Third Strike (7 page)
“Guys, guys,” Parker murmured, eyes flitting from one to the other. “Uh, can we get back to the matter at hand here?”
“This
is
the matter at hand,” Sean said, and his face was as cold as his tone now and his eyes were very dark, as close to black as anyone I’ve ever met. All I could see in them was my own reflection and, from what I could read of it, I was flustered and angry and defensive. It wasn’t a good look for me.
is
the matter at hand,” Sean said, and his face was as cold as his tone now and his eyes were very dark, as close to black as anyone I’ve ever met. All I could see in them was my own reflection and, from what I could read of it, I was flustered and angry and defensive. It wasn’t a good look for me.
“The whole reason you went to see your father yesterday morning, Charlie, was because you knew he’d lied to you the day before,” Sean said patiently, spelling it out. “But his behavior goes against everything you know of the man. Why are you so quick to believe the worst of him?”
The silence that followed his question lasted only around four seconds, but it passed like a slow decade.
“Maybe,” I said, low, “it’s because he’s always been so quick to believe the worst of me.”
“O-kay,” Parker said, more of a drawl. “But if we disregard the possibility—for the moment, anyhow—that he’s gone totally off the rails, what makes you think this would have anything to do with your mother?”
“Because, despite Bill’s skepticism, he’s always done everything he can to shelter her—from unpleasantness, from bad news, from blame. From life, come to that.”
Parker frowned at the bitterness evident in my voice. “So, let me get this straight,” he said. “He’s confessed that he’s a drunk and a liar. And now, from what you’ve said, he couldn’t wait to get himself caught with a hooker. How is that protecting his wife?”
“It could only be,” Sean murmured, “because he was afraid of something worse.”
I snapped back into the here and now. “I need a phone,” I said, aware of the hollowness in my voice.
Parker stared at me for a moment longer, then nodded to Bill, who sighed heavily but kept his continuing disgust to himself. He plugged a handset into the conference-call system that was a permanent fixture in the center of the table. It was clear from the way he practically threw the handset at me that he didn’t think much of Parker humoring us like this.
I checked my watch and ran through the mental calculations. New York was five hours behind the UK. It was a little before one in the afternoon here, which meant it was nearly six in the evening back home.
I dialed the number. As I listened to the line play out at the other end, I realized, on how few occasions I’d bothered to phone home.
Sean leaned across and punched the button for the speaker. When I glanced at him, he merely said, “This I have to hear.”
It took my mother a long time to answer. When she finally did, she gave her usual telephone greeting sounding strained to breaking point, as though under some unbearable pressure.
No change from normal there, then.
“Hello, Mother,” I said. “It’s me.”
There was a long pause. Sean’s eyes flicked to mine and I saw his eyebrow quirk. It shouldn’t have been a trick question.
“Darling … how lovely to hear from you,” she said at last, with that false brightness she always employed when speaking to her only daughter. “How are you? How’s your poor leg coming along?”
The second bullet I’d taken had hit my back high up around my shoulder blade and had ended up planted somewhere in my right lung, which had then collapsed. My heart, so they’d told me, had temporarily stopped at the scene but I don’t remember too much about that.
During the early stages of my recovery I’d had mobility problems with my right arm and hand. At the time, it had seemed that the through-and-through wound to my leg was minor by comparison, but it had proved to have longer-lasting effects, and now that was the part everyone focused on. My mother was no exception.
“The leg’s fine,” I said, which was mostly true.
“I’m
fine.” I suppose that was mostly true, also.
“I’m
fine.” I suppose that was mostly true, also.
“Oh. Good,” she said. Another pause before a splintered little laugh. “Was there anything in particular you wanted, darling, only I’m rather in the middle of something right now. It’s the church fête next week and I’m making a batch of treacle tarts.”
I could picture her, a blur of high-tension activity, in the tall kitchen of their Georgian house in the expensive part of Cheshire. She’d cajoled and bullied and eventually worn down my father into having a Smallbone of Devizes custom kitchen installed about ten years previously. I’d been in my teens but I could still remember the chaos and excitement of the transformation from 1950s ugliness to an expanse of blue pearl granite worktops and limed-oak cabinets under an array of halogen spots.
She ruled her sparkling domain like the most temperamental celebrity chef, creating wonderful dishes that seemed to drive her so close to the brink of nervous exhaustion to produce, it took away the pleasure of actually eating them.
“Speaking of tarts,” I said bluntly, ignoring the sudden consternation on Parker’s face, “have you heard from my father today?”
“Your father?” my mother said vaguely, as if we were discussing a casual acquaintance. “I don’t believe so, darling. He’s, um, away at the moment.”
I suppressed a sigh. Up until her retirement the previous year, my mother had been a local magistrate and, contrary to popular satire, she was far from the bumbling picture of the rural judiciary that was so often portrayed. Hard to believe now that she’d once been praised and feared for her incisive mind.
“Oh, yes?” I said. “Run away with a younger woman?”
“Well,
really,
” my mother said, but there was more stiffness than heat. “He’s attending a medical conference. You know how often he’s called upon to lecture these days.” She paused again, uncomfortable, but she’d always been a bad liar. “I—I spoke to him only yesterday. He sends his love.”
really,
” my mother said, but there was more stiffness than heat. “He’s attending a medical conference. You know how often he’s called upon to lecture these days.” She paused again, uncomfortable, but she’d always been a bad liar. “I—I spoke to him only yesterday. He sends his love.”
I heard a slight sound in the background at her end of the line and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had visitors.”
“W—what? Oh, no—just the radio, darling. I was going to listen to the six o’clock news when you rang. Anyway, I must go. Things are starting to burn.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
“No, don’t do that,” my mother said quickly. “I have people coming round for dinner and I shall need all day to prepare. I don’t expect you remember the Hetheringtons, do you?”
“Yes … yes, I do,” I said, and allowed my voice to take on a slightly disappointed tone. “Well, in that case, Mother, I’d best leave you to it.”
“Yes, all right,” my mother said faintly, her relief at my imminent departure evident. “Thank you for taking the trouble to call, Charlie. We don’t see enough of you these days, you know.”
“I know,” I said, and ended the call. I stared for a moment at the surface of the table as though the future would eventually present itself in the pattern of the grain.
“Wow, she sounds like one tense lady,” Parker said.
“I wouldn’t read too much into that,” Sean said. “She always sounds on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
I looked up. “She’s in trouble.”
Bill grunted. “How’d you work that one out from a conversation about baking?”
I turned to eye him coldly. “Because there’s no way my mother would be making tarts a week before they were needed. She’s a perfectionist, and they’d be stale.”
Bill’s grunt became a snort. He rammed his chair back and got to his feet as if he could no longer bring himself to sit through such crap. I let him take half a dozen paces.
“Quite apart from the fact that my father has never
sent me his love
in twenty-seven years, she called me Charlie,” I said quietly. “She never does—absolutely hates it. They both do. I was always Charlotte at home, right up until I joined the army. She told me once that nothing reminds her of me as a soldier quite like hearing that name.”
sent me his love
in twenty-seven years, she called me Charlie,” I said quietly. “She never does—absolutely hates it. They both do. I was always Charlotte at home, right up until I joined the army. She told me once that nothing reminds her of me as a soldier quite like hearing that name.”
“So you think she might be trying to make some reference to your military career? Then the comment about not seeing enough of you,” Parker said. He never took notes and his recall was practically recording quality. “You think it might indicate she needs that kind of help?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But the real clincher was the fact she mentioned the Hetheringtons,” I said. Bill had stopped and turned back almost in spite of himself. “No way are the Hetheringtons going for dinner at my mother’s tomorrow night.”
“Right,” Bill said. “Another cryptic clue?”
“Well, they certainly wouldn’t be able to eat much,” I said coldly. “Seeing as they’ve both been dead for five years.” I looked from Bill to Parker to Sean. “They lived not far from my parents for years. Nice people. They were shot and killed by intruders who broke into the villa where they were staying on holiday in Turkey.”
“So that wasn’t the radio in the background,” Parker said grimly.
I shook my head. “She never has the radio on when she’s cooking—too distracting,” I said. “There are people in the house with her, right now. And I can only imagine what they’ve threatened to do to her, but it’s made my father prepared to ruin himself to prevent it.”
“On behalf of your Delta crew we’d like to be the first to welcome you to Manchester and hope you have a safe and pleasant journey to your final destination today. Local time is eight-thirty.”
The flight across the Atlantic had been uneventful. We’d left JFK at 8:30 in the evening, New York time, and landed apparently twelve hours later, after a seven-hour flight. I still had trouble sometimes getting my head round the mechanics of international time zones.
We’d had enough of a tailwind to arrive early and been forced to stack, the pilot spending twenty minutes or so giving us hard-banked alternate views of Cheshire countryside and the sprawling conurbation that makes up the Greater Manchester area. The fields below were muddy, and the houses seemed very small and very close together. None of them had a swimming pool in the back garden. I missed America already.
Bill Rendelson had taken care of our travel arrangements. He claimed he’d only been able to get us into Economy at such short notice, but when we boarded half the seats in Business Elite seemed to be empty and they wouldn’t let us move forwards, despite our frequent-flyer status. As we trudged along the jet bridge into the terminal building, I felt gritty of eye and knotted of neck.
We trailed blearily through Immigration, collected our bags off the carousel and wheeled them out down the “Nothing to Declare” channel at Customs. It was a short walk across the Arrivals hall and then we were assaulted by the smell of diesel and cigarette smoke and the thin damp chill of a rapidly approaching British winter.
Sean had relinquished all day-to-day control of his own close-protection agency, based just outside London, in order to join Parker Armstrong’s outfit, but he’d called in favors. Madeleine Rimmington had first become a partner and was now the boss, so I was surprised to find she was the one waiting for us at the curbside, looking as polished and poised as ever. The contrast with my own rumpled appearance was as stark and irritating as ever, too.
“I didn’t expect the executive treatment,” I said once we’d thrown our bags into the rear of one of the company Mitsubishi Shogun 4 × 4s and climbed in.
“You think I’d pass up the opportunity to see you both?” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she pulled out into traffic. She was wearing her long dark hair in a chic French pleat and had a thrown-together casual elegance that I reckoned probably took her several hours every morning to achieve. But it could just have been me acting bitchy. For some reason, I’d never quite liked Madeleine as much as she’d seemed to like me. “You’re looking well, anyway—nights spent in police custody notwithstanding.”
“Bad news travels fast,” Sean said. He was in the front seat, so I couldn’t see his face, but his voice was dry.
Madeleine grinned at him as she shot out onto a roundabout, cutting up a Skoda minicab with cheerful disregard. She had clearly taken advantage of her new position to book herself on all the latest defensive and offensive driving courses.
“Well, come
on,
Sean,” she said as she sliced through the thickening morning traffic. “You get caught, with a principal, in a police raid on a house of negotiable affection, and you don’t expect word to get round? It’s the most exciting piece of industry gossip I’ve heard in ages.”
on,
Sean,” she said as she sliced through the thickening morning traffic. “You get caught, with a principal, in a police raid on a house of negotiable affection, and you don’t expect word to get round? It’s the most exciting piece of industry gossip I’ve heard in ages.”
“Some people need to get out more,” Sean muttered. “And it wasn’t a client.” He glanced back at me. “It was Charlie’s father.”
“Oh my goodness,” Madeleine said faintly, and laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Charlie, but I would never have thought he was the type to—”
“He isn’t,” I said shortly. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“I came up last night and stayed at the Radisson,” she said, controlling her amusement to become brisk and businesslike again. “I got a room upgrade, so I don’t have to check out until three. I thought you’d probably like to head back there and grab a shower and change before you get started.”
“Ah, Madeleine, you are an absolute wonder,” Sean said, with enough lazy affection to send my hackles rising unnoticed in the backseat.
She flushed, pleased. “The restaurant’s not bad, either.”
Considering Madeleine’s long-term boyfriend was now a top chef in London, that was high praise.
“We don’t have time to eat,” I said, abrupt. The shower I could do with. Going into a situation tired was always bad practice, so anything we could do to freshen up was an operational necessity. I knew we should refuel, too, but the way my stomach was clenched tight, I didn’t think I’d keep anything down. Eating could be done later, once the job was done.
We walked confidently through the hotel lobby without our presence being questioned, and took the lift to the ninth floor. Sean was enough of a gentleman to offer me first use of the shower and I stayed under it for as long as I dared, hands braced against the tiles, letting the stinging spray pound my neck and shoulders.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when I hadn’t been able to stand having hot water played directly on the bullet wound in my back. Not having to think about being careful when I showered was still enough of a treat to be savored.
When I eventually emerged, scrubbed pink and dressed in a clean polo-neck sweater and jeans, it was to find Sean and Madeleine sitting at the low table by the window, heads bent close together as they pored over a pile of paperwork that no doubt related to the agency. Both glanced up at my reappearance and I could have sworn a flicker of annoyance passed across Madeleine’s face at the interruption, but I recognized my bias against her.
“My turn, I think,” Sean said, rising.
As the bathroom door closed behind him I hovered uncomfortably near the bed. My Vicodin was in my travel bag and my leg was complaining hard enough after the cramped flight to warrant taking a dose, but I didn’t want to do so in front of anyone—least of all Madeleine.
“I realize you said no to a meal but can I at least make you some coffee?” she asked, gathering up her papers and sliding them into an attaché-case with neat, economical movements. “Or would you like me to order something from room service?”
I shook my head, shoved my hands into my pockets. “No—thank you. I just want to get this done,” I said.
She nodded, sympathetic. “It must be hard—getting back out there, I mean—after …”
I bristled. “I’m fine,” I said, with more snap than I’d been intending.
She regarded me for a moment and I painted pity into her eyes.
“I’m not trying to have a go at you, Charlie,” she said, her voice mild. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen firsthand what you can do. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
I forced my shoulders down, tried to let my guard go with them.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a small smile. “I’ve been feeling a bit under pressure since … well, since we moved.”
“Not from Sean, surely? You two look good together. Easy in one another’s company.” She smiled more fully than I had done, turning a pretty face beautiful. “It’s nice to see him looking so happy.”
“Happy?”
I said blankly. There were many words I could have used to describe Sean, but that particular one hadn’t been high on the list. “You think he looks happy?”
I said blankly. There were many words I could have used to describe Sean, but that particular one hadn’t been high on the list. “You think he looks happy?”
“There’s a … lightness about him that wasn’t there before,” she said. “Oh, I can see he’s worried about all this, but it’s only surface worry, you know? Deep down, he knows he can face it. He can face anything, now that he’s got you.”
I shifted restlessly, uncomfortable with her frankness and her intrusive insights. And, if I’m honest, scared by the weight of the responsibility she’d just dumped on me.
“And Sean told you all this in the time I took to have a shower, did he?” I said, trying to hide behind a cynical edge. “Fast worker.”
Madeleine smiled again, not fooled for a moment. “He didn’t have to. He lights up when he’s with you. It’s awfully sweet, really.”
“Oh God,” I muttered.
Is that why Parker doesn’t trust either of us to still have a clear mind?
“I’ll have to get him fitted with a bloody dimmer switch.”
Is that why Parker doesn’t trust either of us to still have a clear mind?
“I’ll have to get him fitted with a bloody dimmer switch.”
The bathroom door opened and Sean came out with just a towel draped around his hips, totally unself-conscious. Most people do not look good without their clothes on. Sean was not most people. I found myself mesmerized by the way the muscles moved under his skin as he reached for his shaving kit and clean gear. The action accentuated the slightly reddened starburst of the old bullet wound high in his left shoulder. On him it was not so much a blemish as a badge of honor, although I knew he would never have seen it that way.
He sensed the atmosphere between us instantly, like we were putting it out as some kind of scent, and his eyes skimmed over us. And there was, I realized, a distinct twinkle lurking in those moody depths.
“Play nice, girls,” he murmured, and disappeared again.
Madeleine grinned as though that proved her case. Her own overnight bag was lying open on the bed. She zipped it closed and set it down near the door.
A few moments later, we heard the water running in the bathroom.
“I really ought to take exception to that but somehow, from him, I don’t,” she commented with a small grimace. “Since I took over I’ve been constantly mistaken for the secretary. Old clients walk in and look round nervously for Sean, and new ones think I can’t possibly know anything other than typing and filing. Drives me mad. It must be even worse for you—at the sharp end.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“I cope,” I said.
“I’m sure you do,” she agreed equably. “I seem to remember that run-in you had last year with one of our guys—Kelso, wasn’t it? You broke his arm in two places, I believe.”
“Three, actually,” I said, my voice bland. “Whatever happened to him?”
“He left.” She pulled a face. “As you found out, he had a problem working with—or in this case,
for
—a woman.”
for
—a woman.”
She smiled again, more ruefully this time. “I’m not wired the same way you are, Charlie. I can’t offer to take on the guys in a fight and have a hope of winning. I don’t have any combat experience. So I have to use a certain amount of psychological warfare to get my way instead.”
“What—feminine wiles?” I suggested, a little stung by the inference—entirely conjured by my own insecurities—that she was too clever to need to beat anyone up. Whereas
I
…
I
…
She offered a censorious little sideways glance at the acidic flippancy, but was still showing a gentle amusement.
“Not quite,” she said. The grin faded and a shadow of gravity crossed her features, revealing a steely core that belied her earlier good humor. Madeleine, I realized, would be a tough negotiator and no easy pushover as a boss.
“They know that if they keep me informed at every step, I’ll back their actions if I have to.” She shrugged, diffident. “I can’t afford to be caught on the hop because, ultimately, if I don’t give the guys the right information and they make a mistake, it’s my neck on the block. Meantime, I have their trust and, I think, their respect.” She glanced up, locked my gaze. “And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Charlie? Gaining respect?”
Respect.
I seemed to have been reaching for that rainbow’s end for half my life and never quite attained it. So, where did it all dawn? My childhood? My parents? Never delicate and feminine enough to satisfy my mother. Never the son my father so badly wanted, and had almost had … .
I seemed to have been reaching for that rainbow’s end for half my life and never quite attained it. So, where did it all dawn? My childhood? My parents? Never delicate and feminine enough to satisfy my mother. Never the son my father so badly wanted, and had almost had … .
Just for a second I saw myself as a teenager again and imagined a different Tao line unfurling into the future like a high-speed link.
If I hadn’t wanted to prove that I was as good as—better than—the boys, I would probably never have gone on the activities weekend that had revealed my latent ability to shoot. Would never have joined the army. Would never have applied for Special Forces, got through the selection process, or tried so hard on the training course that I came to such particular, unwelcome attention.
The line divided, split into a hundred different possibilities from that single strand. I’d been bright. Could have gone to university, a degree, a job in the City. Neat little skirted suits and high heels, like half the women we’d seen rushing through the airport. Tired and stressed and headachy from banging against the glass ceiling of the corporate world.
I’d been into my horse riding as a kid, too, almost obsessed with junior three-day eventing. I’d had a pony with heart and spring, and the nerve to ride him fast at big fixed timber. Could have pursued that as a career—people did—and moved up to horses. Might have been at international level by now. Could have had a dusty Land Rover with straw on the seats, a couple of black Labradors milling round my heels, and a flat-capped young farmer with wind-raw cheeks and gentle callused hands waiting by the Aga.
Instead, I had a fractured career dogged by scandal; an ability to kill without hesitation that even I shied away from exploring; no relationship with my parents to speak of; and a lover who’d been at least as damaged by this life as I had.
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