Muscling In by Lily Harlem Page A

Mable had brought
into the room.
    “So what did your wife tattoo
on you?” Rachel asked Coben.
    “A bird. Here.” He touched his
right collarbone.
    “Does it mean something?” she
asked.
    “It reminds him of his time in
the Royal Air Force.” I glanced at Ed to see if he’d acknowledge what I’d said.
If he’d ask Coben about what regiment he’d been in or where he’d been deployed.
    Ed piled his fork with meat
and shoveled it into his mouth. His eyes cast downward.
    No, of course he didn’t ask.
He already knew.
    A little thrill went through
me again. I’d figured it out. I’d grill Coben later about my mysterious client
and what he did. See if I really had connected the dots. How exciting, a real
SAS man at the dinner table.
    The rest of the meal went by
with light conversation. Mable and Harold were charming hosts and involved
everyone in topics about travel and what was going on in London. They were keen
theatergoers and Harold had us all laughing at a tale about a show going wrong
and the main characters having to ad-lib.
    Dessert was a delicious
offering of Eton Mess, one of my favorites, but as soon as it was finished,
spoons and forks set down, Ed stood.
    “Harold,” he said, then turned
to Mable, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut my evening short. Something came
up earlier today that I have to sort out.”
    “Oh, really?” Harold wiped his
mouth with his napkin, then set the screwed up linen on the table. “That’s a
shame.”
    “Edward, is it really that
urgent?” Mable asked. “We’ve seen so little of you lately.”
    Coben glanced up at Ed.
    Ed caught his gaze briefly
before returning his attention to Harold. “I’m afraid it is. You know what it’s
like. But thank you for inviting me.” He tucked in his chair, then gripped the
top of the seat.
    “Rachel, it was lovely to see
you again.” He nodded at Rachel. “Sian, you too.”
    “Same here,” I said.
    Rachel smiled.
    Ed put his hand on Harold’s
shoulder. “I’ll call you, soon.”
    “Be careful, son.” Harold
frowned, his mouth set in a serious, almost stoic line.
    “Always.” Ed stepped behind
Coben. He repeated the same gesture on Coben’s shoulder, squeezing it too.
“Good to meet you, Coben.”
    Coben swallowed as he stared
straight ahead, then, “You too,” he replied stiffly.
    Ed gave Mable a quick hug and
was gone.
    No one spoke. His sudden
departure appeared to have stunned everyone slightly.
    The front door banged. The
roar of a motorbike filled the room. It revved away, the rumble from the
exhaust so loud the windowpanes rattled as did the chandelier hanging over the
table.
    “Oh, he does worry me on that
thing,” Mable said, sipping her wine and frowning.
    “The motorbike outside is
Ed’s?” I asked.
    “Yes, he loves the damn
thing.” Harold rolled his eyes. “Always tearing around on it.”
    “I’m sure he’s a very capable
rider.” Coben shrugged. “In his line of work.”
    “Well that’s just another
thing that worries me.” Mable shook her head. “I keep hoping he’ll retire.”
    Ah, so they do know what he does.
    “Retire?” Rachel laughed.
“He’s too young to retire even for an army bloke.”
    “RAF, dear,” Mable corrected,
“it’s different.”
    “Well, anyway, what is he now,
thirty-one?” Rachel shrugged.
    “Thirty-four,” Coben said. He
shot a glance at me. “I’d guess, anyway.”
    “Mmm, yes, he’d be thirty-four
now, you’re right.” Harold nodded. “It was his birthday last month.”
    And looking damn good for his
years, I thought. The guy was seriously fit. But I wondered how Coben had
guessed his age so accurately. It seemed an odd thing for him to remember if
they’d just been work colleagues.
    “Well,” Harold said, “perhaps we should retire for coffee. Coben,
would you partake in a cigar with me?”
    “Er, yes, thanks. That would
be nice.”
    Harold and Coben stood and
left the room.
    “I’ll make coffee.” Mable
smiled at Rachel