the land line. Gill usually called his mobile but perhaps she would call him here if she just wanted to leave a message. 'You have one new message,' intoned the BT 1571 voice. Matt jabbed his finger down on the button, but it was only some prat trying to sell a new credit card. He put the phone down, disappointed, had a quick shower, then went round the corner to the local Indian.
It was several days now since he'd heard from Gill, he reflected as he ate his food. He took a sip on the bottle of Cobra. She'd thrown wobblies before. Was it possible that this time she meant it? Can she really have left me?
The trouble is, thought Matt, she doesn't understand how little choice I have. Her world is so different from mine. In my trade, there are no resignations.
Matt smiled as he tried to remember a line from an old Eagles song, something about being able to check out at any time but never being able to leave.
If I had other options, I'd take them. Sure, I could tell Abbott to get stuffed. All my money would disappear, and never be returned. Soon afterwards, I'd lose the house and the bar. Next, they'd arrest me and Gill for murder, and the trial would be about as fair as cup tie between Arsenal and Scunthorpe United. If it ever came to a trial.
Matt took another hit of the beer. No. If I don't want to do it, I'll have to run. Get out of town, change my name, my face, start over again somewhere else. It could be done. I've heard of men doing it and getting away with it. But how much of a life is that? No friends, no family, none of the old familiar surroundings. Just a life of constant shadows and threats. You could do it, if you had to, but that was no life for a man.
Right now, I'm clean out of choices. I'll do the job, and I'll get it over and done with. There's nothing else I can do.
Inside his pocket, his phone was ringing. Gill. She never goes this long without calling, no matter how bad the argument.
'Yes?' he said, snapping open the Nokia.
'Matt?'
Because he'd been expecting Gill, it took a moment to recognise the voice. Soft, with just enough traces of her Northern roots left in it to stop her from sounding too posh. 'Eleanor?'
'I need to speak to you.'
'I'm listening.'
'No, not on the phone.' She hesitated. 'Can you come and see me? Maybe tomorrow?'
Matt turned away to face the wall: he could already see a waiter glancing in his direction, and he wanted this conversation to remain private. 'What is it? Is everything OK?'
There was a shallow, mirthless laugh on the phone. 'You mean apart from my brother turning into a homicidal maniac, then killing himself?' She paused, and Matt caught the sense that she'd had to screw up her courage to make this call. 'There's just something I wanted to ask you, OK?'
'OK, I'll see you tomorrow,' said Matt.
He put down the phone, and picked up his fork. He took a mouthful of his curry, but found it hard to swallow. Suddenly I'm not hungry any more.
FIVE
The tower of glass, steel and chrome rose high into the sky. It was on the A4 heading out to Heathrow. The dazzling noon sun caught the side of the building, sending down shafts of brightly coloured, refracted light. As Matt stepped out of the taxi, he pulled his shades down close over his eyes, wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow, and stepped quickly towards the entrance.
Stay out in this heat for more than a few seconds and you start frying like a slice of bacon.
A blast of fresh air conditioning hit him in the face as he walked through the revolving glass doors. Briefly, he could feel his head spinning as the temperature plunged. He paused, recaptured his focus, then looked across to the receptionist.
'I'm here to see Mr Lacrierre,' he said. 'I have an appointment for twelve.'
The girl looked back up at him. 'And you are?'
'Browning,' he replied. 'Matt Browning.' He was dressed in cream chinos, a blue linen shirt and tasselled loafers. She had probably thought at first that Matt was just a delivery guy. Not a man with an appointment
It was several days now since he'd heard from Gill, he reflected as he ate his food. He took a sip on the bottle of Cobra. She'd thrown wobblies before. Was it possible that this time she meant it? Can she really have left me?
The trouble is, thought Matt, she doesn't understand how little choice I have. Her world is so different from mine. In my trade, there are no resignations.
Matt smiled as he tried to remember a line from an old Eagles song, something about being able to check out at any time but never being able to leave.
If I had other options, I'd take them. Sure, I could tell Abbott to get stuffed. All my money would disappear, and never be returned. Soon afterwards, I'd lose the house and the bar. Next, they'd arrest me and Gill for murder, and the trial would be about as fair as cup tie between Arsenal and Scunthorpe United. If it ever came to a trial.
Matt took another hit of the beer. No. If I don't want to do it, I'll have to run. Get out of town, change my name, my face, start over again somewhere else. It could be done. I've heard of men doing it and getting away with it. But how much of a life is that? No friends, no family, none of the old familiar surroundings. Just a life of constant shadows and threats. You could do it, if you had to, but that was no life for a man.
Right now, I'm clean out of choices. I'll do the job, and I'll get it over and done with. There's nothing else I can do.
Inside his pocket, his phone was ringing. Gill. She never goes this long without calling, no matter how bad the argument.
'Yes?' he said, snapping open the Nokia.
'Matt?'
Because he'd been expecting Gill, it took a moment to recognise the voice. Soft, with just enough traces of her Northern roots left in it to stop her from sounding too posh. 'Eleanor?'
'I need to speak to you.'
'I'm listening.'
'No, not on the phone.' She hesitated. 'Can you come and see me? Maybe tomorrow?'
Matt turned away to face the wall: he could already see a waiter glancing in his direction, and he wanted this conversation to remain private. 'What is it? Is everything OK?'
There was a shallow, mirthless laugh on the phone. 'You mean apart from my brother turning into a homicidal maniac, then killing himself?' She paused, and Matt caught the sense that she'd had to screw up her courage to make this call. 'There's just something I wanted to ask you, OK?'
'OK, I'll see you tomorrow,' said Matt.
He put down the phone, and picked up his fork. He took a mouthful of his curry, but found it hard to swallow. Suddenly I'm not hungry any more.
FIVE
The tower of glass, steel and chrome rose high into the sky. It was on the A4 heading out to Heathrow. The dazzling noon sun caught the side of the building, sending down shafts of brightly coloured, refracted light. As Matt stepped out of the taxi, he pulled his shades down close over his eyes, wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow, and stepped quickly towards the entrance.
Stay out in this heat for more than a few seconds and you start frying like a slice of bacon.
A blast of fresh air conditioning hit him in the face as he walked through the revolving glass doors. Briefly, he could feel his head spinning as the temperature plunged. He paused, recaptured his focus, then looked across to the receptionist.
'I'm here to see Mr Lacrierre,' he said. 'I have an appointment for twelve.'
The girl looked back up at him. 'And you are?'
'Browning,' he replied. 'Matt Browning.' He was dressed in cream chinos, a blue linen shirt and tasselled loafers. She had probably thought at first that Matt was just a delivery guy. Not a man with an appointment
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