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Ed patted the back of my hand with his great bear’s paw. “You’re not under caution at this stage in my enquiries, pet, so no. It’s just concern for the lad. Well, the pair of you, if I’m honest. But I don’t want to pry – reckon you’ve had enough of that kind of thing, these past few weeks.”
“I’m sorry. Recovering misanthropist and all that. I’m still getting used to this ‘empathy’ business.”
Ed smiled. “You’re doing just fine, love. And you know I won’t be going anywhere with anything you tell me.
I took a mouthful of brandy for fortification. If I was going to trust anybody, I could do a lot worse than start with Ed. On a sultry Monday in late summer, then-Sergeant Edward Newton of the Northumbria Constabulary had helped to save Finn’s life at a time when it appeared that the rest of the world was doing its level best to take it from him.
Ed had stopped me for speeding as I’d frantically tried to get Finn to hospital after one of Blaine’s ‘clients’ had decided to get creative with a scalpel, and ended up providing us with an impromptu police escort instead. Months later it had been Ed who’d been our sole trusted contact with the law, once I’d finally worked out how to bury the Lady of the Manor.
I ran my fingers over a long-healed break in my scapula, feeling the sharp jag where the edges of bone had not quite met up during its botched repair, and hoped that Ed was fluent in metaphor. “So, it’s like this. Every year I have an appointment with my orthopaedic surgeon. We have a polite chat about the weather and my arthritis, then I get as much codeine as I can carry, and a bill that pays for her next skiing trip. She’s told me for the last three years that the only way to fix it properly is to re-break and pin it. Apparently it’ll hurt like hell, and I’ll be out of action for weeks, but it’s been like this for too long for anything gentle to fix it.”
Ed gave a slow nod. “Ah. I see.”
“I hoped you would.’ My second mouthful of brandy drained the glass. ‘Look, I know we need to start unpacking some of the shit he’s been through, but hell, Ed, you’ve seen the state he’s in, no matter how well he tries to hide it. He was in that fucking place for three years – it must have been like some great sensory deprivation chamber, cutting everything out of his life except for pain and abject terror. He was only just discovering the world outside Albermarle when the trials began and nearly destroyed him and I’m terrified that once he starts letting it all go he’s not going to be strong enough to deal with it.”
“And what about you, Lilith love? Are you strong enough yet?”
“Me? Good God, I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear.” It looked as though Ed was about to comment further, but he was a smarter man than that. Instead, he fumbled around in his jacket pocket and brought out a small notebook and pencil. I smiled. Once a police officer, always a police officer, it seemed. He scribbled down a number, then tore the page out and passed it to me. “Home number. Mobile reception’s a bit sketchy where we are, so that’s just in case you ever stop being fine, or Finn finally feels safe enough to break. Doesn’t matter what time – I’ll always pick up.”
“Thank you.” I took the slip of paper and folded it into my sweatshirt pocket, then leaned across the table to give Ed a kiss on the cheek. “For this, and for being here for the pair of us. You’re a good man, Call-Me-Ed.”
Ed blushed. “I do my best. I’m just glad you both got a half-decent result out of today.”
“I’d feel better about it if she was going to swing; I still think Coyle was lucky to get fifteen instead of life. What’s your professional opinion?”
“Ex-professional. Well I’d have put a tenner on her getting no less than twelve, so eighteen’s not too shabby. The trafficking charge alone got her a right clobbering, but the tax evasion stuff definitely helped bump it up by a few years. Means she’ll be too skint to start her sordid little operation up again once she gets out, too.”
I gave a hiss of frustration. “Nine years with good behaviour, with the opportunity to retrain as a bloody nail technician, or basket-weaver or whatever whilst she’s inside.” Vitriol hardened my voice. “I almost wish she’d been found Not Guilty – that way, I could chase her down myself and kill her as slowly and painfully as I could manage. Oh, what that woman did, Ed…” To my shame, tears suddenly sprung to my eyes, and I scrubbed frantically at them with the back of my hand before they could escape.
Ed handed me a crumpled but clean cotton handkerchief. “I know, love. Believe me, after sitting and listening to that bloody filth for the last few weeks, I know.”
I was trying to blow my nose as gracefully as I could manage when Finn walked back into the bar room. His brow immediately furrowed with concern and guilt and he ran back to our table. “Hey, sweetheart, you okay? God, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have left…”
I sniffed. “Finn, you went outside for a cigarette, not to discover the source of the Amazon, for fuck’s sake. I’m on the equivalent of my sixth brandy on an empty stomach after a particularly challenging day, and I’m a little tired and emotional, that’s all.”
He sat down and wrapped his arms around me. He smelled of cigarette smoke and rain, and I let myself be held in his gentle embrace until the world righted itself again. When I felt ready to emerge, he gave me that smile that made my flip. “So, d’you want to throw caution to the wind and grab one last drink before we hit the road?”
I crumpled the handkerchief into my fist. “Why not. If I’m going to get all drunk and maudlin, I may as well do a proper job of it.”
“Good,” Finn said. ‘Cos I’m going’ to need at least another hour to figure out how to stick three hundred and ninety-seven nicotine patches on this scrawny-arsed body. Before all of this flying malarkey, the last time I went three hours without a smoke, I was nine.”
Chapter Two
Finn
A pretty major advantage of flying by private jet was that word clearly hadn’t gotten out about our arrival in Alicante. Nat Carlin, the third member of Lilith’s rapidly assembled rescue squad, met us in a near-deserted Arrivals. By the time the first few curious holidaymakers and staff had begun to nudge each other and point in our direction, we were already throwing our luggage into the back of the amiable fella’s little soft-top Jeep, ready for the final leg of our journey to the haven of Santa Marita.
“Thanks for this.” Lilith climbed in next to Nat and settled deep into her seat, kicked off her trainers, and put her bare, brown feet up on the dashboard. I smiled. This was just one of her innate talents: to be able to enter any environment and immediately look as though she’d always lived there.
“No problem. I was hardly going to leave you to catch the bus, was I?” Nat said. “Oh, and before I forget – there’s milk, bread and some other healthy-looking weird green stuff in your fridge, a bottle of Tempranillo breathing on the worktop next to a couple of bouquets from Henry, Victor and Gabriel, and Rosario told me to tell you that she turned the underfloor heating on this afternoon.”
I shook my head. “Underfloor heating. Jesus. I’m just getting used to light switches.” I’d spent hardly any time in Lilith’s house, thanks to a fun combination of hospital stays and trials, but it had been long enough for me to be dragged into the twenty-first century after three years without electricity, mobile phones, or anything approaching modernity.
Nat turned to give me a grin. “It’s okay, mate – we peasants don’t have that kind of kit. Just the highest echelons of the Santa Marita elite…”
“Fuck off.” Lilith punched him in the thigh, hard enough for him to wince.
