Best Served Cold

By Limey Lady

As the global financial crisis worsens Heather Hunter’s career is going from strength to strength. And, although her parents keep dropping hints about grandchildren, she has no intention of settling down anytime soon. Her only concession in that direction is that she has started looking lustfully at men again, even though she knows men are never as satisfactory as girls.

Sean Dwyer, meanwhile, hasn’t spared Heather much thought over the last four years. He has been too busy furthering his shady business enterprises, making bundles and bundles of hay while the sun kept on shining. Then an accidental meeting reignites old passions between the two of them.

Sean’s hated rival, Harry Williamson, came off distinctly second-best in their most recent clash. He still cannot work out what went wrong and has been licking his wounds ever since. Now, regrouped and much stronger than before, the time has come for him to strike back.

Will Heather become a statistic in the column headed “Collateral Damage”, along with many others in her sleepy old mill town? And, when the Dwyers and the Williamsons really start to slug it out, whose acts of treachery and aggression will prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limey Lady
• Release date: Apr 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370955480

Limey Lady

Here's a confession for you: I'm not sure if "Limey Lady" is a pseudonym or my alter ego. Back in 2016, when she came into being, she was definitely a nom de plume. Now, however, I am not so sure.As background, I have always written stories but, up to 2009, writing took a backseat, way behind the demands of my family and career. Then a life-changing medical condition . . . well, it changed everything for and about me. Suddenly I had/have time to spare. Suddenly I was/am churning out tale after tale.I was born in York but brought up in West Yorkshire, in part of the Aire Valley often described as "Bronte Country". I must say, though, that although most of my stories are set locally, they have little in common with the fine works of Charlotte, Emily and Anne. So far my output can be divided into two: long stories featuring ne'er-do-wells, guns and some violence . . . and shorter stories featuring "liberated" women who rarely do what they're supposed to do.Limey Lady was created to be the author of the short stuff. But the longer novels all include feisty, uncooperative females - much like her characters - so I'm going to put her name to both as I publish on Smashwords.Watch this space . . .

Book preview

Prologue

(Friday 15th February 2008)

Jonjo Blake stared through the window of the unlit portacabin, watching the snow, almost hypnotized by the sight. After a couple of hours waiting and watching the AK-47 had become an extension of his arm; it didn’t feel strange at all.

Outside the flakes swirled heavier and faster than ever. It had been coming down for a while, initially covering the tops of walls, then grassy areas and pavements. By now the building works behind the cabin were thickly covered too, along with the main road running past the site. It was the road that worried him most. A gritter had crawled past twenty minutes ago, sloshing its way through slush. There’d been sod all traffic since and the surface no longer looked slushy; it looked distinctly white.

No, it was icy white.

Jonjo glanced over his shoulder, his night vision adjusted enough for him to see the faces of his fellow trespassers. Those two weren’t nearly as tensed as he was. This was just another job for them. Kev had found himself a chair and sprawled in it, humming tunelessly. Bri was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, asleep on his feet like a horse.

Were they relaxed or what?

Okay, so lucky for them. Tonight was Jonjo’s comeback and for him relaxed wasn’t a possibility. Last time out hadn’t ended well and he couldn’t afford a repeat. Although Harry hadn’t made a song and dance about it (hadn’t even mentioned that last time had happened barely a mile from this very spot), everyone knew tonight was the big test. He had to prove he was still up with the best, and his disability couldn’t be an excuse.

No pressure, then.

Jonjo smiled grimly. He felt like a retired gunslinger, back for that final showdown. Not one in a white hat though. He hadn't retired because he'd met a good woman or found God. He wasn't forced back into action through circumstance, either. There was no murdered family and definitely no popular demand from a cowed township. His Westerns weren’t morality stories, they were dark and very blood-drenched, starring Clint and directed by Peckinpah.

Fuck the daydreams though, he was back after three years in limbo; the revival was on: Gladstone Smith first and then Joey McGuire.

No, first that frigging humming.

Jonjo’s phone rang before he could tell Kev to put a sock in it. He automatically checked the caller, even though it could only be Barney O’Brien. They were both operating new, untraceable throwaways and nobody else had their numbers.

Barney sounded mellow as always. He did occasionally flap, but you’d never know from his voice.

‘What's the snow like up in the Himalayas?’ he drawled. ‘There's eff-all down here.’

‘It’s settled feet deep,’ Jonjo lied. ‘The polar bears are moving south.’

‘I didn't think they had polar bears in Tibet.’

‘I must have mistaken the yetis, then. But forget the wildlife, what's happening?’

‘Murdo’s just been out. He made a call while he smoked his ciggie.’

Jonjo didn’t need a picture painting because he’d done half the surveillance himself. The scene was a smart-ish street near the centre of Leeds, rammed with cars and pedestrians by day, almost deserted by night. Barney would be parked a discreet distance short of the club, which would be blazing electric light in all directions. Gladstone loved casinos but this slightly less legit dive was his favourite. He called in at least twice a week to splash his ill-gotten gains.

‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said Barney. ‘Speak of the Devil, here comes Gladstone’s motor.’

Jonjo added the fancy, chauffeur-driven limo into his mental picture. It drew up to a halt in the boxed zone outside the night club. Normally the bouncers jealously guarded that box. Even the most beautiful women were swiftly sent on their way. Gladstone's driver was one of the few permitted to drop off and collect.

‘Murdo's coming out again,' said Barney, ‘checking for terrorists.’

Murdo was Gladstone’s minder, ex-military, rumoured to be ex-SAS. Jonjo believed the military bit but thought the guy strutted about too much to be SAS. He was more likely to be a reject NCO or redcap. He did, however, make a good show of being efficient, always thoroughly checking the limo before his boss got in. He’d definitely notice hijackers or bombs.

‘Here comes Gladstone.’ Barney whistled. ‘Frigging hell, bags me the black one!’

There was even less need for a painting of that. Gladstone invariably left the night club with more women than he brought. He must average about one arriving and two and a half leaving.

‘That’s it, he's in with the fanny,’ Barney went on. ‘Murdo's getting in the front. And they're off.’

‘Are you going after them?’

‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’

*****

Capper raised the partition when he saw Gladstone had company. This was more for his convenience than anyone else’s. Gladstone might not care but personally Capper didn't want to see or hear. It was bad enough catching a glimpse every time he looked in the rearview.

Greedy bastard doesn't half pick 'em!

He waited until Murdo had belted up then pulled smoothly away from the club, pretending to be cool. Although he would never admit it, Capper was concerned about getting everybody safely home. Tonight’s snow was far worse out of the city centre. Why Gladstone had to insist on Leeds in conditions like this . . .

Still, that was him all over. He was The Man. Everyone else bobbed and did what they were told. And his women did too. It was amazing what fifty grand a week could buy.

God knows how footballers turn out for training on a morning.

They glided past a disinterested police car and headed for Bradford. Ever nervous, Capper held his breath until they were out of sight. Bastards must still be eating their chips. Not that he had anything to feel guilty about; he didn’t even drink and drive anymore.

He tried not to chuckle. He'd once been the success story: a top getaway driver, one of the very best. Twenty-six major jobs without being nicked . . .

Apart from that very last time, and that had been a grass, three days after the fact. It hadn’t been any reflection on his driving. Oh no, it had been bone-brained muscle, too obvious in squandering his cut.

There was never anything wrong with my part of a job.

Capper risked another look in the mirror, wanting to double-check on that patrol car, copping a view of Gladstone getting double-teamed instead. Wincing, he studied the road behind. A single set of headlights, almost a hundred yards back, but not the police. Yet that I'm-being-followed feeling hit him again. He had been getting it a week or more now without telling anyone, not wanting to be laughed at. And not wanting to provoke Gladstone, come to that. He could be vicious, could Gladstone. Not to mention murderous.

Capper glanced to his left.

‘What?’ Murdo knew Capper was on edge without needing to return his glance.

Twat’s super-alert.

‘That Peugeot seems familiar.’

Murdo had a quick gander. ‘How do you know it's a Peugeot?’

‘Shape of the lights. I saw it behind me yesterday.’

‘And you recognize it now, in a blizzard and total darkness?’

‘Yeah, course I do. Shall I lose it?’

Murdo sighed. ‘Don't start pissing about in this stuff. It's getting icy.’

‘What if he's tailing us?’

‘He's probably just going home to his bed, like any sensible person out this late.’

‘I'll get him at this roundabout,’ said Capper. ‘Snooker him.’

The roundabout was a big one. Indicating right, Capper steered onto it and did two full three hundred and sixty degrees. Then he felt like a prat when the Peugeot, never deviating, sailed sedately through and off into the night.

‘Tosspot,’ said Murdo, laughing.

Capper took the correct exit and continued towards Bradford.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he mumbled.

Theirs was the only vehicle on the road now. The snow was getting heavier and suddenly there were no tracks to follow. Thankful for ABS, Capper moderated his speed and kept going.

After about a mile they came to a familiar blot on the landscape. Some major house builders or other had been ravishing this last stretch of greenfield for what seemed like years. Just recently the council had joined in, replacing damaged tarmac or pipes or what have you, blissfully regardless of the massive cost to ratepayers. The roadworks were half a mile long.

Capper drove this way often so didn’t need telling that three lanes had been condensed into one. Or that traffic flow was controlled by temporary lights that were starting to seem permanent. He’d seen all the signs too: the ones apologizing for delays expected to last until autumn. Not that he believed them. Last time through they’d only been delayed five minutes.

Five minutes was bad enough, delayed until autumn would be ridiculous.

Tonight his luck was in. Getting a green he immediately entered a single lane, sturdy concrete blocks either side of him, making U-turns impossible.

‘What do you think,’ he said, pointing towards flashing orange lights, very visible over the brow of the rise ahead, ‘gritter or plough?’

‘Fiver says gritter,’ Murdo replied, peering into the worsening snow.

‘It's a JCB, not a plough. And it's blocking the road.’

‘Honk the fucker. He'll move.’

Capper braked progressively, stopping a safe twenty yards short.

The JCB appeared to be empty.

He honked.

Nothing happened.

This time Murdo did turn to meet his glance.

‘Oh shit,’ they said as one.

*****

Bri had climbed into the JCB when he was told Gladstone had left the night club. He moved it into place when Barney’s commentary got to the limo leaving the roundabout. Switching off the ignition but not the lights, he jumped out and threw the keys into a distant snowdrift.

Jonjo had left the portacabin and was more tensed up than ever. He swore when he saw the keys fly off into nowhere but didn’t bawl the dickhead out. Instead he cradled his assault rifle and kept on waiting.

It didn’t take long. He could see approaching headlights even as Bri slipped away into black shadows. Forcing his breathing steady, he stayed in his hidden position, his attention focused on the stretch of road directly in front of the JCB.

Then Smith’s limo was there, halting perfectly, not the slightest hint of a skid.

Bingo!

All doubts and nerves were gone as Jonjo opened up from the rear right, loosening off thirty rounds on full automatic.

The bullets all found targets, shredding tyres, punching through metal and shattering toughened glass.

Kev was hidden to the rear left. He leapt up and ran forward as Jonjo reloaded.

Quite incredibly there was still some fight in the ambushed limo. The passenger-side door burst open and Murdo emerged, drawing his gun as he spun around.

Kev’s Uzi machine pistol spat fire, killing him before he could make his stand.

Reloaded, Jonjo closed in, only faintly conscious of his prosthetic limb moving over the snowy terrain, quickly arriving at the back driver‘s side window.

Semi-dressed figures moved inside, arms and legs tangled.

Jonjo let loose again, aiming downwards into the vehicle, firing off another thirty, going for overkill.

*****

Capper had always lived on his wits; always, always, always. Five years' bird had only sharpened his reflexes. He was unfastening his seat belt and reaching for the door handle even before the first volley of shots. Murdo's reflexes were even sharper; he'd already unbelted and yanked open his door.

‘Watch it!’ Capper yelled, ducking instinctively.

Murdo seemed to duck too. Then he threw himself out of the open door.

Capper screamed as he saw the minder's body gratuitously exploding in the courtesy light. He dived into the footwell before the same happened to him.

No! No! No!

The night was filled with thunder and breaking glass. Terrified, he crammed himself underneath the steering column, covering his head with his arms. Thunderous shots resounded inside his skull. He didn't realize they'd stopped until they started up again, from even closer in.

Gladstone’s taking the brunt of that! Him and his girls!

It was all too much. Capper tried to burrow through the carpeted floor, anything to get away.

Then everything went silent and this time he did realize the shooting had stopped.

Shaking with fear, expecting the guns to be turned his way any second, he stayed where he was.

Nothing happened.

Finally, what seemed like centuries later, hoping the men had finished and gone, he peered upwards.

The partition had been totally blasted away, together with all the external windows. Snow was swirling into the car, some flakes travelling all the way through and out again. He could smell shit and something a lot more metallic, most likely bullet impacts on bodywork.

Or blood.

He didn’t want to think about blood.

And that howling wasn't the wind; it was coming from him.

‘Gladstone?’ he called.

Still nothing happened.

He tried to get up, banging his head on the steering wheel, finding himself jammed.

‘For fuck’s sake . . .’ he gasped.

Capper counted to ten then tried again, banging his head even harder.

There was a sudden flash of white light. He squeezed his eyes tight shut. In his heart he was afraid he had stunned himself and was going down for the count at the worst possible time ever. Then he felt a savage blast of heat.

Fire bomb!

Oh fuck!!

Part One

Destiny is a good thing to accept when it’s going your way. When it isn’t don’t call it

Destiny; call it injustice, treachery, or simple bad luck.

(Joseph Heller)

Chapter One

(Thursday 13th March 2008)

It was very warm in the villa, much too warm to be intimate, really, but Penny wasn’t about to complain. She clung to her husband and they stared at each other as they moved towards the first happy ending of the day. There was no need to use words to control this; their bodies knew each other far too well to need any directions at all. Endearments, however . . .

‘I adore you, Mr Rodgers,’ she said, only seconds before their final flourish.

‘I adore you, too,’ he replied.

Their climax started to happen and they carried on through it, moving in perfect unison, gazing into each other's eyes, telling each other how much they were in love until it was finally, finally over and they’d collapsed into a giggling heap.

Leastways, she’d collapsed into a giggling heap; Geoff had come over all macho during this holiday; he collapsed chucking manfully.

‘I really do adore you,’ she said, kissing his sunburnt forehead.

‘And I really do adore you,’ he said, kissing her nicely tanned nose.

‘In that case you won't mind checking how sunny it is for me.’

‘It's been sunny every day,’ he grouched. Then he kissed her nose again and padded across the marble floor to peer outside. As he parted the heavy curtains a brilliant shaft of daylight pierced the semi-darkness.

‘Turned out nice again,’ he said, predictably.

Penny had to laugh. Never mind the weather, she could see Old Faithful was still standing up proudly; there was a streamer of thingy hanging off him, catching the light like a strand of loose spider web.

‘What's so funny?’ Geoff demanded, back in macho mode.

‘Nothing,’ she said, her heartbeat starting to accelerate. ‘But do me a favour: don't open the curtains; just hold them a little wider.’

As he humoured her the shaft of sunshine ran along the floor and up onto the double bed. She was lying where Geoff had left her but had opened her legs as wide as she possibly could. The beam of pure sunshine scampered across her thighs before illuminating her thingy; it felt like hot fingers pitter-pattering over her skin.

‘Lo, there is light,’ she murmured. ‘Come here, I haven't finished with you yet.’

Afterwards he said he was going to shower before nipping out for the papers. Old Faithful still showed frisky signs of life but she let him go; it wasn’t all that long until they'd be back for their after-dinner siesta and besides, she did want to do some sunbathing today.

This was their first ever holiday alone together and it was fantastic. They were coming to the end of week number one in Costa Teguise and were already utterly chilled. It had turned out nice every single day and they hadn't done anything that didn't involve soaking up the sun, eating, drinking or making love. In every way it was the honeymoon they had never had.

She smiled to herself as she heard Geoff letting himself out of the villa. Nipping out for the papers was his euphemism for having a fried breakfast and a pint. Not that she begrudged him his little holiday treats. She would only be breakfasting on cereal but would be ready for a pint herself by the time they got to the pool. And calories certainly weren't a consideration just now; not given the way they were going at each other in the bedroom.

Penny got up and made her way to the shower, marvelling at how relaxed she was. Before the holiday she'd been afraid she'd spend every minute worrying about the terrible things Jamie might be doing to her lovely home. As it turned out it hadn't been like that at all. Of course her peace of mind was helped by knowing Sandy and Becky were both back from uni for Easter. The girls would make sure their brother behaved and kept revising for his GCSEs.

Or maybe the other two were making sure Becky didn't throw any wild parties . . .

She couldn't quite remember how she’d left it.

Whatever, she was speaking to Sandy every day and there hadn't been any emergencies so far.

And anyway, who cares? Fiddlesticks to emergencies; I’ll worry about emergencies after the holiday.

*****

It wasn’t quite so sunny and warm two and a half thousand miles away, in the not-so-quaint market town of Bingley. Heather Hunter did, however, have reason to smile. There had been yet another round of promotions at West Yorkshire Bank; another very favourable round as far as she was concerned. As planned long ago, she was catching up with her closest, sexiest colleague, even as she clung onto her coattails.

And she was catching up legitimately too, through good, old-fashioned hard work. She had every reason to be pleased with life.

Most of Heather’s new accountabilities had been assumed back in February. Today was official Handover Day. It was also the day when she officially stopped being Victoria’s personal assistant and warranted a PA of her own . . . assuming she ever got round to appointing one. Right now her everyday possessions were being physically moved and she was very much under the movers’ feet. Making it time to get out of their way.

Humming cheerfully, she strolled along the third floor central corridor and went into Vic's new, mega-impressive and freshly refurbished outer office.

‘This is the first time I've seen the finished version,’ she said, looking appreciatively around. ‘It’s very nice.’

Vic's new PA, Nina, grinned at her saucily. ‘What, me or the decor?’

Heather’s smile widened. Talk about being appreciative! Nina was twenty-four with long blonde hair, even longer legs and yes, she looked very nice indeed. As she was, in her own words, well on the lezzie side of bi. Heather couldn’t fail to approve of the girl. ‘Both,’ she said. ‘Is her ladyship in?’

‘But of course. She's expecting you.’

The inner office was much bigger, although decorated and furnished in a similar way to Nina's den. The only obvious difference Heather could see was the meeting table by the window and a large video conference screen opposite Vic's embarrassingly tidy desk. Vic broke away from her telephone call and pointed to the plates of sandwiches and jugs of tea and coffee on the table.

‘Help yourself. That's our elevenses.’

‘There's enough for eleven. Are others joining us?’

‘No, just us,’ Vic said, waving her towards the food and going back to her call.

Heather peeled the cling-film from one of the plates and tucked into the beef and salad before pouring two cups of coffee. She was pulling the film from another plate, eager to get at the salmon and cucumber, when Vic rang off and joined her.

‘How’s the move going?’

‘They’ve told me to bugger off out of the way for a couple of hours.’

Vic frowned. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re camping down here. I’ve a million things to do.’

‘Don’t worry. I only plan to snack with you. I’ve a meeting with Joanna in half an hour.’

‘Good.’

Heather picked a second salmon sandwich and used it to gesture round the room. ‘I like your new digs. They are très tasteful. I'll have to get your old place made over like this . . . if the removal men ever let me back in.’

‘Make sure you submit your CAPEX quickly then. The purse strings are about to tighten.’

Heather raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought everyone agreed that this Credit Crunch wasn't really going to happen?’

‘Everyone did . . . last month. But now I’m beginning to have my doubts.’

Heather noted her lover’s uncharacteristically creased brow. ‘What’s changed?’

‘Hmmm, let me think. There’s been an emergency bail-out for one of the major American banks. The Dollar’s hit an all-time low against the Euro. Dow Jones and FTSE have gone into meltdown. Sub-prime skeletons are jumping out of closets everywhere you look . . .’

‘So there’s nothing new, then,’ Heather took yet another salmon and cucumber, ‘apart from that teeny bail-out. That was a bit of a surprise.’

‘Teeny? It surprised everyone on the top floor.’

‘Something like that had to happen in the States sooner or later. At least it'll give those lazy reporters something different to talk about, instead of Northern Rock.’

‘Never mind Northern Rock,’ Vic countered, ‘the media are starting to criticize bankers' bonuses. I was in the Board Meeting this morning. There were suggestions WYB should set an example.’

‘You don't mean . . .’

A knock on the door made them both turn. It was Nina, brandishing a blue envelope. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ she said brightly, ‘but I was told I had to hand-deliver this straightaway.’

Vic took the envelope although she didn't seem in any hurry to open it. ‘Do you want to take some sandwiches with you? Before this fat pig eats them all?’

‘Do you mean Ms Hunter?’ Nina chuckled. ‘I've never seen anyone less fat, except maybe you.’

Heather smothered a laugh. No doubt about it; Vic was taking an interest in her new PA's bum while, seemingly unaware, she loaded sarnies and a couple of slices of pork pie onto a plate.

No way does that girl have to fret about her figure. Not unless she thinks she’s too skinny.

‘Quick question,’ Heather said mischievously. ‘Honestly, Nina, who do think is slimmest between the two of us?’

‘There can’t be much in it.’ Nina shrugged, her chest moving in a slight but intriguing way. ‘I'd have to see you side by side, in the altogether.’

‘We can't really do that in working hours, unfortunately. Let’s save it for the next team-building event.’

‘Okay,’ the new PA said, leaving, ‘suits me.’

Vic waited until the door closed before saying, ‘Hands off, you.’

‘My hands haven't been anywhere near her. I wouldn’t dare, even if she does fancy me. And even if she’s not your usual type.’

‘Don’t stereotype me.’

Heather shook her head pityingly. ‘Have you?’ she wondered.

‘Have I what?’

‘You know what. Have you?’

‘No I have not! It wouldn’t be ethical. Besides, I don't even know if she does.’

‘I’d bet all those bonuses she does. I more or less invited her to a threesome then. And did she turn a hair?’

‘You don’t like threesomes.’

‘I wouldn’t mind having one with you and her.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, but that doesn't mean she isn't still out of bounds. Like your own PA will be out of bounds. If you ever get round to appointing one.’

‘Oh, we’re back to that, are we?’ Heather let herself laugh out loud this time. Part of their master plan was to avoid relationships with other workmates. This wasn't really an inconvenience, but she often made out that it was . . . and occasionally ignored it, come to that.

‘You big spoilsport,’ she went on. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me I can forget my bonuses as well.’

Vic opened the envelope and read the flimsy sheet of memo paper inside.

‘Mr Carmichael has gone back to basics,’ she said. ‘He must be afraid emails might fall into the wrong hands and end up on BBC News. Here, have a read for yourself. But remember: it's supposed to be for my eyes only. Not a word to anyone.’

Heather flicked down the personally addressed, numbered memo, taking in the instruction at the top to SHRED IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING. The stark message was that, as of right now, the Bank was tightening its lending policies. Half a dozen immediate examples were bullet pointed.

‘

I don't see the need to be cloak and dagger,’ she said. ‘These look like sensible steps to me; with us being responsible lenders, that is.’

‘They are sensible. And WYB doesn't need to take nearly as many steps as most. But they are also steps in the wrong direction for ambitious souls. Look at the way he’s highlighted buy-to-let. Some lenders have been using buy-to-let to rewrite their accounts. From now on we’ll be lucky if we do any of that.’

‘I’m confused. I thought we were paid on profitability, not risky sales.’

‘Not where we’re aiming we’re not.’

‘Isn’t everything supposed to filter down?’

Vic snorted. ‘I finally got to see the calculations. It’s ninety-nine per cent sales-driven. Real profitability hardly gets a mention.’

Heather had another look at the flimsy blue paper. ‘So these tiny changes will cut all the exec bonus payments?’

‘They’re bound to. By being even slightly responsible we’ll be less competitive and lose business. The calculation is quite simple at the top. Less business equals lower bonuses. And the really big bonuses are paid for achieving really, really irresponsible targets in the first place.’

It was hard to be surprised but Heather tried. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Another illusion shattered.’

‘Yes,’ said Vic. ‘And that's before they start on bonuses as a separate issue.’

‘So is it time to review your plan?’

‘It's our plan, not my plan. And no, we’re nowhere near that yet. It’s only the rewards that are moving, not our actual goalposts. We are bang on track, so we continue. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Heather said after barely a moment's thought. ‘No need to panic. In a couple of years we’ll be joking about how jittery everyone got. And what’s the worst that can happen if there is a crash? We might have to work a bit longer to earn our millions. So what? Global shopping can wait.’

*****

Penny got out of the shower and examined herself in the full length mirror. Not bad for nearly forty, she concluded. Regular gym sessions were still paying dividends. And her boobs hadn't changed since she'd been a teenager. At one time she'd fretted because they were on the small side; nowadays she was glad they were springy and pert. A lot of women her age weren't nearly so lucky.

She pulled a face at herself in the glass. She liked what she saw and most of the men around here did too. She could feel eyes on her every time she went out of the door, never mind when she stripped down to her bikini at the pool.

She wasn't looking for a new man though; she'd had one of those ever since Geoff ditched his law degree and concentrated on being a good father and loving husband. Or to be more precise, ever since he’d ditched his degree course and pretended to cut down at work. He was still doing far too much and she was still keeping a weather eye on the trusty stress barometer known as Old Faithful.

This time she didn't need to pull a funny face to produce a smile. The thought of what she might look like pregnant was enough.

Having a baby had been Geoff's idea, but it was starting to grow on her. Although she wasn't totally convinced, not quite, she’d got to the stage where she was starting to forget most of the big arguments against. And that dreaded motherhood redundancy was nearly upon her; two more years and her nest would be empty, even Jamie would be gone.

Having a baby was not, of course, about doing something to keep her from being bored. The idea had much, much more to it than that. And Geoff's claim (that a baby now wouldn't be in any way divisive) did make sense. But it was a big step and she still wasn’t absolutely sure, even if she was slowly beginning to believe.

Just as well, really, because they’d agreed to do without contraception for the holiday. The idea had been to let Mother Nature have the last word: a fortnight to decide, that sort of thing. And they really had been bonking like crazy from the moment they’d got here. At the rate they were going they’d give dear old Mother half a year’s decisions to make in just fourteen days.

Yes or no? Penny wondered. And does it matter if it doesn’t happen here on the island?

Secretly she was sure she was going to catch. The thrill of making love without protection was such that she simply had to. After all the years of making love and trying not to create, she’d been astounded by the difference. She and Geoff must have tried absolutely everything to improve on perfection whilst missing that simple trick.

Yes; that’s going to be the answer. Yes, yes, yes.

Penny had pulled on her skimpy bikini bottoms and was fastening the top when Geoff got back, every inch the Englishman abroad. While she had prepared with plenty of sunbeds Geoff hadn't bothered, so he had the red, blotchy skin to prove it. He was sockless, wearing black size twelve Nike trainers that looked enormous, and baggy Union Jack shorts. His white Fred Perry T-shirt was the one stylish thing about him, but even that only served to highlight his burnt patches.

She chuckled at the spectacle. Under his right arm he’d tucked copies of today's Daily Mail and what looked like the Star. To complete the picture he was sporting a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a baseball cap with Bart Simpson on it. Luckily for him, he had the cap on the right way round; if he'd been wearing it backwards she might have had to make him eat those awful shorts.

‘Something strange just occurred,’ he said.

‘Don't tell me: you passed a bar without stopping for a big beer?’

‘I said strange, not miraculous.’ Geoff's laugh was less hearty than usual. He looked puzzled.

‘Go on,’ she said, oddly unsettled.

‘I was walking across that car park before you get to the plaza. Do you know where I mean?’

‘On your right going down,’ said Penny, visualizing dazzling white buildings under the bright sun.

‘That’s the one. I was crossing it and this delivery van came at me out of nowhere, like they do round here. So I went to break into a casual sprint to get out of the way . . . and nothing happened.’

‘What do you mean, nothing happened? Did the van hit you?’

‘No it missed. The driver even had time to shout Bloody tourist at me in Spanish. It's my legs that didn't happen. They didn't want to work.’

‘You probably panicked and got rooted to the spot.’

‘It wasn't like that. All of the rest of me started to set off, but my feet wouldn't do their bit. It was weird, as if they'd had a power cut. I very nearly fell over.’

Penny looked at him more closely, seeing how seriously off-kilter he was.

‘Let's have a look then,’ she said, suddenly worried. ‘Which foot was it?’

Geoff thought a moment. ‘I tried to push off with my right. But my left didn't do what it should either.’

Penny examined his offending right leg first, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Then she did a like-for-like, comparing ankles, calves, knees and thighs, right with left, without seeing any difference. To her touch everything felt exactly as it looked: healthy and normal. Geoff tried bending and flexing while she squeezed and prodded and again, nothing seemed in the least bit peculiar. At her prompting, he stood on tiptoe, hopped on both feet then ran on the spot; all seemingly as good as ever.

‘You must have imagined it,’ she concluded, ‘or had a touch of cramp.’

‘I didn't imagine it. And it definitely wasn't cramp. Maybe I really did run out of power. Maybe your demands are wearing me out.’

‘Oh I see what you mean; it’s my demands?’ She grinned as she picked up her beach bag. ‘Does that mean I'll be coming back for a siesta on my own?’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘I'm sure it's nothing to bother about.’

They left the villa and stepped out under a cloudless sky of the deepest blue. It was hot and, as usual, quite pleasantly windy. Occasional gusts of dry air kept reminding Penny it was time for that first, ice cold beer. By the time they reached the poolside bar Geoff's strange experience had entirely slipped her mind.

And so it should; they'd come for two weeks of relaxation, not fretting.

Besides, there was nothing to worry about anyway.

Was there?

Chapter Two

(Thursday 13th March 2008)

Angel usually wore biker's boots, torn, oily jeans and offensive T-shirts. Today he was wearing smart new Nike trainers, stone-washed Levi's and the latest England top. He'd left the dark grey Aran sweater in the car. It wasn’t Easter yet but the sun was cracking the flags, bringing day-trippers out in droves. All of the benches outside The Sloop Inn were rammed.

Blending in (in his own mind, at least), he leant against the whitewashed pub wall and downed yet another Guinness, admiring some of the less wrinkly flesh on view. The trouble with St Ives was definitely the age of the totty. Then again, he was respectable today, wasn’t he? Even if there had been a few sets of teenage tits to leer at, he’d have had to ignore them.

Fuck it. Concentrate on the beer.

Angel scowled as he had another swig. It was ten years since he was briefly exiled down these parts, but he still remembered the quality of the beer. Wreckers used to be okay but all the other ales tasted like cat piss. Failing Wreckers it was lager or the black stuff for him.

After four pints he moved on, walking up bustling Fore Street, not reacting when regularly jostled. He was always on his best behaviour in Cornwall. He knew the rules and, because he liked the Far West, he didn't want to get thrown out and barred . . . or even noticed.

The exile seemed like a lifetime ago. There had been a misunderstanding with some rival bikers from Lancaster. Miserable bastards hadn’t had any sense of humour. In fact they had resumed the War of the Roses over a measly five kilos of grass. In less than a week the Yorkies had lost two good men, and four or maybe five of the Red Rose lot had gone to that great Harley scrapyard in the sky. Rumour had had it that Angel was next. And, because he’d screwed up with the grass in the first place, his best mates hadn’t been exactly rushing to protect him. A distant cousin in Exeter had looked like a sensible option.

Make that a hard-working, law-abiding cousin, who hadn’t really wanted anything to do with him.

Good job he was thick-skinned, wasn’t it?

Angel had soon abandoned the cousin and got his own place. Then, about a month in, he'd hooked up with a semi-serious motorcycling club: a little soft dealing, mostly hard biking, that sort of shit. None of them had been in any way gang members. He'd made some sound, if unlikely mates . . .

Those old friendships in a roundabout way explained this return trip.

Angel took a right turn and went up, up, up and away from the crowds. While Fore Street was narrow these backstreets were narrower still. They eventually gave way to a footpath which got ever steeper. As he climbed higher and higher the sound of millions of milling tourists faded, being replaced by the regular cawing of gulls. Gritting his gapped teeth, he pressed on, his breath coming in hot wheezes.

And he liked this place! He must be fucking mad.

Fifty yards from the top of the world's nastiest hill he reached a short, almost flat stretch and stopped, oblivious to the picture-postcard view of quaint rooftops and all the sparkling waters of the bay. His heart was hammering as if he’d run a marathon.

This is where it had happened.

Angel had been with two of his new mates but he’d left them. Or rather they had chosen to leave him, bored as Debbie in Dallas, twiddling his thumbs in a chip shop while they fried his haddock to order, as chip shops seemed to do everywhere south of Barnsley. Figgs had carried on up here with Mansell; Figgs the very-early-retired solicitor, would-be hippy and amateur dealer.

And that cunt from Penzance must have been following, waiting for them to split up . . .

There had been nobody about then and there was nobody about now. Not that there was anything so unusual about that. Pedestrians swept up and down here in waves, like they were drawn by the moon, in peaks and troughs and what-have-you. A one-legged seagull stood on a wall, regarding Angel with beady black eyes. Otherwise he was alone.

‘I'm back, Figgs,’ he said softly, almost whispering. ‘And this time I know where the cunt lives.’

*****

The Zafira was in Trenwith Car Park, fully paid up. This time of year Angel could have parked lower down, closer to the harbour, but Figgs had been killed in July, when the place was buzzing and parking slots were endangered.

Sentimental reasons, then.

As he drove away he passed a prowling police car without fear. The local cops were keen on drink driving but wouldn't randomly stop you if you looked legal. And Clarky and Sean had made this fucker legal all right. It would check out as belonging to a guy from Watford. Just like his fake ID.

Not given much choice by the one-way system, he took the scenic route away from St Ives, cruising over tame-looking moors, finally joining up with the tail-end of the A30 at Penzance. The sun had set and night was drawing in as he pulled up in the main car park on the front, just past the last railway station in England.

Or possibly it was the last railway station in the whole wide world.

He and Riggs had done the deal here ten years ago, while Mansell waited in the car. There were hundreds of slots but he was sure he’d got the same one. It was close enough to the sea to hear ropes twanging on moored boats. Carlos had been waiting for them. He’d taken their money and wished them well.

What a two-faced cunt.

Angel put on the Aran sweater, wanting to keep up appearances. Besides, it had got cold since the sun had gone, and there was a sea fret coming in. Taking care to pay and display, he left the motor and walked back towards the station, winding up at The Longboat, shaking his head at the mile-long sentence in gibberish above the door.

It was probably Cornish for Fuck off you Yorkshire bastard, but who cared?

The pub hadn’t changed over the years, although the barmaid looked slightly younger. He had two leisurely pints of lager and a piss before walking along the prom, stopping for chips on his way, much too impatient to wait for them to fry a fish, thinking vengeful thoughts as he ate.

Figgs had been doing small deals with Carlos since God was a lad. In fact Figgs had been nipping into Cornwall to buy pot since law school. It was, after all, the home of smuggling. He had simply dozens of contacts, mostly in the nearer places like Looe. Angel had needed an income, however, and Carlos was far and away the best man for volumes. So, despite his relatively remote location, Figgs had made an introduction and Carlos’ turnover had got bigger and bigger.

Or at least it had until he got greedy.

And Angel fucked up.

The mistake had been basic: of falling into a routine. After making a purchase him, Figgs and Mansell almost always nipped over to St Ives for a drink or six. Like nearly every time. Somehow Carlos must’ve found this out and made his sneaky way to The Sloop. He could not have possibly have tailed them close up on those roads. No, they’d have spotted a tail and besides, it had become apparent afterwards that he hadn’t known where they’d parked.

According to Mansell, Carlos had intercepted him and Figgs on their way up the footpath, demanding back the three grand’s worth of gear he'd just sold them. Carlos had been a lot more youthful than his two victims, and reasonably well-built. He had also brought along an equally ugly clone as back-up. The clone had ignored Figgs and gone straight for Mansell, who really shouldn’t have been there. When he tried his best to resist he’d almost immediately keeled over. The heart-attack-in-waiting hit him far quicker than any mugging bastard.

But that had only been half the story. When Figgs pushed past Carlos, desperate to help Mansell, he had got stabbed; just once, but fatally.

The gear was still in Figgs' motor when Angel retrieved it. Hours later, when the Pigs finally let him go, finally realizing he wasn’t going to tell them anything.

Now he strolled past several vaguely-remembered pubs before stopping at The Bath Inn for another pint and piss. Carlos had vanished off the face of the earth after the killing. The police didn't seem to have ever suspected him, but plenty of others did, most of them living a hundred miles away in Devon. He had bided his time before resurfacing.

But he hadn’t bided long enough. These were insular parts down here; word tended to get around.

And so it had, ultimately reaching the still-ailing Mansell, who was still as outraged about Figgs as anyone.

*****

Nowadays Carlos lived in Newlyn, frequenting the three less touristy pubs. Angel (who was always going to be noticeable, however conservatively he dressed) didn't want to be remembered, so he couldn't go into the Swordy or Star. He did risk The Dolphin though, knowing it was bigger and liable to be busy. Entering at the lower, quieter level he bought a pint and had yet another piss, glad to pissing faster than drinking at last. That would stand him in good stead.

Appreciating the subdued lighting, he casually drifted to the upper level.

There were three or four main groups around the large bar, loosely intermingling. The nearest looked to be fishermen who were swearing and joking in unmistakeably Hull accents. The farthest group included women, who were swearing and joking in pure Geordie. Between them were Jocks, who were a lot easier to understand: at least they were swearing and joking in English.

Carlos was in the middle of the farthest group, but Angel didn't make an approach. Just seeing him there was enough.

Leaving the pub, the former-biker walked on into the village, going around a sharp, uphill bend before finding the correct terraced backstreet. And, as backstreets went, it was very convenient. He could walk up the front, round the top end and down the rear. Both front and rear of Carlos's tiny cottage were unlit and uninhabited to a seemingly casual glance.

Angel’s grin grew wider. The back of the terrace was very private. It had few windows and lots of little alcoves crammed with recycling bins. Carlos’s door was well-sheltered from prying eyes. It took all of five seconds to spring the Yale lock and slip inside.

Thank fuck he’s in the pub. It would be a bastard waiting outside in that mist.

Angel stood stock still for the first few minutes, listening and acclimatising. He was as good as certain Carlos lived alone and hoped his neighbours hated him. Nothing was ever guaranteed though. Not until he was sure nobody had heard and was coming to investigate.

Finally satisfied, he took in his surroundings. There were lights burning after all; you just couldn’t make them out from the street, not through the heavy drape curtains. Once inside it was easy to see that downstairs was one big space, split into two by more drapes hanging from a brass pole on the ceiling.

Angel had landed in the kitchen, which was 1980s MFI but in reasonable nick, maybe because the lazy bastard never cooked in it. The other two-thirds of downstairs was a lounge that wasn't so much of a tip, even though it was crammed full of lobster pots, hippy ornaments and fluffy pouffes. It was hard to say exactly what style prevailed: flower child or fisherman. The walls were rough, plaster-free granite covered with psychedelic prints and a healthy scattering of glass floats. A fossilised, bloated fish was suspended from a high beam, hotly pursued by a set of shark’s jaws.

Must have bought it furnished and not changed a thing.

Angel feared no man and hadn’t bothered arming himself. He did now, however, take time to check for makeshift weapons. There was nothing to worry about in the kitchen; no convenient set of super-sharp knives or carelessly discarded rolling pin. Not much in the lounge either (apart from a heavy blue ashtray) and no sign of the usual dealer’s guns and machetes. This was going to be more of a doddle than he had expected.

No, make that even more of a doddle.

Overcoming the vague desire to make more water, Angel took up position by the dividing drapes and waited. And waited and awaited . . .

And what the fuck was that!

For a moment he thought he’d imagined the noise. Then it came again, even louder, the angry sound of some roaring beast. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but wherever it was, it was close.

What is it, a fucking sea monster?

Maybe ten furious roars later he realized it was just a foghorn. He laughed shortly. So that’s what they sound like. Scary, if you didn’t know. And why should he know? You didn’t get to hear many foghorns in Bingley. Or in Exeter, come to that.

Then he heard another sound; a key in a lock. Carlos was coming in through the front. Pleased he’d left himself the choice, Angel hid on the kitchen side of the drapes.

Carlos had company. Judging by the accent, he’d fancied a little Geordie company for the rest of the evening. Not that they were doing much talking. He got mouth-to-mouth with her before the door shut in their wake, probably wanting to stop her endless gabble.

Fat chance of that; it obviously took more than a gobful of tongue to keep this girl quiet.

‘Come on,’ she gushed. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

‘Let's not,’ said Angel, grabbing her and slamming her head into the wall.

‘What the fuck!’ Carlos yelled.

And then yelled some more as Angel pitched in with both fists. Reasonably well-built or not, the dealer hadn’t a prayer. He was quickly beaten to his knees then kicked to the floor.

And kicking the cunt hurt! Angel tried to