Strange Tide Read Online Free PDF Page A

inclination to do so except Alfie from the office, who had no friends because his only topics of conversation were geography, Christianity and the installation of boilers.
    â€˜It has to be the gaskets,’ said Fred emphatically. ‘This thing’s been feeling underpowered ever since we came off the ferry.’
    Joan found the ginger nuts, put them in the glove box and patted her hair back in place. ‘I think it’s time we traded this in for something with a bit more oomph,’ she said, possibly considering the same for her husband.
    â€˜Don’t move my mirror,’ warned Fred. There was a lay-by approaching. He flicked on the indicator.
    â€˜
Now
what’s wrong?’
    â€˜I’m just going to take a quick look, all right?’ He pulled over and turned off the engine, fumbling for the bonnet catch.
    Joan sighed and sat back with her
Mail on Sunday
. That new Bond girl said she was playing the role as an empowered feminist, so why was she being photographed in a thong? An articulated lorry hurtled past, rocking the car. Under the bonnet, Fred swore.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ Joan called.
    â€˜Nothing, I’ve cut myself, that’s all.’
    â€˜There are plasters in the first-aid box.’ Joan folded away the paper, knowing that he would never bother with them, and wearily clambered from the vehicle. The booze runs were never much fun, and constituted Fred’s sole idea of a day out. There was a time when they’d at least have managed a National Trust house, if only to stock up on marmalade. Just once she would like to go somewhere with a bit of culture, Bruges or Amsterdam, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
    She went around to the rear of the vehicle and released the hatch door, allowing it to rise. She didn’t remember putting their tartan travel rug over the wine boxes. Why would he have done that?
    As she pulled away the blanket she saw that the wine boxes had disappeared. In their space a young man was folded up, Arabic-looking with wide brown eyes, dressed in a ragged, filthy sweatshirt and torn shorts. Before she could utter a single word he slid out and ran past her, swinging a blue nylon bag on to his shoulder, vaulting the low fence beside the lay-by, leaving a trail through the wet grass, heading for the safety of the woods beyond. Joan stood staring after him in wonder. Moments later the sea-fret had closed about the young man in a disappearing act that was worthy of a master magician.
    The gates of Buckingham Palace gleamed in spring sunshine. Pressed against the railings peering in were tourists from every corner of the globe. To the guards posted on the other side, it must have been like looking at a cage full of badly dressed monkeys.
    The young man studied the tourists and broke them down into groups. The ones in spotless white trainers were Americans; Ali had seen their coach parked around the corner. They were watchful and harder to fool. The very orderly line of sightseers mostly dressed in black were Japanese. All of them wore high-quality cameras around their necks, so they were no good. The third party looked the most promising because their coach was from County Durham, which he knew was in North Yorkshire. He had memorized all of the counties and their main cities by now, although some of the pronunciation still defeated him.
    One couple seemed ideal. They looked well off but weren’t rich enough to be suspicious.
    Ali had lightened his hair and wore dark Northern European clothes that made him less likely to stand out. Tourists never seemed to understand that blending in meant wearing neutral colours, not loud patterned shirts. He straightened his collar, rubbed his second-hand shoes on the back of his jeans and stood closer to listen.
    â€˜Well, it’s not working,’ the woman next to him was saying as she jabbed away at her phone, trying to take a picture of her husband standing at the railings.
    â€˜It can’t be