Wanted (34 page)

‘Clear,’ Ruth said, returning to his side.

Danny tried the tap. It was rusted and it took a good hard twist just to make it budge. It shuddered and groaned. A trickle of stinking water spattered out into the aluminium sink, then nothing. The supply must have been cut off, he supposed.

He tried the gas stove next. Nothing. He checked in the cupboard beneath and found an orange metal gas canister. Crouching, he lifted it: it felt about half full. Flipping the switch on its top, he stood and tried the stove again. This time he heard the hiss of gas. Ruth held her lighter to the stove’s central ring and a trembling blue flame appeared.

‘Quite the domestic couple, aren’t we?’ she said, snapping the lighter shut.

As Danny watched her drawing the curtains over the only two windows in the room, muffling the drumming of the rain, he left the stove burning, and looked at the paint peeling on the ceiling and the pale rectangles on the wall where pictures had once hung.

He shivered, wondering if they’d be better off sleeping in the car as they had done in shifts on the way there. But part of him craved a night lying flat on his back. As Ruth had recently reminded him, he wasn’t getting any younger. His whole body, but most of all his spine, ached and he knew he needed rest before what he would –
hopefully
– face the next day.

‘The only useable furniture is a sofa and armchair in the living room,’ Ruth informed him, as if reading his mind. ‘Everything upstairs is either infested with mice or damp.’

That settled it. Danny pictured himself snug in his new sleeping-bag – they’d stopped at a camping shop on the way – his head on a cushion on the floor, drifting off into a deep sleep.

‘I’ll fetch the rest of our gear,’ he said.

He came back dripping from the rain to find the kitchen empty, but the gas stove still on. He was glad about that. It didn’t make the place look homely, but it was better than coming back to find it dark.

He opened two tins of soup from the bag of food they’d picked up at the last town they’d passed through. Putting the two cans on the stove to heat, he rigged battery-powered electronic trip wires across the three ground-floor external doors. Another advantage of travelling with Ruth: she had plenty of kit.

Setting the last of the wires, he saw Ruth watching him from the living room doorway. As their eyes met, she turned and disappeared, as silent as a ghost.

With dark clouds gathering in the sky and the rain still lashing down in rods, Ray Kincade stepped into the welcome fug of the pub.

He was cold, as well as disheartened. He’d walked the entire village, checking out the cars for rental stickers, and hadn’t found a single one. He’d had no luck at the post office either. A couple of Americans had been in to send postcards home over the last few weeks, the grey-haired manager had recalled, but both had been women. There’d been no one else. And certainly no one, American or otherwise, who’d matched Ray’s description of the missing friend he’d hoped to find staying nearby.

He had also drawn a blank in the local holiday lettings offices. The only places they’d currently rented were to Europeans.

It had occurred to Ray that the PSS Killer might be capable of passing himself off as European, might even be multilingual, if Ray and Danny’s theory that he was ex-intelligence or military was correct.

He scanned the long, burnished wooden bar, reading the beer labels displayed on the pump handles, as he took off his raincoat and hung it on the antlered stand by the door. He’d drunk his first beer ever with his father on the day he’d enlisted. It had been Pabst, or Grain Belt, or some such insipid muck. His tastes had evolved since then: he’d developed quite a love for US craft beers and European imports.

‘I’ll have a pint of Bass, please,’ he said, as he reached the bar.

Only a couple of other guys in there, he saw. Both were half his age, the same as the barmaid. She had a pretty face, but not nearly as pretty as Ray’s wife’s. He watched the beer being poured. Crystal clear and dark, it refracted the dim lights above the bar like jewels.

‘Thank you.’ He sighed as he took his first sip. ‘A thing of beauty.’

‘Visiting?’ asked the barmaid.

‘That’s right. A bit of travelling and a bit of looking up old friends.’

‘And which one brings you here?’ The barmaid leaned forward, elbows on the bar, framing her face in her hands.

‘Both, as it happens,’ Ray said. ‘I arranged to meet an old buddy of mine here. But I lost the address of where he’s staying. His phone number too.’

‘An American?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Name of’ – he spoke loudly enough for the men further along the bar to hear – ‘Chuck Linska. Ten years younger than me, but bald, and built like a brick shithouse, as I believe you folks are fond of saying round here.’

This last comment earned him a laugh from one of the guys drinking at the other end of the bar. He noticed there were three glasses lined up. A door creaked and the owner of the third, a sandy-haired fellow who couldn’t have been much more than eighteen, sauntered unsteadily back from the john to his seat.

‘Good to see a Yank drinking something that’s not lager,’ said the oldest of the three men, red-faced but smiling.

Ray grinned. ‘I gave up imbibing that kinda redneck goat piss around about the same time I learned to shave,’ he said.

A laugh from all three this time.

‘Well, at least you got a sense of humour,’ said the Johnny-come-lately, with a bit of a slur in his voice. ‘Not like one of your countrymen whose car I had to fix down at the garage the other day.’

Ray’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘An American?’

‘That’s right.’ The younger man turned to his companions. ‘The one I was telling you about, lads,’ he told his friend. ‘He’s staying at the old lighthouse out at the point. No such thing as a please or thank-you with him. Doesn’t even bother to answer when you say goodbye or hello.’

‘Might be your friend,’ said the barmaid.

‘Could be,’ said Ray. ‘He can be a little brusque with folks he don’t know.’ He shot the young guy a smile, just to let him know he’d taken no offence. Last thing he needed was him clamming up now. ‘He a big fella?’ he asked the young man.

‘That’s right.’

‘Bald?’ Ray asked.

‘As a coot.’

He felt his stomach turn. He put his pint on the bar. He made an effort to keep the excitement from his voice. ‘How far’s the point?’ he said.

‘Two miles north,’ said the oldest of the three men.

‘And he’s staying in a lighthouse there?’ Ray checked.

‘That’s right,’ said the young guy. ‘It isn’t in use any more. It’s owned by some heritage group now that rents it out. The National Trust, I think.’

Ray began to fasten his jacket.

‘I wouldn’t go there this time of night,’ the young guy warned. ‘Half the track leading up there collapsed in the frost last winter. Still not been repaired. That man staying up there, that’s why he came down to the garage. Nearly tipped his hire car right over. Needed me to drive up there with the tow truck to pull him out of a ditch.’

‘We’ve got rooms here,’ said the barmaid. ‘You can go out and see your friend in the morning. I could even get you some supper, if you like.’

He turned his collar up. ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he said. ‘This friend of mine, you’ve no idea how long I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.’

Danny joined Ruth in the living room, where he found her using her phone, her face illuminated by its ghoulish green glow. She’d laid her torch on the mantelpiece and its wide beam illuminated a good half of the room.

He noticed her glancing at the two missing fingertips on his left hand. Too long a story to go into now, he thought. He remembered how she’d nursed him in her hotel room following the explosion in the Kid’s apartment. She’d have seen his other scars too.

She’d have read about his connection with the Paper, Stone, Scissors Killer as well, he supposed, just the same as everyone else in the world. And yet – in spite of all the other questions she’d asked about what had happened on the day of her mother’s murder in London – she’d not asked him about it. She’d respected his past.

‘Any luck?’ he said. He knew she’d be checking to see that the Kid hadn’t moved.

‘Nothing. No reception. It must be the storm.’

She slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and nodded towards the fireplace, where plenty of wood and kindling had been stacked.

‘You want to risk it?’ she said.

‘We probably shouldn’t, but . . .’

She was right: it was a risk. A neighbour might drive by. Even the owners of the property might return. They might call the cops. And then there’d be another problem to deal with, another reason to move on.

‘But why don’t we do it anyway?’ he said.

She didn’t answer. The same as him, she was probably freezing her ass off and they’d both sleep much better if they were warm.

He set about laying the fire. She didn’t object. He left her to light it and went to fetch the soup.

Bright flames were already licking away the darkness by the time he returned. She’d pulled the worn sofa and armchair to face the hearth and was perched on the sofa’s arm, warming her hands.

He gave her one of the two soup cans, which he’d wrapped with a strip of tea-towel so it wouldn’t burn her hands. He passed her some crackers he’d bought when they’d stopped for supplies.

‘Thanks.’ She took a sip from the can and sighed. ‘God, who’d have thought canned tomato soup could taste so fucking good?’

He sat on the sofa, feeling the weight of the day fall from his shoulders. He took a swig of soup, scalding himself a little, but not caring, just glad for the luxury of heat, both inside and out.

He watched as Ruth peeled off her socks. As she stretched out her toes, he found himself smiling without knowing why, and hid it behind his can.

Dipping crackers into their soup, they ate without speaking, listening instead to the crackle of twigs and sap in the hearth. Finally Ruth stood, slipping off her jacket and placing her can on the mantelpiece, then switched off her flashlight, so that only the fire now lit the room, casting flickering shadows on the wall.

As she closed her eyes and slowly pirouetted, warming herself against the flames, he found himself gazing at her again, too dazed with comfort to resist, letting his eyes run over the slender curves of her neck and shoulders, down past her hips to her legs.

When he looked up, he saw she was staring at him too. But this time he didn’t look away, not just because he’d been caught staring but because he didn’t want to.

‘I guess this is the part where if we’re ever going to sleep together, then we do,’ she said.

Danny couldn’t help but blush, not because he was taken aback – a part of him had suspected, had certainly hoped, that this might happen here tonight – but because a voice inside him, which he’d been trying to drown with more professional thoughts, had been willing him to say exactly the same thing.

He thought about lying, about telling Ruth he wasn’t interested, and acting like this wasn’t something he’d considered since he’d swum back into consciousness in her hotel room as she’d walked towards him from the shower. But he knew she’d see right through him. If she’d had the confidence to raise the matter, it meant she wanted it, and that she’d already worked out that he did too.

He thought about asking her why. But a Shakespearean quote rose inside his mind: ‘There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.’ It came from
Antony and Cleopatra,
which he hadn’t read since school. The line had been Antony’s riposte to the wily Cleopatra when she’d asked him how much he loved her. It was the same line Danny’s father had used whenever his mother had asked him to quantify his feelings.

He was under no illusions now. What Ruth was asking him had nothing to do with love. But at the same time, did he really want to know whatever pros and cons she’d weighed up? Did he really want to know if what she’d just said was down to what she was: an intelligence operative, who’d studied him, as she would any other mark, for weaknesses and tells, and had now decided to use her sexuality in an attempt to gain the upper hand?

Or did it matter if, instead, it was because of who she was: a woman who was drawn to him by liking or desire – just as any two normal people might experience when they met?

None of that mattered. In fact, the less he knew about her motives, and the less they discussed it, the easier it would be for them both. Why? Because that way, afterwards, they could focus on what they’d come here to do: capture the Kid and whoever he was with. They could reset their relationship to that of comrades, giving them both a greater chance of survival in what was to come.

That way they could avoid even thinking about becoming what they could never be: involved.

‘Well?’ she asked. Her blue eyes sparkled in the firelight, like shards of bright daylight as seen through the cracks of a dark room’s door.

‘Come here,’ he said.

‘Just like that?’

‘Why not?’

‘No preambles? No discussions? No flirtation?’ she asked.

He caught something in her eyes then, behind the air of insouciance and mischief she was trying to project. Something darker. Disappointment?

Whatever it was, it threw him. Had he misjudged her? Was she looking for something more? He couldn’t tell. He’d had so little proper experience with women since Sally and Jonathan had died.

He fleetingly thought of the series of girls he’d picked up in that lost year in California when his life had fallen apart, but he could recall neither their names nor anything they’d said. He remembered the women who’d come later, the ones he’d cared for, who’d made him remember himself.

He remembered Alice De Luca the first morning he’d woken up beside her when, rather than silently dressing and ducking out into the dawn, he’d stayed with her all day.

Only now poor Alice was dead, shot in the face by Glinka, as she’d opened her front door after Danny had left Lexie with her, wrongly believing that the two of them would be safe.