Hot Pursuit Read Online Free PDF Page B

till he got to the right one. ‘Bernard Hill; the dark bloke with the moustache.’
    Stella looked him up and down and nodded. ‘So you do, now that you come to mention it.’
    Bernie sighed with relief. ‘God I miss her,’ he added as an afterthought, wiping away a phantom tear. ‘It’s all right. You had no way of knowing. But she loved this little car.’
    Stella Ramsey’s eyes filled, too. ‘Oh, James.’ She was wearing a pink leather mini-skirt with matching high heels and a little sleeveless white cotton top, her bleached blonde hair sculptured in a great corona of curls and waves. For a postmistress she was an absolute cracker, Bernie thought.
    Bernie brightened visibly. ‘Now, whereabouts did you say this pub is that you were going to take me to?’ he said, sliding his hand down over his back pocket to check he had his wallet.
    ‘James?’
    It took Bernie a second or two to register that Stella meant him; he would really have to start thinking of himself as James Cook.
    ‘Yes?’ he said, relieved that Stella had taken his hesitancy for tearful reflection.
    She leant closer, resting her hand very lightly on his thigh. ‘I want you to know that if you need to talk about your wife I perfectly understand. I mean, I don’t want you to feel you have to hold anything back. It’s good to talk about these things.’
    Bernie nodded. ‘Thank you – not everyone understands. Her name was Maggie,’ he said unsteadily. ‘She was such a lovely girl…’ And as he spoke, the old Bernie Fielding faded slowly into oblivion to be replaced by James Anthony Cook; sensitive, caring widower.
    While the old Bernie Fielding slipped seamlessly into his new persona and the new Bernie Fielding waited for Maggie Morgan to finish cooking the bolognaise sauce, an aircraft was landing at London Heathrow and out at Elstree a small television production company was busy finalising the details of its midweek schedule.
    Aboard the aircraft two tall, good-looking, suntanned men in mirrored shades and expensive charcoal-grey suits waited for the cabin doors to open. Cain Vale tucked a newspaper into his flight bag.
    ‘What d’ya think then, Nimrod?’
    Nimrod Brewster, sucking on a Minto, grinned the cool, even smile of a basking shark and glanced out of the window at the clear blue sky.
    ‘No problems, my son,’ he said in an undertone. ‘In. Out. We’ll be back in Marbella by teatime tomorra.’ He mimed a sharp-shooter’s draw with his index finger and then blew away a phantom wisp of smoke so real that he could almost smell the cordite. They had been offered a nice fat fee to cream a nobody. Nimrod would have done it for nothing if it wasn’t for the fact that he liked to maintain his professional status.
    Cain cheered visibly. ‘Right, so in that case can I have the window seat on the way back?’
    Nimrod considered for a moment or two. ‘I’ll toss you for it. Afterwards.’
    ‘All right. Where’s the business happening?’
    Nimrod tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘You worry too much, Cain, we’ll know the details all in good time. It’s all arranged. We’ll be met at the hotel with the rest of the stuff – we already know the who, we just need to know the where and when.’
    Nimrod patted the computer printout in his jacket pocket.
    ‘What’s his name again?’ asked Cain.
    ‘Nick Lucas.’
    Cain nodded as if fixing the information somewhere deep in his mind.
    ‘Maybe we should ring him,’ said Nimrod with a sly grin. ‘Tell him he ought to kiss his ass goodbye while he still has the opportunity.’
    Cain giggled.
    Robbie Hughes, sitting in a darkened office in Elstree, had been chasing Bernie Fielding for a very long time – years, in fact. First as a researcher for the BBC and now as a presenter for Gotcha , a twice-weekly, prime-time, consumer TV programme. He had never had any problems filling the available airspace with the public’s worst fears. But for Robbie the hunt for Bernie