Honour Among Thieves by Jeffrey Archer Page B

myself,’ he said. ‘But I prefer black birds. It’s their big bums, you
know. They turn me on.’
    ‘Then
you’ll like your friend,’ said Hannah, regretting her words the moment she had
said them. Never provoke.
    She
heard the click as a long thin blade shot out and flashed in the brightly lit
carriage.
    ‘Now
there are two ways we can go about this, Sloane – quietly or noisily. It’s your
choice. But if you don’t feel like co-operating, I might have to make a few
etchings in that pretty face of yours.’ The youth by the door began laughing.
Hannah rose and faced her tormentor. She paused before slowly undoing the top
button of her jeans.
    ‘She’s
all yours, Marv,’ said the young man as he turned to face his friend. He never
saw the foot fly through the air as Hannah swivelled 180 degrees. The knife
went flying out of his hand and shot across the floor to the far end of the
carriage. A flat arm came down across his neck and he slumped to the ground in
a heap, looking like a sack of potatoes. She stepped over his body and headed
towards Marv.
    ‘No,
no, miss. Not me. Owen’s always been the troublemaker. I
wouldn’t have done nothin’, not me, nothin’.’
    ‘Take
off your jeans, Marvin.’
    ‘What?’
    She
straightened the fingers of her right hand.
    ‘Anything
you say, miss.’ Marvin quickly undid his zip and pulled off his jeans to reveal
a grubby pair of navy Y-fronts and a tattoo on his thigh that read ‘Mum’.
    ‘I
do hope your mother doesn’t have to see you like that too often, Marvin,’
Hannah said as she picked up his jeans. ‘Now the pants.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You
heard me, Marvin.’
    Marvin
slowly pulled off his Y-fronts.
    ‘How
disappointing,’ said Hannah as the train pulled in to Leicester Square.
    As
the doors squelched closed behind her Hannah thought she heard, ‘You filthy
bitch, I’ll...’
    As
she walked down the passage to the Northern line, Hannah couldn’t find a litter
bin in which to dispose of Marvin’s grubby clothing. They had all been removed
some time before after a sudden outbreak of IRA bombs in the London
Underground. She had to carry the jeans and pants all the way to Chalk Farm,
where she finally deposited them in a skip on the corner of Adelaide Road, then
strolled quietly back home.
    As
she opened the front door, a cheery voice called from the kitchen, ‘Lunch is on
the table, my dear.’ Mrs Rubin walked through to join Hannah and declared,
‘I’ve had the most fascinating morning. You wouldn’t believe what happened to
me at Sainsbury’s.’
    ‘What
will it be, honey?’ asked a waitress who wore a red skirt and a black apron and
held a pad in her hand.
    ‘Just
black coffee, please,’ said T. Hamilton McKenzie.
    ‘Coming
right up,’ she said cheerfully.
    He
was about to check the time when he was reminded once again that his watch was
on the wrist of a young man who was now probably miles away. McKenzie looked up
at the clock above the counter. Eight fifty-six. He began to check everyone as
they came through the door.
    A
tall, well-dressed man was the first to walk in, and as he scanned the room
McKenzie became quite hopeful and willed him to look in his direction. But the
man walked towards the counter and took a seat on a stool, with his back to the
restaurant. The waitress returned and poured the nervous doctor a steaming
black coffee.
    Next
to enter the room was a young woman, carrying a shopping bag with a long rope
handle. She was followed a moment later by another smartly-dressed man who also
searched the room with his eyes. Once again, T. Hamilton McKenzie’s hopes were
raised, only to be dashed when a smile of recognition flickered across the
man’s face. He too headed for the counter and took the stool next to the man
who had come in a few moments earlier.
    The
girl with the shopping bag slipped into the place opposite him. ‘That seat’s
taken,’ said T. Hamilton McKenzie, his voice rising with every word.
    ‘I
know, Dr