I knew they were coming after me. One group of
blokes in their twenties clustered outside a pub gave a cheer as I
came hurtling past, and people stepped out of my path. Without
warning, I did a jackknife turn and sprinted across the road,
causing at least one car to brake suddenly. This time it didn't hit
me, thank God, and I kept going, darting up a side street, then
up another, now finding myself in a plush-looking residential
area of whitewashed Georgian townhouses. My lungs hurt; my
cuts hurt; pretty much every part of me hurt. This really was
turning into a bad day.
I must have run two or three hundred yards when finally I
slowed, and looked back. The street behind me was empty.
Panting with exhaustion, I stopped and leaned against a low
garden wall. Inside the house beyond I could see two middle
aged couples in the front room eating dinner. One of the men
was filling glasses with a bottle of red wine. He was laughing at
something, and I saw that the others were laughing too. Without
a care in the world. I was only five yards from them yet they
didn't even look my way.
And because I was taking the time to feel sorry for myself, I
only vaguely heard the car as it came down the street and pulled
up beside me. I thought about taking off again, but knew that
there was no way I was going to outrun them, even if I had any
strength left. I'd done too much running for one day, and it was
clear that they were suddenly very keen to re-interview me.
So I turned round, ready to tell them that I wasn't going to say
a word until they provided a better lawyer than Douglas McFee.
But, of course, I never got the chance. A blurred figure in a cap
was coming straight at me, taking up my whole field of vision, and
before I could react or even get a glimpse of his face, he punched
me once, very hard, in the stomach. As I doubled over, he
grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me onto the back seat
of a car, squeezing in behind and slamming the door shut behind
him. There was a second man in the driver's seat. He was also
wearing a cap, and without a word he pulled away from the kerb.
I tried to look at the man next to me, but now I could see that
he had a black pistol with a short barrel in one gloved hand. He
pushed it against my temple, forcing my head against the window,
and for an awful, bowel-loosening second I thought he was
going to pull the trigger. Then he spoke.
'When I pull the gun away, you're going to lean over and put
your head between your legs and keep it there,' he said evenly.
'If you try to look at either me or my colleague, then before the
end of the night you're going to die. Do you understand?'
I told him I did.
'Good.' He removed the gun and I did exactly as I was told,
instinctively closing my eyes. A second later, I felt a blanket being flung over my head and upper body. 'As long as you tell us
everything we want to hear, you'll be free in a couple of hours.'
His words were meant to be encouraging, but since I still
didn't have a clue what it was they wanted, they weren't.
14
Bolt cursed when he heard they'd released Meron. 'I thought he
waS being held on a murder charge.'
Mo shrugged. 'They said there wasn't enough evidence to hold
him.'
'How long ago did they let him go? Do you know?'
Mo asked the question into the phone. 'Literally just now,' he
told Bolt. 'A couple of minutes, that's all.'
'Tell them to see if they can see him anywhere. And if they can,
get them to arrest him again. It's essential we talk to this guy.'
Calmly, Mo relayed the information into the phone, and waited
while the officer he was speaking to reacted to it. A few seconds
passed, then it was Mo's turn to curse. 'Are you sure? In that case,
can you get some people out there looking for him? Sure, I know
you've got resource problems. We've all got them.' He pulled a
face at Bolt and made the universal hand gesture to illustrate his
opinion of the person at the other end of the line. 'Well, if you
can do something ... Sure, sure ...
blokes in their twenties clustered outside a pub gave a cheer as I
came hurtling past, and people stepped out of my path. Without
warning, I did a jackknife turn and sprinted across the road,
causing at least one car to brake suddenly. This time it didn't hit
me, thank God, and I kept going, darting up a side street, then
up another, now finding myself in a plush-looking residential
area of whitewashed Georgian townhouses. My lungs hurt; my
cuts hurt; pretty much every part of me hurt. This really was
turning into a bad day.
I must have run two or three hundred yards when finally I
slowed, and looked back. The street behind me was empty.
Panting with exhaustion, I stopped and leaned against a low
garden wall. Inside the house beyond I could see two middle
aged couples in the front room eating dinner. One of the men
was filling glasses with a bottle of red wine. He was laughing at
something, and I saw that the others were laughing too. Without
a care in the world. I was only five yards from them yet they
didn't even look my way.
And because I was taking the time to feel sorry for myself, I
only vaguely heard the car as it came down the street and pulled
up beside me. I thought about taking off again, but knew that
there was no way I was going to outrun them, even if I had any
strength left. I'd done too much running for one day, and it was
clear that they were suddenly very keen to re-interview me.
So I turned round, ready to tell them that I wasn't going to say
a word until they provided a better lawyer than Douglas McFee.
But, of course, I never got the chance. A blurred figure in a cap
was coming straight at me, taking up my whole field of vision, and
before I could react or even get a glimpse of his face, he punched
me once, very hard, in the stomach. As I doubled over, he
grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me onto the back seat
of a car, squeezing in behind and slamming the door shut behind
him. There was a second man in the driver's seat. He was also
wearing a cap, and without a word he pulled away from the kerb.
I tried to look at the man next to me, but now I could see that
he had a black pistol with a short barrel in one gloved hand. He
pushed it against my temple, forcing my head against the window,
and for an awful, bowel-loosening second I thought he was
going to pull the trigger. Then he spoke.
'When I pull the gun away, you're going to lean over and put
your head between your legs and keep it there,' he said evenly.
'If you try to look at either me or my colleague, then before the
end of the night you're going to die. Do you understand?'
I told him I did.
'Good.' He removed the gun and I did exactly as I was told,
instinctively closing my eyes. A second later, I felt a blanket being flung over my head and upper body. 'As long as you tell us
everything we want to hear, you'll be free in a couple of hours.'
His words were meant to be encouraging, but since I still
didn't have a clue what it was they wanted, they weren't.
14
Bolt cursed when he heard they'd released Meron. 'I thought he
waS being held on a murder charge.'
Mo shrugged. 'They said there wasn't enough evidence to hold
him.'
'How long ago did they let him go? Do you know?'
Mo asked the question into the phone. 'Literally just now,' he
told Bolt. 'A couple of minutes, that's all.'
'Tell them to see if they can see him anywhere. And if they can,
get them to arrest him again. It's essential we talk to this guy.'
Calmly, Mo relayed the information into the phone, and waited
while the officer he was speaking to reacted to it. A few seconds
passed, then it was Mo's turn to curse. 'Are you sure? In that case,
can you get some people out there looking for him? Sure, I know
you've got resource problems. We've all got them.' He pulled a
face at Bolt and made the universal hand gesture to illustrate his
opinion of the person at the other end of the line. 'Well, if you
can do something ... Sure, sure ...
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