by Emmy Ellis
“I should be, but that’s not it, and if I tell you, you’ll think I’m mental.”
Oliver pulled a toiletry holdall out of his bag, the loops of the cords hooked over one finger. “Well, if you don’t tell me, I can’t think anything, can I?”
Langham went over to the window. He looked out, down at the pub sign that was right there, the hare’s eyes seeming to shift on the sign’s upswing so the animal glared at him. “Fucking thing.” He faced Oliver. “In my line of business, right, there are times when a criminal has the urge to get you back, know what I mean? We always have to be on the lookout for shit like that. I don’t know, seeing them, and the way one of them stared at me and didn’t turn away—really bothered me.”
Oliver closed his eyes for a second or two then opened them. “Nope, nothing to do with you, them being here. I don’t want to probe further because we’re not meant to be working. But there isn’t anything for you to worry about.”
Hating himself for it, Langham said, “I’m going to ring it in anyway. Them out here—it isn’t right. There’s nothing for them to go and see, nothing for them to visit.”
“How do you know? Maybe they have relatives out here. Maybe—and wouldn’t this just be so amazing?—they were on their way to somewhere else, like the next city. Sorry for sounding sarcastic, but I really don’t want this kind of shit while we’re meant to be on holiday.”
“I’m sorry,” Langham said. “But I can’t shake the feeling that they’re up to no good. If I call it in—send Fairbrother a text at least—if something goes down, he’ll have probable cause to visit them and ask what they were doing around here. D’you see my point? I’ve been after those two for years and—”
He took his phone from his pocket, fired off a quick text, then waited for a reply.
Fairbrother returned with: OKAY, NOW FUCK OFF.
Now maybe Langham could relax.
“That’s that,” he said, going back to the bed. He gestured to a sign on the back of their door.
NONE OF THAT NASTY SEX IS PERMITTED IN THESE ROOMS.
“What the fuck?” he said.
“Bloody weird. See what that Simmons’ place is that woman mentioned. Can’t see it being much, what with the village being so small, but you never know.”
“I hope it’s cleaner than this place,” Langham said.
Oliver went into the bathroom then came back out, face pale. “Something’s up.”
“Shit, didn’t the channelling work? Are the dead still getting through?”
“I can still feel them. Like they’re waiting. Feels like there’s three of them.”
“We’ll go for that walk then, shall we? Might take your mind off things. Might make whoever it is trying to get hold of you go away.”
“We could try, but I don’t hold out much hope. They’re strong—stronger than me—and I’d bet you my last quid that when I’m falling asleep, they’ll sneak in.”
“If you do get anything, I’ll text the information in and we’ll keep well out of it, all right?”
“All right.”
Somehow, Langham had a feeling that Oliver knew that wouldn’t be the end of it, that the pair of them wouldn’t be able to ignore a new case if one came up. Fairbrother was well able to deal with things back at the station—he could bring Sergeant Villier in if she didn’t mind a bit of overtime—so there was no reason for Langham and Oliver to be needed. No reason at all.
Chapter Five
Jackson stared through one of the floor-to-ceiling lounge windows at Sid’s wide back. His employer strode towards his car on the driveway. The bloke had left with a gut full of cupcakes and homemade lemonade, freckles of crumbs on his tie and a smear of pink icing on his jacket lapel.
“Weird sort, your boss,” Randall said—from right behind him.
Fuck me. Move back, will you? “Um, yeah. Takes a while to get used to him, but he’s all right.”
Sid climbed into his car then reversed at breakneck speed down the drive. Jackson thought about that copper he’d seen on the way here. If he was still around and pulled Sid over, that was Sid’s problem. But what was the copper even doing out here? Had he got some tip-off or other to be on the lookout for them?
“So,” Randall said. “Down to business. I know who wants me dead.”
“Right.” Jackson shrugged and kept his gaze ahead.
Sid made a ragged turn onto the road and disappeared from sight.
“Someone who’s after your money?” Jackson asked. “A distant family member, whatever? Doesn’t matter in the long run because when he arrives, I’ll take him out.”
“Do you know who it is?” Randall had sounded amused, like he was taking the piss. Was that how the rich were, even when facing a threat to their lives? Did they think it was just a trifle or however the fuck they put it, something easily fixed, nothing to worry about?
Suppose they do. And it is nothing to worry about. He’s paid good money to have this sorted. By morning it’ll be as though it never happened. As though I’d never been here. Except that copper knows I have. Shit.
“Sid knows everything,” Jackson said. “I prefer not to. The less I know about them the better. He’s my target, someone to be eliminated, simple as that.”
“Don’t you ever feel guilty?”
“Nope,” Jackson sighed out. No one ever understood his reasoning, the way he saw things. How he could flick a switch in his head and just get on with assignments. “It’s a job. Pays my rent.”
“I see. So you don’t feel emotion.”
“Investing feelings in my line of work leads to mistakes. Do you feel guilty employing me to take him out?”
“No. He wants me dead.”
“There you go then.”
“Ah, but he hasn’t done anything to you, doesn’t plan on doing anything to you, not unless forced, I imagine. No reason why you should want to kill him.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone, I just do.”
“Why do something you don’t want to?”
He’s getting on my wick. “It’s the way things turned out.” Jackson needed to change the subject before Randall probed too hard. Found out too much about him. About Christine and how he needed to do what he did in order to right some wrongs, to give himself a sense of being useful to someone. Making someone’s life better. The fact that he wrecked other lives more often than not wasn’t something he allowed himself to think about. If he had his work to keep him distracted, he didn’t think about how Christine had almost killed him with what she’d done, with her words, with walking away. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to put me off.”
“No. On the contrary, I need this done. I’m just making sure I hired the right man for the job. Someone who might feel bad about it later isn’t something I can risk. Someone who might cause me problems by spilling secrets…”
“You did your homework in finding Sid. My boss trusts me. That should be enough.” Jackson turned around to face Randall, avoiding eye contact and staring at the skin just above the bloke’s nose. “Listen, this is what I do. I protect people, and if it means killing, then that’s just fucking tough. I don’t think about whether they have a family, whether some wife or husband will be sobbing by the end of the day. Might sound heartless, but there you go. It’s what I do. I don’t expect anyone to get it.”
Randall raised his eyebrows. “I find your career choice fascinating. You look so dangerous.”
“I am dangerous. But there’s nothing fascinating about me, mate. I do my job, get the hell out when I have the all clear, and Sid sends someone to clean up the mess and take it away. You’re safe, I’m well paid, Sid’s well paid. I go home. Eat, shit, shower, sleep, and the next day it starts all over again. I don’t discuss who I’ve killed with anyone but Sid. That make you feel better?”
“Much.”
“Any more questions?” Jackson stepped back. “We have stuff to discuss. I need to make you aware of what you have to do in order to stay safe in the future. I’m
just taking one man out. They may send another.”
“They?” Randall frowned. Two deep lines appeared between his eyebrows, and his eyes lost some of their colour.
“Figure of speech. I know as little as possible, but the bloke who wants you gone has employed someone to come here. Thought you knew that.”
“Yes, so there’s still a threat after tonight.”
“Yeah, hence me wanting you to up your security.”
“Hmm. What if we just take the main man out as well? Tonight? Solves the problem. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”
“Weren’t you listening when Sid explained all this?”
“Not really,” Randall said.
Jackson shook his head and stared at the ceiling. “Fuck me sideways.” He dialled Sid, walking to the far end of the lounge, coat tails flapping.
“Jackson boy! Ringing so soon?” Sid bellowed. “Good job I’ve got the old earpiece in because there’s a copper driving right behind me. Have me nicked if I had my phone to my ear, wouldn’t he.”
Jackson’s stomach lurched. “What copper?”
“I don’t know, do I. Some turd in a uniform.”
“Where are you?”
“Nearly in the city, why?”
“And you weren’t followed from here when you left?” Why is a pig out here?
“No. What’s the bloody matter with you?”
“Nothing. It’s all right.”
“So what did you want?”
Jackson forced himself to forget about the police. “Listen… Randall didn’t fully take in our conversation earlier. Didn’t quite get what you meant when you asked if the person who wanted him removed should be removed as well.”
“Ah, didn’t think he did. So I’m taking it another job needs doing tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Consider it sorted, but Randall needs to make another payment. Same amount. Money needs to have cleared before we progress. The usual.” A police siren screeched. “Buggering hell. That copper’s off. Probably just late for his tea. Using the old blue lights to cheat the traffic jams, the little sod.”
Thank Christ for that…
“I can’t see the money transfer being a problem,” Jackson said. “You said the last one cleared immediately.”
“That it did, but just make sure he does it within the hour, otherwise we’ll have to sort this for another night.”
“I will.”
“Hmm. Who shall I pick to help you out? Harry’s got a drug thing to deal with, and Gail… No, she won’t do.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Dean. Righty ho.” Jackson burped. “Damn lemonade. Text me when the dosh goes through. Laters.”
Jackson ended the call and turned to find Randall right behind him again.
“There should be no more problems after tonight,” Jackson said. “Payment needs sending as soon as possible, though.”
Randall smiled tightly. “I see. Good. So, would you like a tour before I make the transaction?”
“Not really. You probably weren’t listening when Sid explained the way we work either. From the plans you provided, I know where the assassin will enter, what his route through the house will be. Mind you, he won’t even manage to get in. I take it you have an office?”
“Of course.”
“On you go then. Money first, chat later.”
Chapter Six
Langham held the pub door open for Oliver and waited for him to exit. Outside, he glanced up at the sign, shivered again at the sight of the hare, then surveyed the street.
“Nice little village, this,” Oliver said.
“If you say so.” Langham shoved his hands into his pockets.
His phone seemed to burn his palm, and he itched to get it out, have a look to see if Fairbrother had texted him. He’d switched it to silent, and not having it either buzzing or ringing every few minutes was an odd thing to get used to. And how could Oliver not sense what he did about The Running Hare? Yes, Oliver knew people had died there, but something else was going on, just that Langham couldn’t put his finger on it.
“What’s up with it?” Oliver asked. “Seems a nice, quiet place to me. Just what we need. Come on.”
He walked off, and Langham didn’t need any encouragement to follow.
They strode past the shop.
“Yep, nice and quiet.” Langham observed the street out of habit, imprinting on his mind the buildings and where they stood, where alleyways were, and how many cars were parked on drives or beside the kerb of the main road.
A bike was propped against someone’s high hedge, lurching haphazardly, as if it had been left there in a hurry. He gave the garden the once-over—as well as he could, given that the hedge obscured most of it. Splashes of white, blue, and a yellowy, lime-green were visible through the hedge, and Langham held his breath. A police car, it had to be. Parked on the drive.
“What’s the matter?” Oliver stared over there. “Ah, fuck. Keep walking, man. None of our business, all right?”
“Nope, none of our business.” But it was hard not to go and see if he could be of some help.
It’ll just be a routine job, nothing major. Someone having a squabble or something and it got out of hand.
The thing was, Langham knew full well what the outcome of some squabbles could be. A woman slaughtered because her husband had seen red. A man stabbed because his wife had caught him out in an affair. Students, having come home from being out on the lash, getting into a fight that had turned into manslaughter. Things like that happened in villages, too.
Look at the Queer Rites case. A man strung up in a barn…
To stop images of that forming, Langham turned away from the sight of those familiar colours peeking through the hedge and continued walking. Fairbrother could come out here and deal with it if a detective was needed. Just because Langham was already here, surely they wouldn’t expect him to do it.
They would and you know it.
He forced one foot in front of the other. Oliver walked with his head bent, probably waiting for Langham to say he couldn’t stand it, that they had to go back and investigate. Or maybe, if something bad had happened in the house, he was fighting off the spirit who wanted to tell him all about it.
“Before you ask,” Oliver said, “someone’s dead in that cottage. It’s one of the spirits who wanted to speak to me earlier, but I’m ignoring them. I don’t want to hear it. Won’t be helping them. Not this time.”
“But you want to?” Langham held his breath.
“Yep, I want to. Just like you want to. But we won’t.”
“No, we won’t.” He let out the air he’d been holding in and took in the other cottages, the neat and tidy lawns. Another swinging sign caught his attention, and he narrowed his eyes to try to make it out. “Simmons’ Café’s there, look. Doesn’t seem like much of a café to me.”
“More like a restaurant or hotel. See? There’s hope for us here yet.” Oliver smiled at him.
They stopped beside a low wall, the top of it no higher than Langham’s knees. There was a break in it, an entry to the car park, and quite a few vehicles occupied the spaces. Simmons’ was another building that didn’t fit in here. Modern brick, white uPVC windows and doors, a slab of decking with wooden railing around it, keeping it enclosed yet open at the same time. Small fir trees in pots positioned around the edges. Wooden tables, the slat-top kind, could easily seat six apiece.
Langham spotted a sign in the window: VACANCIES.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said. “Why wasn’t this on the bloody booking agency site?” He clamped his lips together in annoyance. “Would you mind if I went in and paid for a room there? Sod shelling out twice. That pub…it’s filthy, and I don’t like it. I don’t want to sleep in a bed that might be unclean once I turn back the quilt.”
Oliver shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy. And something has to.” He grinned, probably to take the sting out of his words.
“Been that b
ad, have I?”
“Bit of a bear with a sore head.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Langham nodded. “Then let’s go in and sort our accommodation, go to the pub and sign out, then come back here. I feel for the old dear in The Running Hare, but… I just can’t bloody stay there.” An image of the sign came to mind. “And it beats me why it’s called that anyway. The damn creepy hare on the sign is sitting.”
They walked across the car park and entered Simmons’, and thank God, it was clean, smelt of decent food cooking, and Langham was comfortable. It was a far cry from the pub. Not a dull horseshoe in sight. Instead, a gleaming wooden reception desk was ahead, a young blonde woman sitting behind it, the walls decorated in tasteful dark-plum paint with black-and-white pictures of world landmarks.
Langham went up to the desk, and in no time they were booked in, a set of keys in his hand.
“Out of curiosity,” he said to her, “why’s this place called a café?”
She smiled as though she’d been asked the same question a million times. “It used to be one years ago, until my dad inherited it from his mum, Granny Matilda. We knocked it down and started all over again. We kept the name, although I keep saying that people won’t realise exactly what kind of business we are now.”
“No, I thought you were literally a café.” Langham smiled. “But still, we’ve found you, and I can’t tell you how bloody—pardon me—how pleased I am that we have.”
“Booked in at The Running Hare, did you?” She smiled again.
Langham grimaced. “We did.”
“Well, just a word of warning. She’s nice enough if you stay on her good side, but if she finds out you’ve come here… Quite a bit of bad blood there.”
“I understand. So we’ll be needing to use tact then?”
“You will. If you chose to just leave without telling her, it would be less hassle. For everyone. Not that I’m telling you to do that, of course.”