

  ‘Yeah – it’s funny, but records for that flight seem to have vanished in some kind of computer glitch. That’s what we call a “set-up”. I got on another plane and left the country.’

  I whistled. Whoever had done this was good. Scarily good. ‘You didn’t stay and try to figure out what had happened?’

  ‘Neither did you.’