Dire Straits Read Online Free PDF Page B

lock up is less than fifteen minutes’ drive away. I’ve been paying for it in cash under the counter for the last two years and for the last two years it’s been lying empty. When I’ve been scrabbling around for money, I’ve often wondered whether keeping it is a stupid idea. Today, however, my pragmatism has won out. That doesn’t quite make up for the phone error, but it helps. There’s no record anywhere that I rent this place. And considering that the white witch landlord had his tongue cut out about a decade ago, I’m fairly certain he’s not going to be blabbing to anyone. I root around in the glove box for the key which I eventually discover stuck to the yellowing service record by a chunk of gum – unchewed, I might add. I open the garage door, disturbing some small creature which scuttles off into the darkness, and drive in.
    The lack of pockets in the dress is causing problems. I nip outside and look around, quickly finding a discarded plastic bag trapped against the door of another lock-up. Sending a grateful prayer up to the non-environmentally-friendly denizens of London, I pick it up and deposit my keys, pepper spray and wallet inside. Emblazoned on the outside are the words ‘Funny Farm Meats: For All Your Butchery Need’s’. I tsk at the misplaced apostrophe, then shut up the garage and walk away swinging the bag. Frankly, I’ve got bigger problems than poor punctuation.
    Walking briskly, I hit the nearest row of shops in next to no time. As luck would have it, there’s a kiosk selling cheap mobile phones, so I pass over an insulting amount of cash and buy three, then make sure I’m some distance away before I make the call I need. It’s fortunate I’ve got a head for numbers and have memorised the phone number. I let it ring five times then hang up. I count to fifty in my head and repeat the call. It’s not until the third try that someone actually answers.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘I need a place to stay.’
    ‘Just you?’
    ‘No. There’ll be another.’
    ‘Can I trust them?’
    I don’t hesitate. ‘No.’
    ‘14A Markmore Close. There’s an upper-floor flat with views to the front and back. The key will be on the windowsill.’
    I sense he’s about to hang up so I screech into the phone. ‘Wait!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My flat. I think it’s been compromised. I need it checked out.’
    There’s a pause. ‘I can do it. Don’t call back though. I’ll come and find you.’ The phone clicks off and I’m left listening to the dull mechanical burr.
    I feel better now that I have somewhere to sleep and to take O’Shea. There are several hours until I need to pick him up; that means it’s time to confront Tam.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Four: Bruce Willis
     
     
    Now that I’m car-less, I’m forced to take public transport to get to Dire Straits. And yes, that really is the name. Tam is a hard-core eighties’ music fan. I’m not convinced he thought the name through before christening his fledgling company but he weathers all the ‘money for nothing’ jokes with humour. I’m just thankful that the chicks aren’t for free.
    I’d be tempted to grab a taxi but keeping a low profile includes not accessing my bank account so I’m lumbered with only the cash I have on me. And there’s not much of that. I’ll need to be frugal.
    As I sit on the train, I run through scenarios in my head. I’d been under the impression that Tam and I had a fairly solid working relationship, even if he didn’t value me as much as I thought he should. Now I have to assume that he might be involved in setting me up. He was, after all, the one who sent me after O’Shea in the first place.
    I’ve been working for Tam for the past two years. I’d initially had visions of spending six months with him before leaving to set up my own firm but it didn’t take me long to realise that it was going to take a damn sight longer than half a year to learn this business. I had, on