Greed Read Online Free PDF Page A

minutes, her screams were ringing in his ears.

 

Forty minutes later Matt leant back on the bed. Every muscle in his body felt stretched, each nerve taut. At his side, Alison rolled over, reaching out for her bag and retrieving a packet of Dunhill. She lit one, blowing a plume of smoke high into the air. Then she lit one for him and moved to place it between his lips, but Matt shook his head.

'I've given up,' he said, breathing in the smoky air. 'Did I approach you in the bar, or did you approach me?' he continued.

The trace of a smile flashed across Alison's lips. 'You mean, are you the hunter or are you the prey?'

'Exactly,' said Matt.

She reached across the bed to rest her head on his chest, her tongue flicking across his nipple.

 

Matt reached out across the bed to find her. His hand moved through the sheet. Nothing. Drowsily he opened his eyes, looking around the tiny room. Nothing. Light was streaming in through the window and the sky was bright blue. He stood up, walking towards the bathroom. 'Alison,' he shouted. He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls. Then silence. Nothing. She was gone.

Matt shrugged and walked towards the kitchen. He threw some coffee into the percolator, and took a flask of orange juice from the fridge, drinking it straight from the bottle. The smell of her still lingered on his body. Strange, he reflected. Last night she was all over me, this morning she wakes up and buggers off without so much as saying goodbye.

That's a guy's job, isn't it?

Matt glanced at his watch. It was already half past nine. He needed a shower, and he needed to get on with his life. Last night was fun, but that was all. She was right to take off.

'You're a stupid boy, Matt Browning.'

The sound of the voice rattled through his ears, catching him off-guard. Matt looked up. The man sitting on the sofa was called Harry Pointer. Matt had met him a couple of times before. A fat, ugly brute of an Englishman with a nasty rash on the top of his balding head, Harry ran errands for Gennady Kazanov, local landlord and an investor in the Last Trumpet. Harry wasn't the heavy muscle, although he knew how to throw a punch and fire a gun when he had to. But mainly he did the talking and the translating: the muscle that travelled with Kazanov spoke Russian or Ukrainian or Georgian, not English.

'How the fuck did you get in?' demanded Matt.

'Mr Kazanov owns the block, remember,' said Harry. 'He has keys to all the apartments.'

'And that gives you the right to barge in here whenever you like?'

Pointer shook his head. 'No,' he replied slowly. 'The fact you owe us half a million gives us the right.'

'I've told you,' said Matt, 'I'm doing everything I can think of to get you your money back.'

'Thinking isn't what you do best.'

Pointer stood up. He was wearing cream chinos and a bright blue shirt, and the tattoos were visible all the way up his arm.

'Tell Kazanov he's just going to have to wait,' said Matt.

'He's waited already, Matt. He's tired of waiting. Mr Kazanov is a patient man; he knows that sometimes it takes time to make money, but even his patience will be exhausted eventually. You know what troubles him: he doesn't see you working. He watches, and he sees some guy too busy knocking off the tourist honeys in the bar to spend his time worrying about how he's going to pay Mr Kazanov back.' Harry paused, moving closer to Matt. 'And Mr Kazanov doesn't like that.'

Matt shrugged, walking towards the balcony. He looked to the beach below. A pair of girls were sunning themselves, one in a pink bikini, the other in blue. He looked more closely. No, neither of them was Alison.

'We know where she works, Matt. We know all her movements.'

'That's more than I do.'

'No.' Pointer laughed. 'We know where Gill works, Matt. The Dandelion Playschool, Puerto Banus. The kids get out at two-thirty every afternoon. She walks home to her apartment. Takes her about fifteen minutes. Plenty of good spots along the way where a