Lynch (10 page)

Grateful for the distraction, Scott said, ‘Okay.’

With the bottle upturned, Jesse tipped the last of the wine into their glasses and sat back down on the sofa beside Scott.

Scott was already feeling the effects of the wine on top of the beer. ‘I’m going to have such a headache in the morning.’

‘You sound more Irish when you’re drunk.’

Scott raised his eyebrows and blinked twice. ‘I’m not drunk. I remember what drunk is and this isn’t it.’

Jesse said, ‘Most people don’t remember being drunk,’ and he found it hysterical. ‘We should get some more wine,’ he said when his laughter had dulled.

‘We totally should.’

Scott’s head was fogged. As much as he tried to drink away the memory of seeing Daphne Do-More again, his mind kept coming back to the image of her floating through the crowd and embracing him. When they had got back to Jesse’s flat in south
Harrogate
, Scott excused himself to go to the bathroom and he finally pulled the card from his pocket. It was Daphne’s business card, elegantly designed, embossed lettering, with her picture on one side and her contact details on the other. He had no idea why a drag artist would need a business card, but the fact that she had passed it to him was telling. She knew exactly who he was.

He had put the card in his wallet and washed his face before coming back down stairs to find Jesse on the sofa, two glasses of wine already poured.

Now, having finished the full bottle, Scott looked at him. That Jesse hadn’t mentioned the encounter with Daphne since they left the bar meant either he believed Scott’s innocence, or he thought it was better not to pry. Either way, Scott was indebted.

‘You realise I’m working in the morning, don’t you?’ Scott said.

‘I have the day off,’ Jesse said with a satisfied grin.

Scott struggled to his feet. ‘I should probably get going.’ He checked his watch; it was almost two.

Jesse stood, wobbled unsteadily, and Scott laughed.

‘I’m not the only one who’s drunk.’

The way Jesse looked at him made his throat go dry. There was a tenderness in his eyes mixed with…longing. ‘I could call you a taxi,’ he said. It implied there was an alternative.

‘Jesse, I—’ Scott began, but Jesse didn’t let him finish. He stepped forward, leaned in and kissed him passionately.

Breaking the kiss, Scott said, ‘I’m drunk.’ But it had felt so good. So good, in fact, that he leaned in for another. He felt Jesse’s hand on the back of his neck, holding him close. Felt his tongue searching forward and he reciprocated, his own tongue brushing against Jesse’s, wet and warm and full.

With their bodies pressed together, Scott could feel Jesse stiffen against him, could feel his own penis begin to strain in his jeans.

The kiss was deep and eager. Jesse’s hands stroked the length of Scott’s back and cupped his buttocks. Scott pinned one hand to the back of Jesse’s neck, the other to the small of his back. Part of him felt he shouldn’t be kissing him, but there was no thought of Ryan right now. He was caught up in the moment. He felt an arousal awakening in him that he hadn’t felt in so long.

Jesse pushed his body forward, his crotch pressing against him, his intent clear. Scott tried to break the kiss, wanted to go slow, but his body wouldn’t let him. He knew what he was doing when he reached to unfasten Jesse’s belt buckle, but he couldn’t stop himself.

And he realised, as he dropped to his knees and took him in his mouth, that he didn’t want to stop.

Chapter 13

At five o’clock in the morning, as Jesse lay asleep beside him, the sheets sweat-damp beneath them, Scott rose and took his phone and Daphne’s business card to the bathroom. He put down the toilet lid and sat, his fingers trembling as he typed a text message to the number on her card.
We need to talk. K.

He hadn’t expected an immediate reply at that time of the morning, but when his phone started ringing, he answered it quickly so as not to wake Jesse. He brought the phone to his ear and took a few seconds to breath before speaking.

‘Daphne.’

‘Kane? I knew it was you. What the fuck’s going on? I’ve been awake all night, hoping you’d call.’

He breathed again. His chest was aching. Instead of answering Daphne’s question, he said, ‘Did you win?’

‘Win what?’

‘The drag show.’

‘No,’ Daphne said, frustration in her voice. ‘Where have you been, Kane? Talk to me.’

‘Not like this,’ Scott said. ‘Not over the phone. Let’s meet somewhere.’

‘McDonald’s. At the train station,’ Daphne said. ‘I can be there in half an hour.’

‘Give me an hour,’ Scott said and he hung up.

Back in the bedroom, he slipped into bed beside Jesse and kissed his shoulder, nudging him gently awake.

Jesse smiled sleepily. ‘Time’s it?’

‘Five,’ Scott said. Jesse rolled onto his back and stretched. ‘I’m really sorry, I have to go.’

‘At five a.m.?’ Jesse asked.

‘I need to go home. Get ready for work.’ He ran his hand over Jesse’s taut stomach. ‘Sorry.’

Jesse raised a hand, cupped Scott’s cheek and drew his head down for a kiss. In the pale grey light of dawn, Jesse’s tanned skin looked darker against the white pillows. ‘Can I call you later?’ Jesse asked.

Scott smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

And Jesse smiled, too. He slid across the bed to get out. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘No,’ Scott said. ‘It’s all right, I’ve already called a cab.’ He leaned back in and kissed him again, simply because he didn’t know what else to say.

As he walked out into the cool morning, he called for the cab he’d already lied about, and he waited on the corner for it to arrive. He wasn’t sure what he would say when he faced Daphne again. Wasn’t sure why he even wanted to.

No, that was a lie. He knew exactly why he wanted to reconnect with his past. Getting close to Jesse was only serving to make him think more about Ryan.

And he didn’t like it.

When he got to
Leeds
train station, he walked through the concourse towards McDonald’s and his stomach was flipping over inside. He bought a coffee and took the paper cup over to a corner table. There were only a few people dining, businessmen scoffing breakfast on their way to work.

He was there a few minutes before he came face to face with his past. John, Daphne Do-More’s masculine alter ego, entered the restaurant and walked directly towards him. He was wearing loose-fitting grey joggers and a plain white vest, the make-up and false eyelashes a distant memory.

‘Kane.’

Scott rose and hugged him tightly. ‘It’s Scott now,’ he said.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ John asked.

Scott bought him a coffee and they sat down opposite each other. John reached across and touched Scott’s hand. ‘Start talking. I’ve been worried sick.’

Scott sighed. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’ He looked around, making sure no one was close enough to listen. ‘You have to promise me you won’t tell a soul that you’ve seen me. Swear it.’

‘Sounds ominous,’ John said. He raked his fingers through his thick hair. ‘I promise.’

Lowering his voice even further, Scott said, ‘We’re in witness protection.’

‘We?’

The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched. If
Clark
knew he was here, talking to the past, she’d string him up. ‘Margaret. Ryan’s mum.’

‘I haven’t seen either of you since his funeral,’ John said. ‘What happened?’

Scott shrugged. ‘A lot of shit. David’s dead. It was in the papers.’

‘Honey,’ John said, ‘when do I have time to read the papers? So you’ve been living in
Leeds
all this time?’

Instead of answering, Scott explained, ‘Ryan was murdered because of David. He was involved with some drug and arms smuggling and Ryan found out.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Like I said, a lot of shit. Some other crap happened after that—too much to go into now—and…well, here we are, living in hiding, in fear for our lives.’

‘That’s no way to live,’ John said.

‘You won’t tell anyone?’

‘Of course not. You know me better than that, Kane.’

‘Scott.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It takes some getting used to,’ Scott said and John touched his hand again. It was a touch that said he understood, or that he was at least trying to understand. Scott checked his watch. ‘I really have to go.’ He stood.

‘Can I see you again?’ John asked. ‘We have a tonne of catching up to do.’

Scott raised one shoulder in a shrug. ‘I’m not sure that’s wise. We’re supposed to be…in hiding.’

John stood up and pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m only here until Sunday. I’m out of the competition and I’ve nothing else to do.’

Scott considered it, smiled, and said, ‘You really should have won.’

‘Damn right, girlfriend,’ John said, snapping his fingers in the air between them.

It made Scott laugh. He leaned in and hugged him. Although John was closer to Ryan than he had been to Kane, Scott felt like he’d just rekindled an age-old friendship that never should have died. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’ He broke the embrace and stepped back. ‘Don’t call me. Just in case someone’s around to overhear. I’ll message you after work.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ John said.

Miguel Fernandez rolled out of bed and did fifty sit ups before showering. He was a methodical man; always fifty sit ups, then exactly three minutes in the shower. It stemmed from his time in
El Tercio
, the Spanish Legion, where he would wake at 0500 hours daily, perform one hundred sit ups and jog laps around the camp for a distance of three miles. Since he left the Seventh Bandera five years ago he had kept up his training but reduced his reps. It was enough to kick in the adrenalin his body needed each morning.

At seven fifteen, he stepped out of his hotel and got into the black Lexus RX that awaited him. Its windows were tinted and its driver was silent.

It was just short of eight o’clock when the car pulled through the gates and into the car park at the rear of the tall glass-fronted building that housed Weiss Walter Butterford LLP. The driver said nothing as he hopped from his seat and opened the door for his passenger. When Fernandez got out, the driver nodded once, took to his seat again, and drove away.

The fire door at the side of the property opened and an overweight, bearded man ushered him inside. ‘Mr Fernandez?’

Fernandez nodded. ‘Mr Walter.’ There were no handshakes. ‘Do you have an address for me?’

The patent attorney motioned with his hands for Fernandez to hush, and he led him through the building and up to his office. At this time of the morning, the office block was largely empty. Fernandez crinkled his nose in disgust at the extravagant art nouveau that decorated the walls. It was crass and distracting; In Fernandez’s world, minimalism bred concentration. Anything else was a disturbance.

Thomas Walter brought him into his office and closed the door behind him. It was only then that he appeared to let out a heavy breath, as though he’d been holding it since Fernandez had arrived.

‘Sit, sit,’ Walter said.

‘I will stand.’

Walter sat behind his desk and smiled.

‘Do you have an address?’ Fernandez asked.

‘I’ve spent the last two weeks,’ Walter said, ‘twisting arms and bending ears all over the bloody country. Do you know how difficult it is to buy the ear of a cop? A judge? The Records Bureau?’

Standing to attention in front of the desk, his hands behind his back, Fernandez said, ‘I’m guessing not very difficult, but very expensive.’

Walter pressed his lips together with grim acceptance of the cost. ‘The hard part was acquiring the technology for our investigations, as well as the manpower to operate it.’

He sat back in his padded chair and laced his fingers together in his lap. ‘We started with a register of all known contacts and accessed personal information that most people think impossible to acquire. But with the right tools, no one can have secrets. We scoured banking details for unusual transactions or money transfers over and above £1,000, which is not a lot but enough to pique our interest. Once we eliminated the purchase of holidays and cars and, in one case, a fridge freezer, we were left with nothing of significance.’

‘This story will have a happy ending, yes?’ Fernandez asked. He was getting bored with the fat man already, and as Walter prattled on, Fernandez was imagining ways of slaughtering him.

‘After that, we accessed telephone records and investigated potential leads for infrequent but sustained contact which brought up two potential avenues of exploration but both, it turned out, were dead ends. Meanwhile, we were tapping the telephone conversations of all known colleagues, friends and associates and that, my good man, is the happy ending you have come for.’

Walter rose and walked to a small safe in the corner of the room. As he punched in the security code, he said, ‘One of the recognised keywords was used twice during a brief conversation at five o’clock this morning.’

‘Rider?’ Fernandez asked.

‘The reference was “Kane,” but yes, we believe it to be the person in question.’

‘And he gave up his address?’

‘Of course not,’ Walter said. ‘But he didn’t have to.’ He reached into the safe and withdrew a slim envelope, turning back to Fernandez, holding it in both hands by the corners. ‘We used a process of multilateration in which location is determined by the antennae patterns and levels of strength of given radio signals in triangulation, putting our subject within the radius of two or more telephone masts.’

Fernandez interrupted him. ‘I’m aware of the technology and its application. Triangulation is by no means precise.’

‘Indeed,’ Walter agreed. ‘And because the area in question is a relatively rural one, we could hardly rely on such data alone. But thanks to the marvels of modern technology, GPS is entirely more accurate.’

Fernandez tilted his chin in admiration. ‘How accurate?’

‘Twenty metres, give or take,’ Walter said. He held up the envelope. ‘And there’s only one property within that range.’

‘Give it to me,’ Fernandez demanded.

‘Miss Herrera has given me instructions to pass on to you,’ Walter said. ‘In this envelope are the required coordinates, as well as the resulting address, and a photograph of both Kane Rider and Margaret Bernhard. You are to pay them a visit, then return to
London
to await further instruction.’

Fernandez took the envelope and turned to leave.