Long Time Lost by Chris Ewan Page A

an unofficial book for a handful of friends, but within a few years he’d gone legit. Business was good and the profits were encouraging, but as his outfit matured and the stakes grew higher, one thing never altered: the numbers always remained on his side.
    Until, that is, he began taking bets that weren’t really bets at all. Until a certain criminal gang in Manchester with a sideline in recreational pharmaceuticals made him an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse. Until, in short, he laundered drug money through his three high-street betting outlets in return for not being beaten, or stabbed, or, ultimately, killed.
    At the bidding of a series of increasingly scary men, Clive had attempted to manipulate his precious numbers and the numbers hadn’t liked it. So they’d rebelled.
    Two years ago, the police had come calling with a warrant to take a look at Clive’s business records. They had forensic accountants at their disposal who were able to see exactly where the numbers were giving him away.
    Clive was presented with a choice: testify against the drug gang and spend a lifetime in witness protection, fearing constant reprisals, or spend eight to twelve years behind bars, locked up with the same men who would be convicted on the basis of his skewed record-keeping.
    The odds weren’t good either way. The numbers looked very bad indeed. Until a third, previously unheard of opportunity presented itself.
    Which had led Clive to Hamburg, courtesy of the man who called himself Nick Miller, but who, it now turned out – by virtue of the Sky News channel on the cable TV in the laundrette below his apartment – wasn’t called Miller at all.
    Life in Hamburg had been tough from day one. Clive spent his days lonely and isolated, afraid to make any meaningful connections in case he somehow gave himself away. He existed in a constant state of anxiety, terrified in one moment that the British police would somehow locate and deport him, and in the next that a member of the gang he’d betrayed, and whose assets had been seized along with the rest of Clive’s business, would track him down and take revenge.
    In the early weeks of his stay, Clive had sought refuge among the tawdry distractions of the nearby Reeperbahn – the all-day nightclubs, the live sex shows, the dive bars and prostitute booths – but soon, even those had lost their appeal. Now, he ventured out as little as possible, spending long days in his miserable flat, which had a major damp problem courtesy of all the steam from the laundrette, and which, in turn, aggravated his asthma.
    But the real problem was that Clive’s precious numbers had been forbidden to him. Nick had said that he couldn’t get back into the betting game because he had to lead a different life now. And though Clive could appreciate the logic of it, could even, deep down, acknowledge that it would be close to impossible to get a piece of the Hamburg numbers action anyway, he also couldn’t deny the need that was bubbling inside of him.
    The numbers had been calling to him, whispering in his ear. They’d been telling him to go somewhere else. Somewhere hotter. A place with an expat British population. Spain, or maybe Portugal. But some place, anyway, where he could start small, test the water, build anew.
    And now, he was sure, he’d found a way to get there. A number would be his salvation.
    Two hundred and fifty thousand.
    That was the sum he’d specified to Connor Lane. That was the amount that would fund his escape.
    The only problem had been how to collect, since a bank transfer was definitely out. Nick had Hanson monitoring all Clive’s accounts. So cash on delivery was the only option. And anyway, Lane had wanted someone there when Nick showed up.
    Another betrayal. Clive felt a twinge of guilt. Nick had helped him to begin with, there was no denying it, but his rules were suffocating him. He lived on a few measly euros a day, earned by cleaning the offices of an international