Perfect Sins (15 page)

“Hazel—are you sure you
want
him looking for you? This is a man who may well have killed his own ten-year-old son. Maybe it was an accident, but even so it's the kind of accident that happens more to people who're quicker with their fists than their brains. And he's had thirty years to get over whatever guilt he felt, to get used to the idea that he got away with it. If some stranger starts asking questions about him, the prospect of a gift horse may not be enough to stop him wanting to shut you up.”

“Then aren't I lucky to have someone to protect me?”

Ash felt himself flush. “Hazel, you know I'm not much good in a fight. I'll do my best, but you really don't want me to be the only thing standing between you and physical injury.”

There was a moment's silence. Then she said cheerfully, “It won't come to that. I'll be careful.”

As they drove down the road, Ash heard a modest voice from the backseat saying, Actually, I think she meant me.

 

CHAPTER 15

T
HEY DROVE FOR
fifteen minutes into the night. Twice, unsure which way to turn, Hazel pulled over and waited until another horse box came trundling along. Both times a pied rump was visible over the tailboard, and when she had let it get far enough ahead to avoid suspicion, she pulled out and followed. The second time she kept the taillights in view until suddenly they glowed extra red and the tow car began pulling off into a field on the right. All across the field were the lights of other vehicles, cars and lorries, caravans ancient and modern, and the flickering light of campfires. It was a scene that touched something primitive in Hazel's heart, and she could not have said whether it was a good thing or a bad thing—yearning, or fear.

Ash had his mouth open to say, “You're not going in, are you?” when she did.

They were, he felt sure, about to be challenged, when Hazel did one of those very clever things that kept surprising him. She was a lot younger than him, most people would not have accused her of sophistication, and everyone who met her—unless already in handcuffs—marked her down as a pleasant girl, a kind girl, a nice girl, rather than a smart girl. Being pleasant and kind and nice can be an effective disguise. Ash had known her long enough now to realize she was a lot smarter than most people gave her credit for.

So as they approached the knot of men by the gate, men keeping a casual but still keen eye on who was arriving, she lifted one hand off the steering wheel to wave to them—and then lifted it higher still and waved energetically to some imaginary friend in the crowd farther up the field. Nodding vigorously that she was on her way, and with a last friendly wave to the men at the gate, she drove steadily through the press of bodies, human and equine, and the randomly parked vehicles toward a vacant spot near the far hedge. And nobody, Ash realized, nobody at all was watching them. Hazel had performed her fitting-in magic again. Somehow, nobody ever looked at her and saw a stranger. Even here, where almost every head was dark and every skin tanned, her fair hair and rosy, freckled face did not mark her as different.

And somehow, because of that, and because in this place of friends and families people let their guard down without even knowing they were doing it, she was able to talk to the travelers as easily as she passed among them. Ash, bemused, moved in her wake and offered no contribution beyond his own vaguely Romany looks; and he marveled at how these private, suspicious people who had never seen her before took her on trust, and chatted away without realizing they were being questioned, and offered her and her companion mugs of strong tea from the supper fires.

Patience, too, was attracting admirers. Several of the children, yawning with tiredness, paused to stroke her, and one of the men offered to buy her. Ash gave a troubled, apologetic shrug. “I'm sorry, I couldn't…”

“Okay,” came the amiable reply, but Ash felt eyes following him afterward in a way that they had not before.

When they were alone, Hazel hissed, “Try to keep your mouth shut. The moment you speak, it's like a great big neon INTERLOPER sign flashing over your head.”

Ash knew it. What he didn't understand was why the same sign didn't light up when Hazel spoke. She didn't sound like a gypsy any more than she looked like one, and yet she could chatter away for half an hour without raising either hackles or suspicions. “It's probably getting time we left.”

Hazel nodded. “I've one more guy to talk to. He's down by the gate. We'll take the car.”

Ash allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. At least, if they had the car with them, they could make a run for it if they were rumbled. “This guy—does he know where Sperrin is?”

“Maybe,” murmured Hazel. “No one else seems to. But they all reckon if anybody's going to know, it'll be Swanleigh.”

“Swanleigh?”

Hazel gave a graceful shrug. “That's his name.”

They found Swanleigh, as directed, by the gate. He was a big man in his fifties; something about the way other men were orbiting around him, going where he pointed and laughing when he made a joke, suggested he was one of the movers and shakers in the camp. Hazel wound her window right down and leaned her elbow on it. “Are you Swanleigh?”

He looked her up and down, took in the dark man beside her and the white lurcher on the backseat, and did a sort of facial shrug. “Who's asking?”

Hazel left the car running and got out. “My name's Hazel Best. Everyone's telling me you're the man I should be talking to.”

One thick eyebrow lifted quizzically. “About the fair, is it?”

“No. But it is about a horse. It's not my horse—it belongs to Saul Sperrin, except he doesn't know it yet. Is he here, do you know? Or is he coming?”

The big man's head tilted over to one side in a manner he clearly believed made him look cunning. “A horse now, is it?”

“A horse and a half.” Hazel laughed. “Damn great black-and-white thing with more hair than a seventies rock group, and it's eating me out of house and home!”

“And this is Saul's horse?”

“It belonged to a neighbor of mine. She was traveler folk. When she died, I said I'd look after it until the solicitors could contact Saul to collect it. But they say they can't find him. And I can't keep it for much longer—I need the stable. I'm going to have to sell it and give the money to the solicitors to dole out among the other heirs.”

“Don't be doing that!” exclaimed Swanleigh, horrified, as if she'd suggested barbecuing the animal. “I'm sure we can find your man for you. Saul Sperrin, you say?”

Hazel nodded. “You know him?”

“Oh yes, yes,” agreed the big man. “Now, I haven't seen him for a little while, but I've a good idea where to find him. You could always—”

She interrupted his hopeful suggestion. “You're not expecting him at the fair tomorrow, then?”

The man shrugged. “Anything's possible. Anyone can turn up at a horse fair. Now, this big colored horse of his—where do you have it?”

Hazel gestured in the direction of Byrfield. “He has family in the area. At least he had.”

“We could pick the horse up. You know—for him.…”

She shook her head apologetically. “He'll need to collect it himself. The solicitors need him to sign for it. You don't know how I could get hold of him?”

“Saul Sperrin,” Swanleigh said again, thoughtfully. “Where was it I saw him last, now? Ireland, I think.”

Hazel nodded. “His people were from Ireland.”

“Yes, that'd be right.”

“Recently?”

“Oh, not very long at all. I'm sure we can get word to him. Who do you say he should call?”

“Strictly speaking, the solicitors.” She gave the name of a firm in Norbold, which would, she felt sure, forgive her the liberty. “But ideally I'd have liked to get together with him, arrange for him to pick the thing up. I could leave you my number.” She scribbled it on a piece of paper.

Swanleigh folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. “I'll have him get back to you. Soon as I can get him word.”

“Thanks,” said Hazel. “Have a good fair.”

“Always!” said Swanleigh, beaming.

*   *   *

“How do you
do
that?” whispered Ash, still half holding his breath as Hazel drove unhurriedly away.

“Do what?” she asked innocently. “Lie?”

Ash shook his head. “I know about lying. I've met a lot of liars. It wasn't the lie that swung it. It was the way you…” He couldn't find the right words.

“What?” asked Hazel. She was genuinely interested. She welcomed a compliment as well as the next person, but she was still learning her trade, and she valued the assessment of someone who'd been in the security business a lot longer than she had.

“You
belong
,” said Ash carefully. “You generate an aura of belonging. People trust you because they think you're one of them. Even when you're nothing like them, somehow you talk to them for half a minute and they file you as
us
rather than
them
. You can't teach technique like that. It's more than a skill—it's a kind of magic.”

Hazel felt herself blushing, all the more because she knew it was not flattery, but an honest opinion. He was always honest. She wriggled her shoulders self-deprecatingly. “I just find it easy to get on with people. My mother was the same—she couldn't stand in a bus queue without getting all the information on everybody's children. Nobody thought she was nosy. They just recognized that she was interested in them, and on the whole people like that. Most people would rather be friendly than aggressive. Give them a chance and most people will be helpful rather than obstructive.”

That hadn't been Ash's experience of the world. He envied her that it had been hers. “You must miss her,” he said quietly. “Your mother.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied frankly. “For a long time I missed her every day. Now, I suppose I think about her less but get more pleasure from it when I do. I've reached the point where it's the good things I remember rather than the terrible sadness of losing her.”

“You were very young.”

Hazel nodded. “Sixteen isn't a child anymore, but it's a time when you've nowhere near as much confidence as you want people to think you have, when you can really use someone in your corner who knows you well enough to understand that. My dad was brilliant—always was, still is. But it was different. I missed
her
. And I missed having someone to be soft and silly with. To talk about my day, not in terms of objectives achieved but who said what to who and who's frankly
deluded
if they think they can wear green. You can't talk like that with a man. No offense intended, but sometimes you just need another woman.”

When he said nothing more, Hazel thought he'd lost interest, and she frowned at the dark road ahead, kicking herself for getting too personal, sharing too much. But hell, he'd
asked
.… Then the gleam of oncoming headlights—another horse box heading for the fair—picked up the glitter of tears on his cheeks, and Hazel felt a surge of remorse beneath her breasts.

“Oh dear God, Gabriel, I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I'm telling you this stuff? You know.”

He nodded, and blew his nose, and rubbed away the tears he hoped she hadn't noticed with the back of his hand. “It's all right,” he lied. “It's just … it still hits me sometimes. That when I get home they won't be there. Do you want to hear something awful? Sometimes I wish I knew that they were dead. If I knew for sure that my family were dead, I think I could do a better job of grieving for them.”

She let go one side of the wheel long enough to squeeze his hand. “There's no such thing as doing it better. Or worse. It's not something we do—it's something we are. We are in mourning. It's a process we go through. Everyone has to find their own way, but it's not something you can get right or wrong. All you can do is come out the other end.”

It was four years since a woman had held his hand, even briefly, except to restrain him. There was something startling about it, as if he'd forgotten the sensation. It reminded him how he'd felt the first time Patience licked his hand—how surprised, and how comforted.

Hazel saw him smile in the light from the dashboard and, puzzled but reassured, let go of his hand. After another mile she said hesitantly, “I never mean to hurt you. But I know I do sometimes. Forgive me.”

He looked straight ahead. “There's nothing to forgive. You—and Patience—brought me out of a dark place. I think, without you, my life would have been pretty well over. Don't worry about my … heightened sensitivities. I'll get better at handling them. If it isn't too much to ask”—a faint grin lifted one corner of his mouth—“just treat me as normal.”

Hazel grinned, too. “The moment I work out what that is, I will.”

But normal was busy with other people that night. Another mile and she felt the atmosphere in the car change as Ash stiffened, adjusted the wing mirror, watched it steadily. Without turning in his seat, he said, “We're being followed.”

Hazel was aware of the car behind them. It had been sitting a hundred meters back for a few minutes now. She'd thought nothing of it. “What makes you think so?”

“It's gone midnight on a remote country road. Everyone else is heading for the fair.”

“Except us,” she said reasonably.

“My point exactly.”

She flashed him a quick sideways look. “Sperrin?”

“Maybe.”

She began checking the road ahead for somewhere to pull in. “We should stop.”

Ash's hand caught hers as she reached for the indicator. “No. We shouldn't.”

She frowned. “But this is what we came for. To find Saul Sperrin. Well, he's taken the bait.”