Fact was, they’d focused on the wrong target. When the woman appeared, she’d made it clear she was dangerous by dropping Cyril. That got their attention. The kid, meanwhile, had legged it. It had been dark: no streetlights. Two minutes’ start, and it was like the night had swallowed him whole. Following footprints in the snow sounded easy enough, but this was pitch black, and soon they were in a wood. They weren’t fucking Apaches.
And while that was going on, Frank the Legend had been nowhere, so Anton wasn’t thrilled to hear him explain how they’d screwed up.
They were back in the barn. Would still be out there, ploughing on, but Cyril had keeled over, complaining about flashing lights, of which there weren’t any. Lars, team medic, had held up fingers. Cyril proved good at spotting when the answer was three, but he might have been guessing. People usually held up three fingers: Anton had no clue why.
Frank said, “If I’d known you needed help, I’d have come along. But I figured you were professional enough to deal with a teenager.”
Anton said, “Yes, and you want to be careful messing about in the snow, your age.”
“You say something?”
“If we’d had guns, it would have been over before the woman arrived.”
Frank said, “Yeah, but it would have made the whole accidental death scenario less plausible.”
And how plausible is it looking now, Anton wondered.
Frank said, “Fuck it. It is what it is. So okay, boots on. Weather like this, there’s a chance the kid hasn’t cleared the area yet. If he’s gone to ground, he’ll have headed somewhere familiar. That gives us three possibles.” He pulled a page from a tiny red notebook, tore it in two, and passed one half to Lars, the other to Anton. “He worked for a firm called Paul’s Pantry, owner one Paul Ronson. Lars, check it out. And the place where he stayed with his family. Anton, that’s you. And Cyril . . . Have a fucking lie down. You look like a local.”
“He could be back in London by now. Or at a police station.”
“Saying what? That some people he tried to blackmail didn’t like it? No, he’s a kid and he’ll do what kids do. He’ll hide under the bed and hope we’ve gone away.”
“Staging an accident,” Lars said, “is a lot more complicated after last night.”
“Which is why, for one day only, I’m Father Christmas.” Frank walked through the open barn door, into the snow flurry. His car was a smooth-angled sculpture already. He destroyed the effect by opening the boot and pulling out a black holdall, from which he produced two handguns: Sig Sauers. One he handed to Anton; the other to Lars.
“What about me?” said Cyril.
“You made the naughty list. State you’re in, I wouldn’t trust you with an electric toothbrush,” said Frank. “Stay here. And try not to get hit by any more wrenches.”
Anton did what he always did when handed a gun: he checked its load and its moving parts. Lars did the same. The sound made the barn a war zone, briefly.
“Spare magazines?”
“You’re in Wales, for god’s sake. Unless they’ve weaponised sheep, you’re already outgunning everyone you’ll meet.”
“Farmers have guns,” Lars pointed out.
“So avoid farmers.”
“What are your plans?” Anton said. “If you don’t mind us asking.”
“I’ll check out Caerwyss Hall,” said Frank. “Which is the other place we know the kid’s familiar with. That all right with you?”
Anton shrugged.
“Okay, let’s roll. If we’re going to go noisy, you’ll need to clear the decks afterward. So torch this place when we’re done. Capisce?”
“We’ll manage.”
“Try not to screw up this time.”
With Frank gone, they slipped into German.
“We have one car,” said Lars.
“I know. I’ve counted it.”
“So—”
“So we drive into town, park, and do the rest on foot. Meet back at the car afterwards. Shall I write that down?”
“You’re the same kind of prick he is.”
“But thirty years younger,” said Anton. “Imagine my future.” He looked at Cyril. “You all right on your own? You want a night-light?”
“If you find the woman,” said Cyril, still blurring his words, “bring her back here. I’ve a tool of my own to knock her round with.”
“If we find the woman, we’ll waste her,” said Anton, meaning it. His balls still ached from her knee. “And you can save your tool for a rainy day.”
He tucked the gun into his belt, beneath his coat. Lars did likewise.
When they left the barn Cyril was trying to light the stove, but kept breaking matches.
It didn’t look like torching the place was going to be an issue.
Louisa removed her hand from Lucas’s mouth, slipped past him, and pressed her eye to the peephole.
On the doorstep stood Emma Flyte.
She opened the door, pulled Emma in and closed it again. “They sent
Emma unbuttoned her coat and shook her head vigorously. Droplets flew. “Nice to see you too.”
“Emma!”
“Nobody sent me. I came looking for your phone.”
“But how—”
“Trains,” said Emma patiently. “They’re still running. Or were. And only taking twice as long as usual.” She looked at Lucas. “You’re Lucas Harper, right?”
The boy nodded, unable to speak.
