Blood Money by Chris Ryan

that the boy was still conscious, but he was breathing fast. Had he got worse?
    Alex knelt down beside him. The boy looked at him with wary eyes. The slash of blood across his shirt looked a little bigger – or was that Alex’s imagination?
    ‘I spoke to the clinic,’ he told the boy. ‘They misunderstood and they’re very sorry. They have somewhere they can look after you and would like to send you there now in this taxi. I will tell the driver where to go but you’re in control. You can stop it any time you want, and even get out if you change your mind.’
    At last the boy seemed to trust him. Perhaps it was just because he was so ill. He nodded.
    ‘If anyone asks,’ said Alex, ‘your name is Pradesh and your father is a builder from Nayla.’
    Very carefully, after giving instructions to the taxi driver, Alex helped him up off the bench. Ever so slowly, the boy climbed into the cab. He settled uncomfortably, lying across the back seat, breathing hard.
    ‘Just one more thing,’ said Alex. ‘The clinic want to know which hospital treated you so badly. They won’t use it again.’ It was a gamble; would it work?
    Perhaps the boy believed him; perhaps the fight was just draining out of him and he’d have told him anyway. He said in a quiet, rasping voice: ‘St Francis.’

17
    C LUE
    ‘I thought I was fanatical about recycling,’ said Li, ‘but this is surreal.’
    She was exploring the market with Hex and Paulo. Old clothes, used cooking utensils encrusted with grime, plastic margarine containers, plastic bottles creased from multiple use were on sale alongside sari fabrics and food. Between the big stalls, people were selling their wares from windowsills. A man stood in the locked doorway of an apartment building, shouting vigorously to invite shoppers to examine his collection of old drugs in battered packets. It was sensory overload: the shouting, the smell of people packed closely together and the heavy fug of spicy fried food.
    Paulo’s mobile trilled. As he hooked the phone out of his top pocket, a scrawny, filthy brown hand loomed up out of the crowd. For a moment Paulo thought it was trying to grab the phone, but it just stretched out like a plea, hoping for coins. An untouchable. The three friends had seen them moving between the shoppers, looking for tourists. The Indian people didn’t even seem to notice them.
    Paulo dodged the figure and looked at the caller’s number. It wasn’t Amber or Alex. The untouchable moved on to an American couple who seemed prepared to pay him more attention.
    Paulo answered the phone. ‘Hello?’
    A hesitant voice spoke at the other end. ‘Hello?’ It was high and female. Young and female. The hairs stood up on the back of Paulo’s neck. ‘Bina, is that you?’
    Li heard him and gripped Hex’s arm. Hex looked at her, startled.
    With all the yelling and the noise of frying food, Paulo could hardly make out the quiet voice. ‘I can’t hear you!’ he shouted. ‘Hang on. I’ll go somewhere quiet.’
    He began to run through the crowd, still talking. ‘Hang on. Don’t go away.’
    Li and Hex hurried behind him. Had Bina called?
    The street ended in a park. Across a large expanse of green was the white domed building. The open space was like a breath of fresh air.
    At last Paulo could hear. ‘Hello?’ he said.
    Li and Hex stared into his face. They heard the tinny crackle of talking at the other end.
    Paulo’s shoulders sank. ‘Yes, it’s me. Hello, Radha. How are you?’
    Li sighed. Hex looked down. For a moment they had both been full of hope. But maybe Radha had news.
    Paulo was talking and shaking his head. ‘No, Radha, not yet. But we’re doing our best.’ He flopped down on the grass. Then he straightened up again, listening intently. After a few moments he said, ‘Radha, that’s excellent. Can you read the number to me?’ He gestured to the others, making a wiggling motion with his hand. He wanted a pen and paper.
    Hex patted his pockets;