more charming than I’d realised.’
I try not to look too exasperated.
‘He’s out of surgery,’ he continues, ‘and doing well. Visiting hours are from nine am.’
I’m shocked that Arzo is on the mend. I’d have sworn his swarthy cheeks were pressed up against death’s door. ‘Good work,’ I say to O’Shea.
He pats himself on the shoulder. ‘I know.’
I check my watch. The sky outside has lightened but it’s still only seven am. The Steam Team will be open again in another hour. If I’m to venture outside though, I need some kind of disguise.
My eyes settle on the cream pillow case. It’s not perfect but it’ll do. I pull at the seams of the case, ripping it apart until it is one long strip of material. I pile my hair on top of my head and wind the fabric around it. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-wall ceiling mirror. It looks a bit weird, but it’ll do at a push until I can get hold of something better. Judging by the expression on O’Shea’s face, it’s not the most attractive look in the world but I’m hardly trying to garner any admirers right now.
‘You need to stay here until I can get you some clean clothes,’ I say.
He seems relieved. To be fair, he was almost killed yesterday and he probably still needs rest and recuperation. In fact, I’d quite like to hunker down and hide away from the world too. But more than that, I want to find the bastard who’s setting me up and who destroyed my firm. I raise a hand to O’Shea in brief farewell and return to the big, scary world.
It’s considerably busier on the streets now. Fortunately, most people are in a rush to get to work and either half-asleep or too downtrodden to pay me attention. Equally helpfully, Londoners have this habit of avoiding looking strangers in the eye so they can pretend nobody else exists. Some days it annoys me; today it could save my life. I walk briskly to the car and nobody gives me a second glance, then I drive to The Steam Team.
I arrive early, parking round the back. I’m more nervous than I’d like to admit. The remnants of my smashed smartphone are probably still on the pavement in front of Rebecca’s dry cleaners. It would be stupid to imagine that the police haven’t already been around to check the premises and it’s possible they’re still keeping them under surveillance. At least I know that there’s a back door.
I hurry down a small alleyway, then clamber over the stone wall at the end, jumping into the scrap of back garden that belongs to the shop. Whoever attacked O’Shea must have done this back at Wiltshore Avenue to avoid me catching sight of them. I smile grimly. I need to be better at sneaking around than they were.
I quickly pick the lock on the back door and let myself inside to wait for Becks. I’m relieved to spot my leather jacket and the rest of my clothes hanging up on one of the doors. As much as I like the dress, it’s impractical and, given all the crawling around and sweating I’ve been doing, it’s rather smelly. I nip into the room where I showered before and quickly change. It’s a gamble putting on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday morning but I decide it’s exactly what my pursuers – be they of the human or triber variety – won’t expect.
In the back room where the unclaimed clothes are kept, I find a spare suit that looks like it’ll fit O’Shea, and a flowery hat that was probably worn by some over-bearing mother-in-law at a wedding. It’s an incongruous look with the dark leather, but it’s a step up from the pillow case and I decide it makes me look like some kind of funky art student. I’m just adjusting it when I hear Rebecca come in.
‘I don’t know why you’re here again,’ she says.
I freeze. Shit. Someone is with her. ‘As I told you, I’ve not seen Bo Blackman for at least a month.’
‘And as I told you, I find that difficult to believe.’
It’s a deep male voice. There’s an edge to it that suggests it’s
I try not to look too exasperated.
‘He’s out of surgery,’ he continues, ‘and doing well. Visiting hours are from nine am.’
I’m shocked that Arzo is on the mend. I’d have sworn his swarthy cheeks were pressed up against death’s door. ‘Good work,’ I say to O’Shea.
He pats himself on the shoulder. ‘I know.’
I check my watch. The sky outside has lightened but it’s still only seven am. The Steam Team will be open again in another hour. If I’m to venture outside though, I need some kind of disguise.
My eyes settle on the cream pillow case. It’s not perfect but it’ll do. I pull at the seams of the case, ripping it apart until it is one long strip of material. I pile my hair on top of my head and wind the fabric around it. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-wall ceiling mirror. It looks a bit weird, but it’ll do at a push until I can get hold of something better. Judging by the expression on O’Shea’s face, it’s not the most attractive look in the world but I’m hardly trying to garner any admirers right now.
‘You need to stay here until I can get you some clean clothes,’ I say.
He seems relieved. To be fair, he was almost killed yesterday and he probably still needs rest and recuperation. In fact, I’d quite like to hunker down and hide away from the world too. But more than that, I want to find the bastard who’s setting me up and who destroyed my firm. I raise a hand to O’Shea in brief farewell and return to the big, scary world.
It’s considerably busier on the streets now. Fortunately, most people are in a rush to get to work and either half-asleep or too downtrodden to pay me attention. Equally helpfully, Londoners have this habit of avoiding looking strangers in the eye so they can pretend nobody else exists. Some days it annoys me; today it could save my life. I walk briskly to the car and nobody gives me a second glance, then I drive to The Steam Team.
I arrive early, parking round the back. I’m more nervous than I’d like to admit. The remnants of my smashed smartphone are probably still on the pavement in front of Rebecca’s dry cleaners. It would be stupid to imagine that the police haven’t already been around to check the premises and it’s possible they’re still keeping them under surveillance. At least I know that there’s a back door.
I hurry down a small alleyway, then clamber over the stone wall at the end, jumping into the scrap of back garden that belongs to the shop. Whoever attacked O’Shea must have done this back at Wiltshore Avenue to avoid me catching sight of them. I smile grimly. I need to be better at sneaking around than they were.
I quickly pick the lock on the back door and let myself inside to wait for Becks. I’m relieved to spot my leather jacket and the rest of my clothes hanging up on one of the doors. As much as I like the dress, it’s impractical and, given all the crawling around and sweating I’ve been doing, it’s rather smelly. I nip into the room where I showered before and quickly change. It’s a gamble putting on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday morning but I decide it’s exactly what my pursuers – be they of the human or triber variety – won’t expect.
In the back room where the unclaimed clothes are kept, I find a spare suit that looks like it’ll fit O’Shea, and a flowery hat that was probably worn by some over-bearing mother-in-law at a wedding. It’s an incongruous look with the dark leather, but it’s a step up from the pillow case and I decide it makes me look like some kind of funky art student. I’m just adjusting it when I hear Rebecca come in.
‘I don’t know why you’re here again,’ she says.
I freeze. Shit. Someone is with her. ‘As I told you, I’ve not seen Bo Blackman for at least a month.’
‘And as I told you, I find that difficult to believe.’
It’s a deep male voice. There’s an edge to it that suggests it’s
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