He’d slept a little on the plane and would be good until Danny arrived to pick up his share of the load.
Breathing hard, but recovering quickly, Kaine dropped into the hard-backed dining chair and worked through a well-practised seated stretching routine. He worked from the top down: neck, shoulders, arms, abs, waist, and finished with knee and ankle flexes. He’d designed the stretches specifically to maintain his swimmer’s flexibility, but they worked well enough for all aspects of his working life.
Outside, the dank grey afternoon stretched into a greyer early evening as the clouds grew heavy and dropped their load in a steady drizzle that did nothing to wash away London’s grime. After spending more than a month on France’s isolated and pristine Aquitaine coast, the shock of returning to his adopted home city both surprised and depressed Kaine more than he expected. The company he’d been keeping during his enforced holiday had everything to do with it.
Hardwicke Row, a complete city block situated on the eastern side of Bowling Street’s wide thoroughfare was bordered by Old Road to the south and Grafton Lane to the north.
The Row had been given a new set of clothes since Google Earth had taken its pictures. Builders had framed the four-storey block with scaffolding and covered the three storeys above street level with debris netting in an eye-watering shade of dayglow orange. A waste chute snaked down the Old Road side of the building. It ran from the top floor and spat its load into a skip so large it blocked the whole of the pavement and one of the lanes.
In the three hours since Kaine’s arrival, the monstrous skip had been emptied twice. Builders working flat out? Must have been part of a fixed-cost contract.
Bistro Mykonos sat in the middle of the Row.
Most of the shops on either side of the Bistro stood empty, either sold or sporting signs that boasted variations on the theme of, ‘Under New Management’ or ‘Closed for Refurbishment’. Clearly, the whole block had been earmarked for a makeover. A significant and expensive makeover, judging by the amount of ongoing building work.
The silent pub on the corner of Bowling Street and Grafton Lane, The Duke of York, should have been jumping on a Friday afternoon, but the windows had been boarded up and the punters forced to find another venue for their revelry.
Although Kaine had yet to see the place at night, he had no doubt the lights of the Shard and the London Eye would be visible over the Hardwicke Row rooftops.
Being so close to the city, the block was definitely ripe for ‘gentrification’, and the only hold-outs still running live businesses, or trying to, were the Constantines in the Bistro, and the grandly named, Findlay & Sons Turf Accountants to Royalty. The glorified betting shop window also sported one of the ‘Closing Down’ posters.
Other things that caught Kaine’s attention included broken street furniture and graffiti, although he hadn’t seen any teens hanging around on the street corners. There were no schools nearby or sinkhole tower blocks, and nowhere local for kids to hang out, like parks or underpasses. So, where did the graffiti come from? None of it suggested any skill or artistry. It wasn’t as though Banksy had made a welcome appearance to add his artistic talent to the area.
Nor had Kaine seen a single police officer pass by, either on foot or by car, despite the presence of a major police station less than two miles away. The Row appeared abandoned by the local authority, too. The litter fluttering in the light breeze and gathering in the doorways spoke volumes.
The light drizzle increased to heavy rain and visibility reduced. Kaine cracked open his sash window and kept having to wipe the condensation from the glass or risk losing sight of the Bistro.
He stretched out his arms and, still seated, ran through a few more loosening exercises. He waited. For what, he hadn’t a clue.
At 16:14, a dark blue Ford Focus pulled up outside the Bistro, double parked the car long enough to disgorge two young girls, both smiling happily. They wore wide-brimmed hats, green blazers, white blouses, grey skirts, white knee-high socks, and carried leather satchels. Pretty little things, they had dark colouring, long bubbly hair, and skipped through the front door to be greeted by their mother with hugs and kisses.
Kaine grinned in remembrance of a time when he’d return from school to the same reward. Decades ago, but the memory still had the power to make him smile. His old family home didn’t serve hot food to paying customers, but the days were always sunny, the kitchen was always open, and it always smelled of fresh-baked bread. At least it did in his memory. Nostalgia was hardly the most reliable aide memoire.
Justina Constantine took the satchels from her daughters and ushered them to a table near the window overlooking the street while Orestes filtered the car back into the near-stationary traffic. After a five-minute crawl to complete an eighty metre drive, he turned the car left into Old Road, squeezed past the skip, turned left again and disappeared into the alleyway behind the block.
Kaine turned the binoculars back to the Bistro. The girls had books open on the table and drinks in hand. The older one, Rena, wrote in an exercise book, while Kora made busy with colouring crayons. Again, Kaine smiled at the familiar memory. He was surprised to see youngsters doing what looked like old-school homework. He’d expected modern kids to be buried nose-deep in tablets and PCs.
Justina ruffled Kora’s hair, moved behind the kitchen counter, and started stirring things in pots, all the time talking to her girls. To Kaine, Justina’s smile appeared forced, but he couldn’t be certain. Maybe the reason for his presence was colouring his interpretation.
The chalk board inside the Bistro window announced the dish of the day as beef and onion stifado. Kaine’s stomach growled at the imagined deep bowls of steaming dark soup, green salad side dishes, and baskets of homemade pitta for the mopping-up exercise.
Ten hours had passed since his predawn croissants and coffee with Lara and Rollo. Hunger wouldn’t help if he intended spending most of the night alone and awake. Kaine patted his grumbling stomach.
Easy buddy. I haven’t forgotten you.
He could have popped around the corner for a pizza but stifado sounded more appetising. He’d have to wait a couple of hours until the Bistro opened, but he’d survived without food longer than that in his life. One time, behind the lines in Iraq, he’d gone without rations or clean water for five days. A short delay wouldn’t harm him.
Besides, eating at the Bistro would give him the chance to interact with Orestes and Justina Constantine and study the family close-up. He’d be safe. It was highly unlikely anybody would recognise him with the dyed hair, new beard, and green contact lenses.
Yep, stifado would make a nice warming dinner. Worth the wait. His mouth watered at the thought. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on Ryan Kaine.
He settled down with the field glasses pressed to his eyes. His stomach complained again but, this time, he ignored it.
In the Bistro, a door at the back of the kitchen opened, and Orestes entered. After shaking off his rain-soaked coat and hanging it on the back of the door, he kissed Justina. They chatted for a short while with heads close together, apparently whispering, before she waved him towards the girls. He sat with his back to Kaine, facing his daughters.
A few minutes later, Justina emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large tray laden with bowls. Orestes jumped up to help her dish out the meal from a large tureen, and the girls put away their books. Justina stood for a moment, beaming down at her family, full of maternal joy, before returning to the kitchen.
Everything appeared normal and nothing out of place.
Faced with such a pleasant domestic scene, Kaine lowered the glasses and took in the wider picture. The scaffolding, the building work, the lack of pedestrian traffic, all fused together in a single extended view, partially obscured by the now-driving rain.
The building work!
Of course.
It was there, laid out in front of him, but he hadn’t put it together until that moment. He’d been a blind fool.
&nbs
p; No wonder the Bistro’s trade had foundered. The building work discouraged the lunchtime foot traffic and drove away the evening trade. No wonder the Constantines were racing towards bankruptcy.
The building work!
All they needed was an injection of funds and Kaine could help them out immediately with that. Not a problem.
A nagging question arrived.
Why the text message?
It ate away at the lining of his empty stomach. Why had Texter pointed him at the Constantines if they only needed money and not his military skills?
The answer, when it came, struck him with the force of a stun gun.
Oh Jesus!
A diversion.
Texter wanted him in London—away from Lara!
He jumped to his feet, grabbed the mobile from the windowsill, and punched the number from memory.
Answer. Oh, God, please answer.
The call connected immediately.
“Lara?” he gasped.
“Ryan?” Lara asked, calm as you please. “Is everything okay?”
Thank God.
He took a breath. No point in scaring her.
“I’m fine, love. Can I speak to Rollo?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Why not?” Kaine snapped. “Damn it, he’s supposed to be watch—”
“Ryan, he’s outside running a circuit of the grounds. I’m in the office with the door closed. Everything’s perfectly okay here, but …”
“But?”
“Well … you sound stressed.”
“I do?”
He coughed quietly.
“You don’t sound like yourself. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m … fine. Really. Why?”
“You’re not due to report in for another hour, and what’s with the ‘love’ thing? You’ve, ahem, never called me that before.”
“Sorry, Doc. Slip of the tongue. How long’s Rollo going to be? I need to talk to you both. It’s urgent.”
“Hang on a sec, I’ll text him … Oh, not necessary, he’s just coming.”
Kaine paced the worn carpet. Eons passed, which couldn’t have been more than a minute, before she spoke again.
“Ryan, you’re on speaker. What’s the problem.”
He explained the situation and gave them his interpretation. “I’m worried Texter just wanted me out of the way. Take that on board.”
“No problem, Captain,” Rollo said, slightly out of breath. “I’m all over it. There’s been no unusual activity here, but I’ll take extra precautions.”
“Full lockdown, until I say otherwise,” Kaine said. “Or until I miss a comms report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does that mean?” Lara asked.
“It means you stay inside the villa and sleep in the safe room until the captain says otherwise.”
“What? That’s house arrest. For how long?”
Kaine sighed. “Until I return or give you the all clear.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re overreacting.”
“Perhaps, but that’s what’s going to happen. Understand?”
Silence.
“Lara, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, the reluctance clear in her low voice, “I understand. And what are you going to do in the meantime? Are you on your way back?”
On his way to the door, Kaine grabbed his rain jacket.
“Yes, I’m coming back, but first I’m want to check in with the Constantines. I need to make sure I haven’t misinterpreted the situation. If they’re okay, I’ll take the next available flight to Bordeaux. Rollo?”
Kaine slammed the door behind him.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Don’t take any arguments from the Doc. Be safe.”
Kaine ended the call and took the stairs two at a time and, at the ground floor, narrowly avoided bumping into the well-upholstered landlady, Mrs O’Halloran.
“Mr Abernathy,” she said, giving him the benefit of the full forty-watt smile, “is everything okay in your room, now?”
He tried to brush past the Irishwoman, but she defended the dark hallway with the ferocity of a Rottweiler.
“Excuse me, Mrs O’Halloran—”
“I told you before,” she said, holding her ground and offering a coquettish smile that exposed teeth stained brown by nicotine, “you must call me, Colleen. All my guests call me Colleen, so they do.”
The hallway reeked of stale smoke and the ‘No Smoking in the Rooms’ sign on the reception desk was stained as yellow as the woman’s skin. Under normal circumstances, Kaine wouldn’t have set one foot inside a place so grubby, but the room on the third floor offered the only uninterrupted view of the Bistro available, and beggars weren’t able to do much choosing.
She held an unlit cigarillo between the enlarged, arthritic knuckles of her right hand and clasped a gold cigarette lighter in the other.
“Colleen, I really must go. I have an urgent appointment with a client,” he said, giving his best travelling salesman delivery. “But the room is excellent. It’s comfortable and clean, and I couldn’t ask for more. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Behind her, car headlights shone through the frosted glass of the front door, picked out bright in the gloom of an early, cloud-driven dusk. As usual for London’s rush hour, which seemed to last most of the day, the cars barely moved. In this particular instance, the snarl-up resulted from drivers waiting for the traffic lights at the junction between Bowling Road and Grafton Lane to hit green. A car horn blared in anger. A second answered. The wild call of the driver in its natural habitat.
Mrs O’Halloran raised the cigarette to her thin and wrinkled lips, but gave no indication of stepping aside any time soon.
Somewhere outside, beyond the grimy window, a heavy glass panel shattered. A woman screamed. Girls cried.
A big motorcycle revved hard. Tyres squealed and faded quickly, but the screaming continued.
Christ!
Senses aflame, Kaine barged past the landlady, pushed her into the wall, and sprinted to the door.
Chapter 9
Friday 23rd October—Justina Constantine
Bistro Mykonos, London
With eight days remaining, Justina still had no idea what they were going to do. Each day closer to the deadline was more worrying than the last, and she found it increasingly hard to concentrate on everyday chores. All she could think of was the idea that Hallowe’en would mark their last day in the Bistro, the last day in their home. Worse still, they had yet to find another place to live.
How could they cope? Where would they go?
It was true Arana did have a spare room. Her sister would be able to take them in for a short while, but it wouldn’t be permanent. And they had no money, no savings, no future.
Justina had made a start on packing the clothes, but had barely put a scratch into the surface. They had no money for packing crates, or to pay a removals company, and nowhere to send their belonging anyway. Storage facilities were too expensive to even consider and Arana’s garage was already full. They had no one else to turn to. In Greece, it would have been different. The community would have helped, but in Kos, the same situation would not have arisen.
Oh Dear Lord, what are we to do?
Orestes kept telling her it would be all right, he’d think of something, but the deadline drew closer with the unstoppable relentlessness of the Mediterranean tides.
Pressure built upon pressure, making life evermore intolerable. She felt most upset for the girls, her innocent babies. None of this was their fault. They deserved so much better than a sad, terrified mother and a worried, guilty father.
Some days, Justina thought it would be better to close the Bistro and find work. With their culinary skills and reputation, both she and Orestes would be able to find work in other restaurants, but … where would that leave the girls? They would have to relocate to a different school. What would such upheaval do to the overly sensitiv
e Kora?
Justina put aside the paring knife—leaving the boning of the lamb ribs incomplete—and wiped her hands on a cloth. She turned, leaned her back against the kitchen surface, and took in the view for what would be one of the last times. Although not the most luxurious and up-market restaurant in London—the dining room wallpaper was tired, the tables were scratched beneath the tablecloths, and the customer-facing area hadn’t been redecorated in years—it was still welcoming. It was still a place of which they could be proud.
The Bistro had been in the Constantine family since 1957, nearly six decades. Orestes had known no other home, and Justina had lived there ever since they married shortly after arriving from Kos. Eight years ago, she and Orestes had their wedding reception within these very walls. And the girls loved their home and their school, and their friends.
So many memories.
Through the years, the Bistro had hosted celebrations and parties and delivered countless meals to smiling, satisfied customers but, within days, it would close forever.
Why? For what reason?
The greed of bullies.
She wiped away a tear before it could run down her cheek and sniffled into a tissue.
Why did life have to be so horrible? Why didn’t the Good Lord intercede to help them?
Justina scrunched her shoulders up to her ears and let them fall, but the action did nothing to ease the tension in her neck and the headache it caused. They needed a miracle, but if the Good Lord heard her prayers, He wasn’t acting on them.
She forced a smile onto a reluctant face and pinched some colour into her cheeks. The girls would soon be home from school, and they mustn’t see her upset. Instead of crying, she would smile and, what was it the English said? ‘Put up a brave face.’ Yes, that was it. A brave face for her girls.
She would hide the darkness from them for as long as possible. She would try to make their lives happy even though it was all she could do not to scream and throw her fists in the air at the injustices of life. Papa Onassis was dead, and bad men had moved against them, circling like vultures over a rotting carcase.
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 8