I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her jaw. “It’s harder when the target’s moving.”
“I figured that.”
“You know how to use it. You won’t forget?”
“If I need to, I’ll use it. I’ll keep it with me.”
My hands slide inside her coat. “And it doesn’t matter who it is. If someone tries to hurt you, shoot them. Whoever that may be.”
Ben.
If Ben tried to hurt her.
He already had.
* * *
My life turned into closeted meetings and encounters somewhere around the age of twenty-two, when I started working for my father. It wasn’t a choice as such as a means to an end. I didn’t trust the man, didn’t like the way he still contacted my mother, the way he managed to interfere in my life without even being there through scholarships and bursaries and doors that were open to me that never should’ve been.
I’d have been a fool to turn any of it down, so I didn’t.
I travelled to Leyton by Tube, wearing an old coat and jeans that were torn. My stubble was longer than usual, to the point of scruff and I looked unkempt which was the point – I was as far removed as possible from the man who was standing in a by-election in two weeks.
The pub I headed for was a typical East End, cockney place, serving eel pie and other things most people wouldn’t touch. I ordered a pint of bitter and sat down in the dark corner away from the dart board, waiting for the person I was meant to be meeting.
This has become the half-life I lead. An almost public figure and a man who lives within the shadows of society’s underbelly.
The door opens and a slight man wearing a raincoat enters. His scarf is red and white stripes and I expect to see a Gryffindor emblem on it somewhere, to match the circular framed glasses. He looks around the pub as he waits for his drink to be poured, a whisky and coke like every other time I’ve seen him. When he spots me, he still carries on looking around, noticing every detail, every person. He’ll remember exactly who was in here, what they drank and what time they left, if they leave.
He sits down after taking off his coat, folding it neatly and placing it next to him. Slim fingers grasp his drink and he avoids eye contact.
“You wanted to meet me.” He speaks first, mainly because I made him by not starting the conversation and now he’s feeling even more awkward than usual.
“I need some information. But I can’t do it.”
He nods, unfazed. This is what he does. This is why he has more money than what can be accounted for. He’s a finder.
“What’s their name?”
He doesn’t use paper; he doesn’t write anything down. Everything is in his head and I’ve always believed that no one would ever prise any secrets from him because he holds too many and he’d never tell.
“Majken Smith, but she may have a different surname.”
“Who else?’
“Benjamin Smith.”
He nods. “What do you want to know about them?”
“Everything. Financials; family; where they are – if you can do that.”
“I can do that. When do you want it by?”
“As soon as you can.” I pass him an envelope. I know his rates, and this is more than he requires, but it means he’ll be quicker, more discreet. In a few days, I’ll have a report.
“You should know something and it’s something I shouldn’t tell you.” He takes two long drinks from his Jack and Coke.
My heart picks up speed.
