‘And you’re walking again,’ Clark said. ‘Last time I saw you, you were still in the chair.’
Katherine smiled and nodded. The pain in her abdomen and hip was a constant reminder of the bullet that tore at her stomach, but she had been stronger than the pain and her recovery had been swift. ‘The walking cane is just for show,’ she said. ‘I barely need it.’
‘Some days you rely on it,’ Scott said. ‘I’m sorry, Ann, but please, why are you here? You can’t have come all this way after eighteen months just to ask about our health.’
Clark drank some coffee and shook her head. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ she said. ‘But partly, I did want to come and see how you were doing.’
‘Pat Wilson wouldn’t have allowed you a social call, surely?’
‘Wilson’s retired,’ Clark said. ‘He sends his best wishes. We have a new guy in charge of the division. Robert Mann. Nothing like Wilson. Tough as nails. But no, seeing how you are is just a by-product.’
She opened her folder and withdrew a photograph. ‘I wanted to show you something,’ she said.
Katherine raised her glasses from the chain around her neck and Clark handed the six-by-eight photo to Scott.
‘Do you recognise him?’ she asked.
Scott studied the photo. The man was tall, slim, dark hair and eyes, deeply sun-coloured skin, a hard look on his face. He wore a heavy winter jacket in the photo and carried a duffel bag. ‘I don’t think so,’ Scott said. ‘Should I?’ He handed the photo to Katherine.
‘That’s what I’m here to determine.’
‘Who is he?’ Katherine asked.
‘His name’s Miguel Fernandez,’ Clark said, ‘but he also goes by Ortiz and Salazar.’ She paused, allowing time for any recognition. ‘Do those names ring any bells?’
‘Means nothing to me,’ Scott said, and Katherine agreed. ‘Do we need to keep an eye out for him?’
Taking the photo back from Katherine, Clark placed it back in her folder. ‘It’s unlikely you’ll ever see him. We just wanted to make sure you hadn’t already crossed paths with him.’
‘Is he related to the business with David?’ Katherine asked.
Clark nodded. ‘As far as we can tell, yes.’ She held her coffee mug in both hands and said, ‘He’s a Spanish national, ex-army turned hired hand. Our Interpol counterparts in Spain had been tailing him last year but never had enough to pin on him. He was jailed last month for a minor, unrelated misdemeanour and was released two days ago.’
‘He isn’t coming to England, is he?’ Scott asked.
‘We don’t know as yet,’ Clark said. ‘The same day he was released, Spanish officials picked up some chatter on a monitored Internet portal. It was nothing specific, but it referred to a UK visit and it made mention of planned operations being underway. Miguel Fernandez disappeared the next day.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Scott said. ‘How does that tie up to us?’
Clark cleared her throat. ‘He was one of the names mentioned by Ryan.’
Ryan. The name brought back so many emotions, so many visions and memories in his head. In his former life, they had been lovers, life partners. Until he was murdered.
Scott shook the images from his mind. ‘Does this Fernandez guy know about Ryan? About what happened?’
Clark nodded, said nothing.
Scott looked at Katherine. ‘Maybe we should move.’
‘Nonsense,’ Katherine said. ‘Like Ann said, nothing’s changed.’
‘Right,’ Clark said. ‘We’re confident he hasn’t left Spain yet. And besides, Scott and Katherine Lynch are nobodies to him.’
Scott wasn’t convinced. ‘What if he finds out?’
‘If Spanish officials have done their jobs right, and believe me, they don’t do things by halves over there, nobody will be able to find you,’ Clark said.
Scott stood. ‘I hope you’re right.’ He went into the utility room and came back with a spade. ‘I have some work to do in the yard.’
When he had left them alone, Katherine said, ‘He’s scared of change. He’s been moody since you called yesterday morning. Give him half an hour, he’ll be fine.’
‘I guess it’s difficult, seeing me again.’
‘It’s not you,’ Katherine said. ‘It’s what you represent. When you put us into this Witness Protection, you told us we had to cut ties with everyone and everything from our old lives. You’re the only link he has to Ryan.’
‘You’re coping well,’ Clark said.
Katherine stood. ‘I’m older and wiser,’ she said. ‘Help me with dinner? You’re staying the night, aren’t you?’
‘After I make a couple of calls, I’m free until Monday. I passed a B&B on the way here, I can stay there.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Katherine admonished. ‘I’ve already made up the guest room.’
‘In that case,’ Clark said, ‘what’s for dinner?’
Scott’s spade cut the ground with a satisfactory crunch and he turned it. The early summer sun was high overhead and the few feathery clouds in the sky were not enough to diminish its rays.
He had taken his shirt off ten minutes ago and a light film of perspiration coated his body. He had thrown his weight behind turning the soil. Eighteen months of mucking out the stables and maintaining the garden around their home had toned muscles he never knew he had. Always slender, the muscle definition that this manual work had granted him had given him a certain confidence in other aspects of his life that he had lacked before.
With his old life behind him, he had been managing to move on. He smiled more, he laughed more. He was much more adept at making friends and winning jovial arguments with his work colleagues. He couldn’t put it all down to his physique, of course. He knew that last year’s events in London had changed the way he viewed the world. When Kane Rider was kidnapped—Scott now considered Kane as another person, a long dead ghost of a man—and Margaret had been shot and, in turn, shot her own husband to save their lives, his view of life had changed dramatically.
Death, he considered, made you think about life.
When Ann Clark came out with a glass of orange juice for him, she said, ‘Being self sufficient?’
Scott shrugged. ‘We have the space for it. We plant them, we pick them, we eat them. It’s satisfying work.’
‘What are you growing?’
‘Tomato, carrot, cabbage. There are potatoes over there, too.’ He continued turning the soil. ‘We have to keep them separate or they’d just take over.’
‘You’re not in any danger,’ Clark said, as though he had asked.
‘You can’t know that,’ Scott said.
‘You’re safer here than being Kane Rider back in Ireland.’
Scott stopped digging, his foot on the end of the spade, and stared out across the field. ‘I don’t know who Kane Rider is any more.’
‘That’s a good thing,’ Clark said. ‘For all intents and purposes, he doesn’t exist any more.’
‘He died that night in London,’ Scott said. ‘And now you’re here, bringing him back to life again.’
‘You’re angry with me,’ she said.
‘No,’ Scott told her. ‘I’m angry with myself. I haven’t felt so useless in so long. What if something happens?’
‘It won’t.’
‘Ann, I know you better than that. You’re holding something back and I don’t like it.’
‘I can’t discuss the particulars of a case. You know that.’
‘If something’s happening,’ Scott said, laying down the spade and picking up his shirt, ‘don’t drip-feed me information when it’s too late, okay? That’s all I’m saying.’
They went inside and Ann continued to help Katherine with dinner preparations while Scott showered and changed. They skirted around the important subjects as they ate, talking instead about life in North Yorkshire, how different it was from Belfast, and yet how similar. The people were friendly, the roads were winding, and the accents were pleasant.
Katherine had made a friend of their neighbour, a woman with the mouth of a devil and the culinary skills of an angel. Scott was getting on well at the Silverwood Centre and enjoying the change from office work.
Clark told them of Pat Wilson’s retirement party. Detective Superintendent Wilson had been her superior in the National Criminal Intelligence Service, a division of Interpol, and had spearheaded the campaign to take down David Bernhard and rescue Kane Rider last year. His early retirement was a direct result of that operation, where he felt he had given everything he could give to the force and now wanted nothing more than to sit in his garden and make homemade cider.
‘You didn’t go for his position when he retired?’ Katherine asked.
‘I haven’t been serving long enough,’ Clark said. ‘Besides, Robert Mann was a shoe-in. His past record is a glowing commendation to his commitment to the job.’
Scott said, ‘At least Jim Dixon was put away before going up for promotion,’ and they laughed.
When they heard a car come up the drive and come to a stop, Scott was on his feet immediately. He looked at Clark. ‘Expecting anybody?’
A car door closed and there was a knock on the front door.
‘Calm down,’ Katherine said. ‘Go and answer it.’
‘I told you you’re safe here,’ Clark said, but she stood up anyway.
She and Katherine followed Scott into the front room and when Scott glanced through the window in the evening light, he said, ‘Oh, balls.’
He opened the door.
‘Am I early?’ Jesse said.
Scott looked at his watch. ‘No, come in, come in.’
Jesse entered and kissed Katherine on the cheek. ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs Lynch.’
‘I’ve told you before, call me Katherine.’
‘Ann,’ Scott said, ‘this is Jesse. From work. Ann’s a friend; she’s come up from London. I’m sorry, Jesse, I completely lost track of the time.’
‘It’s not too late,’ Ann said, shaking Jesse’s hand.
‘We can do it some other time?’ Jesse suggested.
Katherine took Jesse’s arm. ‘There’s half a beef Wellington that’ll never get eaten tonight,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you stay here for dinner instead?’
Jesse looked at Scott, who flashed a terrified look at Katherine.
‘Sure,’ Scott said. ‘If you don’t mind?’
Jesse beamed. ‘I love beef Wellington.’
They settled at the kitchen table again and Scott laid an extra place for his date. Having dinner with a new man, your dead boyfriend’s mother, and the Interpol detective who helped you out when you had a bomb strapped to your chest, was going to make for an interesting evening.
‘How do you know Scott, Ann?’ Jesse asked as he helped himself to a slab of meat.
Clark smiled. ‘We met through a mutual friend. I guess you could say our friendship just went off like a bomb.’
Katherine choked and smiled and hid her grin behind her hand.
‘And what do you do?’ Jesse asked.
‘I work in law,’ was all Clark said.
‘Solicitors are wily,’ Jesse laughed.
To steer the conversation away from uncomfortable subjects, Scott said, ‘How long have you been at the stables now, Whisper?’
‘Whisper?’ Clark laughed. ‘Or don’t I want to know?’
Jesse laughed along with her. ‘They call me the Horse Whisperer because they’re jealous of my skills.’
They talked about his time at the Silverwood Centre, about his move to Harrogate from York, about his likes and dislikes, and Scott felt at times that it was a four-person date.
After dinner, Scott got a couple of beers from the fridge and he and Jesse went out onto the porch. The sun was going down and the grasshoppers were chirping their songs before nightfall.
‘Sorry about that,’ Scott said.
‘Why?’ Jesse asked. ‘It’s been the most interesting first date I’ve ever had. Your mum is amazing.’
Scott smiled. Part of the ruse of their Witness Protection identity was that they were mother and son. More often than not, the lie felt real.
‘I’m still sorry,’ Scott said. ‘Maybe next time we can actually go out for a meal.’
‘I like how you say that,’ Jesse said.
‘What?’
‘”Next time.”’
And Scott smiled again.
When he had finished his beer, Jesse said, ‘I’d better get off before I have any more of these and end up sleeping on your sofa.’
There was an awkward moment when they weren’t sure how to part. Scott was convinced Jesse had been moving in for a kiss when he pulled him into a brief hug instead.
Hearing his car drive away, Clark came and joined Scott on the porch. It was dark and the evening had that cool reminiscence of spring. ‘He’s very nice,’ she said.
Scott shrugged. ‘He is.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘I just don’t want to upset Katherine.’
Clark folded her arms together. ‘You know better than I do that she wants to see you happy. It isn’t her that’s holding you back.’
Scott flattened his lips. ‘No, you’re right.’
Chapter 5
Brian Ludlow and his family had done everything they had set out to do in the last three weeks and he was disappointed that, in two days time, he would be back in the office in dreary London, sifting through arduous reams of mindless paperwork and dreaming of their holiday in Spain.
They had been to the markets of Las Ramblas and bought bottles of Veterano brandy and driven through the Andalucían Mountains to witness the magnificent views from the top of Ronda. They had played golf in Valderrama. They had gazed upon the paintings of Diego Valazquez in the Prado Gallery in Madrid. They had danced the flamenco, walked through Gaudi’s Parc Guell, spent too long in the sun with not enough protection, did the parks and fairs and water-worlds and their last stop had been the Guggenheim before returning to Puerto de Balbao for their ferry home.
Brian scratched at the sunburnt and peeling skin on his nose and said, in his limited Spanish, ‘Dos café, por favor.’
Will said, ‘I want Coke,’ and Sally agreed with her younger brother.
‘You can share one,’ Brian said, ‘or you’ll be peeing all night.’ To the woman behind the snack bar in the Bilbao Port, he said, ‘Una cola, y dos…uh…straws?’ He made a motion with his hand to signify what he meant.
In almost perfect English, the young woman said, ‘Two coffees, one cola and two straws. Eleven Euros, please.’
Brian paid, took their drinks, and followed his wife and kids to the seating area.
‘Are you sure we’ll get a meal onboard tonight?’ Sharon asked him.
‘It was on the booking form,’ he said. ‘William Ludlow, stop hitting your sister immediately.’
At five years old, Will had discovered the gratifying effects of hitting his older sister, waiting for her to hit him back, and then come crying to Mummy that Sally had started it. But Brian and Sharon were wise to it.
The PA system broadcasted the imminent boarding of the Cap Finistère ferry to Portsmouth and advised passengers to return to their vehicles for embarkation.
‘I need a pee,’ Will announced.
‘You can go on the ferry,’ Brian said. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the car.’
‘But,’ Will insisted, ‘I need to go now.’ He was dancing on his toes.
Sharon said she’d wait outside the toilet for him and they’d join Brian and Sally at the car in a minute. ‘You’ll be okay in there on your own?’ she asked Will.
‘I’m not four any more,’ Will said, and he burst in through the toilet door. He came out again within thirty seconds, hardly enough time to do anything, and it took Sharon a second to realise that the man who had come out of the toilet behind him had a tight grip on her son’s shoulder.
‘Madam,’ the tall Spanish man said. He nodded politely to her and revealed a gun in his hand, tucked loosely insid
e his coat. ‘You must listen,’ he said. ‘I am requesting a favour.’
Miguel Fernandez picked the young boy up in his arm, kept his gun hidden but ready to use, and told the woman to walk—slowly—to her car.
‘You can have what you want,’ she whispered, panic making the pitch of her voice rise. ‘Just give me back my son.’
‘Turn around and walk,’ Fernandez said. ‘I’ll be right beside you. Don’t look at anyone, don’t speak to anyone. Understand?’
She nodded meekly and complied. He could see the tears standing in her eyes and he wanted to taste them. The boy in the crook of his arm was petrified and kept saying, ‘Mummy? Mummy? Mummy?’
Fernandez told him to hush and the woman said, ‘It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.’
She led Fernandez out of the terminal to the loading dock and they weaved through the cars and the people as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Fernandez already knew which car was hers; he had been watching them since they arrived at the port. If she led him to a stranger’s car, in an attempt at seeking help, he would shoot the kid immediately. And then he’d shoot the woman.
As it turned out, she was smarter than he had given her credit for, and she walked the length of the cars to her own. Her skinny reed of a husband was in the driver’s seat and the young girl was sitting in a booster seat in the back when the man spied them in his rear view mirror. Seeing Fernandez holding his son, the man got out of the car, a smile of confusion on his face.
‘Honey, what—?’ he began.
Fernandez cut him off. ‘With one hand, I hold your son. With the other’—he indicated the hand inside his own coat—‘I hold his life. I do not want any bravery, sí?’ He kept the car between himself and the father; English men were weak and pitiable, but oftentimes acted heroically when compliance was better suited.
‘What do you want?’ the man said. He looked between Fernandez and his wife. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Open the boot of your car,’ Fernandez told the woman.
‘No way,’ the man said. ‘She’s not going in there.’
‘Correct,’ Fernandez said. ‘Open it.’
Lynch Page 3