Half Moon Bay Read Online Free PDF Page A

newspaper, begrudging the disruption to her early morning peace. Who would call at this time of day?

3
    The sun had blinded him for the half-hour drive into Half Moon Bay, leaving him nowhere to hide except behind his sunglasses. It cut through the bone-deep weariness, but did nothing to ease the ache behind his eyes.
    Ex-Major Nicholas Lawson gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and squinted. It would have been easy to say no to this gig. Hand over the information and let someone else deal with it. Too much at stake if he got it wrong, too many old wounds about to have their scabs ripped off. Too many lives turned upside down again.
    But he’d said yes.
    No one could ever call him a coward. Ice-cold arsehole, grim over-achiever, perhaps, but his courage was never at issue. He’d always assumed he’d have to finish this job one day. He had no choice but to follow it through.
    First stop had to be Tom Wilding. He deserved to know trouble was marching his way. He couldn’t tell him everything, but he could give him a heads-up. It was the least he could do.
    Nick drove up the main street at the regulation fifty k’s. The town hadn’t changed much in two years. A couple of shops had new names and a few extra trees were scratching an existence on the kerbside. Graffiti daubed over a newly painted toilet block proclaimed Half Moon Bay to be fucked. The pub on the cliff top had changed colour. Mediterranean pink didn’t cut it for him.
    He turned right at the T-junction. The road meandered along the coast, rising and falling with the land, giving him glimpses of a washboard-like silver ocean. He glanced in the rear-vision mirror at the nose of his surfboard poking over the back seat. Whatever else happened in the next few weeks he was going to make time to ride the right-hand break that curled off the nearby headland. Angourie was legendary.
    He pulled into a lay-by a kilometre or so from the house. The car beeped as he locked it. The chain-linked boards slipped under his leather soles as he walked through the cutting in the dunes. Stopping short of the sand, he shoved his hands into his pockets and breathed in, the tang of salt air a tonic for fatigue.
    The surf was a clean one and a half metres, building on the sand bar and curling over in a green tube. Half a dozen early risers were jockeying for position. Away to his right the next headland jutted into the beach. A dog was chasing seagulls along the curve of sand.
    Could it be Shadow? The Doberman he recalled was no doubt pushing up daisies by now somewhere near Tom’s house. From this vantage point the beach shack was almost hidden by the low trees. His phone chirped in his pocket and he sighed in irritation. Couldn’t they leave him in peace, even this early?
    He pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and swore as he read aloud: ‘Public rally tomorrow. Can you be there?’ He sighed. ‘Of course I’ll fucking be there. Who else can talk the locals around to support this development? Not the fucking mayor who’s sold them out.’ The man was a fool. It would do their scheme no good if he came within a fifty-kilometre radius of the place without minders.
    He kicked off his shoes and dragged his socks off. Fuck it! No point fronting up in this mood. He needed to clear his head before he saw Tom.
    Three minutes later he dived through the first line of breakers. The surfboard could wait for another day. The need to swim, burn off anger, was an urgent compulsion.
    Goosebumps rashed up his body. The sinuous slide of cold water over his skin instantly dropped his irritation by half. The salt stung his eyes, but he ignored it as his feet found the shifting sand of the bottom. A set was building one hundred metres out and he stroked hard to position himself for the second wave. The pull on his muscles, the rhythm of his kick, put the world almost back on kilter. As he launched himself down the face of a glassy wave, kicking to stay ahead of the white water,