Beautiful Death by Fiona McIntosh Page A

Gluck probably carried more on a daily basis.
    Gluck reached inside his black overcoat and pulled out another Hebrew newspaper. Within its folds Namzul could see a manila envelope. ‘It’s allthere,’ he said, his eyes showing just a hint of glee in their otherwise malign darkness.
    Was he that predictable? Gluck had known he would say yes; was that it? He’d stopped breathing, he realised, and tried to let the air out silently, slowly, so the Jew could not know that his heart was hammering in tandem with his impotent rage. Nevertheless he took the newspaper and with it a deal was agreed.
    ‘A white European woman, with a smooth, unblemished, pale complexion in her mid to late twenties. Nothing much else matters, I’m assured. Same arrangement, although you’ll need to let Schlimey know where the pick-up is. She is required by Friday week.’ Gluck stood.
    ‘I don’t want any more of these jobs, Moshe.’
    Gluck looked unimpressed. ‘What are you going to do? Chase real work?’
    ‘Why not? I’ve been ignoring it of late. I turn down more than you can guess at. I won’t be saying no again to real employment. The first job offered me I’m taking. After this I won’t spot any more donors.’
    ‘Until you need money again. By the way, rent’s due.’
    Namzul stared at him in shock.
    Gluck seemed not to notice. ‘You can afford it now. Give it to Schlimey.’ He finally wiped his mouth, though some food still clung to his straggly beard.
    Namzul swallowed. This is how Moshe kept him beholden, controlled; it’s why he needed his own place and why this needed to stop after this job. ‘How much?’
    Gluck stood. ‘Three hundred. A steal.’

    His mouth opened in shock. ‘Three —’ and he stopped because his voice squeaked. How could he afford that for rent?
    Gluck began moving away. ‘Utilities are extra by the way.’ He contrived a sad smile and was out of the café, no doubt already imagining himself being pleasured by the leggy Eastern European.
    It had been a long day but everything was now in place to kick off Operation Panther the next morning. Sharpe was speaking on the phone and sounded pleased with Jack’s team.
    ‘Angela Karim is a great choice. And although I don’t know him I hear only good things about Malik Khan.’
    Jack nodded. ‘I’ve worked with him, he’s good, although I imagine there’ll be some banging of fists on chests with Brodie.’
    Sharpe gave a grunt of agreement.
    ‘Well, I just wanted to let you know we’re ready, sir. I hope you enjoyed the book club.’
    Sharpe rang off, still spluttering.
    Jack sighed. He might as well ring Lily now while he could. He’d planned to take an evening run around the Royal Park but the light had faded dramatically — it already looked cold and gloomy out there. Beware the ides of March , he heard in the back of his mind, dredging it up from school days. He knew it related to the assassination of Julius Caesar but had never quite grasped how the English related it to the weather. He had to presume it meant that until the middle of March it remained freeze-your-balls-off weather. Today it was the ninth. Almost another two weeks before spring could be declared!

    He dialled Lily’s mobile. Got her answering service . . . again.
    ‘It’s me,’ he said, trying to keep the peevishness out of his tone. ‘I’ve called a few times. Going out for a run but I’ll have my phone with me. Call me.’
    He frowned. That was odd. Lily didn’t usually turn her phone off for such a long time. She had said there would be a lot of deliveries at the hospital today and tomorrow but surely she wasn’t still delivering at — he glanced at his watch — nearly seven. Or perhaps she was. He didn’t know much about the floristry business. But what nagged at him was that Lily usually checked her messages regularly and always got back to him quickly.
    He sighed, pulled on his runners, grabbed his keys, thought about taking his iPod but instead pocketed