love,’ Bryce shouted. ‘He’ll promise anything to get into your pants.’
‘I have to go,’ Delphine said. ‘But we need to talk. I’ll see you tonight.’ There was a click as she broke the connection.
Tom glared at Jockey. ‘Didn’t your mummy tell you it was rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?’
‘No,’ Jockey said. ‘She was far too busy pouring supermarket vodka down her neck and ripping the heads off parking meters. But listening to you talking there showed mewhy I should’ve stayed in school.’ He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘I really envy you, mate. I missed out big-time.’
Tom furrowed his brow, not sure if this was genuine or just another wind-up. ‘No, you didn’t, you mad Scotsman. You can still wear that skirt and pretend to be Monarch of the Glen.’
‘I’m serious, mate. You’ve got the ability to punch well above your weight.’ Jockey’s face creased into a grin. ‘Shit, the moment you fucking start with that parlay-voo business I’d fucking shag you myself. If I wasn’t afraid of catching something.’
Tom deleted the ringtone for the hundredth time. ‘Don’t worry, Jockey, you can’t catch intelligence.’ He shoved his mobile into his jacket pocket.
‘Cunt.’ Jockey threw his respirator at Tom’s head.
Tom swerved out of the way, like a boxer riding a punch, as Gavin walked into the holding area to see what stage of the pack-up-and-fuck-off routine the team had reached.
‘Right, listen in!’ He had to shout to get everyone’s attention. ‘We’re not on island time so get a bloody move on. I want the Range Rovers out first, then the Transits, all at five-minute intervals. No speeding, no blue lights. Just get out of here ASAP before the ladies and gentlemen of the media find out who and where we are. They’re sniffing around out there already.’ He paused. ‘And Posh Lad here needs to stop and buy the woman of his sticky little dreams a bunch of flowers from motorway services. It’ll do her a power of good.’
Tom gave him a pitying look. ‘And you wonder why your wife burned all your clothes?’
Tom and Gavin jumped into one of the black Range Rovers at the rear of the holding area and moved off, followed at intervals by the rest of the convoy.
As they cut through West Hampstead, heading towards the motorway, they drove past a dry-cleaner’s. A handwritten sign in the window announced: ‘BACK IN 20 MINUTES. SORRY IF PROBLEM.’
16
THE WOMAN LEANED on the handles of the wheelchair to lift its front wheels clear of the step, then heaved and pushed it into the shop. She locked the door and knelt down behind the counter. ‘I have what you wanted.’
She produced a bundle from a lower shelf, stripped away the polythene wrapping and held up a set of grimy, well-worn overalls.
He nodded. ‘ Exactly what I wanted. Thank you.’
‘If you want to try them on, you can use the room upstairs.’
He looked over his shoulder, checked that the street outside was empty, then threw aside the blanket.
He towered above the woman. She was in awe. The stories she had heard about him must be true.
‘Will you be needing the wheelchair again?’
‘I think it has served its purpose now. Thank you again for your help.’
‘It’s an honour to be of service to you, Mr Antonov.’ She blushed as she spoke. ‘May I call you Laszlo?’
He smiled, as if he was giving a polite child the OK to take a sweet from the tin.
‘My friends will be so jealous when I tell them . . .’
The smile faded.
‘I’m sorry, Laszlo.’ Fear was the overriding emotion now. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Obviously I won’t breathe a word to anyone . . . until I know that you are safely out of this country and back in our beloved homeland once more.’
‘Of course,’ Laszlo said. ‘I understand. Don’t alarm yourself.’ The smile was back, but there was a coldness in his eyes.
She found herself reaching out a hand to her daughter and pulling her
‘I have to go,’ Delphine said. ‘But we need to talk. I’ll see you tonight.’ There was a click as she broke the connection.
Tom glared at Jockey. ‘Didn’t your mummy tell you it was rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?’
‘No,’ Jockey said. ‘She was far too busy pouring supermarket vodka down her neck and ripping the heads off parking meters. But listening to you talking there showed mewhy I should’ve stayed in school.’ He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘I really envy you, mate. I missed out big-time.’
Tom furrowed his brow, not sure if this was genuine or just another wind-up. ‘No, you didn’t, you mad Scotsman. You can still wear that skirt and pretend to be Monarch of the Glen.’
‘I’m serious, mate. You’ve got the ability to punch well above your weight.’ Jockey’s face creased into a grin. ‘Shit, the moment you fucking start with that parlay-voo business I’d fucking shag you myself. If I wasn’t afraid of catching something.’
Tom deleted the ringtone for the hundredth time. ‘Don’t worry, Jockey, you can’t catch intelligence.’ He shoved his mobile into his jacket pocket.
‘Cunt.’ Jockey threw his respirator at Tom’s head.
Tom swerved out of the way, like a boxer riding a punch, as Gavin walked into the holding area to see what stage of the pack-up-and-fuck-off routine the team had reached.
‘Right, listen in!’ He had to shout to get everyone’s attention. ‘We’re not on island time so get a bloody move on. I want the Range Rovers out first, then the Transits, all at five-minute intervals. No speeding, no blue lights. Just get out of here ASAP before the ladies and gentlemen of the media find out who and where we are. They’re sniffing around out there already.’ He paused. ‘And Posh Lad here needs to stop and buy the woman of his sticky little dreams a bunch of flowers from motorway services. It’ll do her a power of good.’
Tom gave him a pitying look. ‘And you wonder why your wife burned all your clothes?’
Tom and Gavin jumped into one of the black Range Rovers at the rear of the holding area and moved off, followed at intervals by the rest of the convoy.
As they cut through West Hampstead, heading towards the motorway, they drove past a dry-cleaner’s. A handwritten sign in the window announced: ‘BACK IN 20 MINUTES. SORRY IF PROBLEM.’
16
THE WOMAN LEANED on the handles of the wheelchair to lift its front wheels clear of the step, then heaved and pushed it into the shop. She locked the door and knelt down behind the counter. ‘I have what you wanted.’
She produced a bundle from a lower shelf, stripped away the polythene wrapping and held up a set of grimy, well-worn overalls.
He nodded. ‘ Exactly what I wanted. Thank you.’
‘If you want to try them on, you can use the room upstairs.’
He looked over his shoulder, checked that the street outside was empty, then threw aside the blanket.
He towered above the woman. She was in awe. The stories she had heard about him must be true.
‘Will you be needing the wheelchair again?’
‘I think it has served its purpose now. Thank you again for your help.’
‘It’s an honour to be of service to you, Mr Antonov.’ She blushed as she spoke. ‘May I call you Laszlo?’
He smiled, as if he was giving a polite child the OK to take a sweet from the tin.
‘My friends will be so jealous when I tell them . . .’
The smile faded.
‘I’m sorry, Laszlo.’ Fear was the overriding emotion now. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Obviously I won’t breathe a word to anyone . . . until I know that you are safely out of this country and back in our beloved homeland once more.’
‘Of course,’ Laszlo said. ‘I understand. Don’t alarm yourself.’ The smile was back, but there was a coldness in his eyes.
She found herself reaching out a hand to her daughter and pulling her
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