Goodbye, Kate, page 2
“Uh-w-what?” For the briefest moment I don’t know where I am or what time it is, and then my cloudy unfocused eyes graze over my fiancé’s body hunched over mine. “Oh…crap.”
“Wow,” he says, the word shaking through a chuckle. “Love you, too.”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” My voice comes out groggy as I shuffle into a sitting position on the sofa. “Haven’t even started dinner.”
Leaning over, Simon bumps my nose with his before standing up. “Leave that to me,” he says, shrugging out of his dirty hi-vis work jacket. “I’ll throw a pizza in the oven when I’ve had a shower, and then you can tell me all about your day.” It’s nice that someone is interested. I’m looking forward to talking about it.
Smiling gratefully, I stretch my toes and relax back into the sofa. On a weekend, I’d probably join him in the shower, but not tonight. Not after he’s been working on a construction site all day and built up fifteen layers of sweat and grime over his skin. “Sounds perfect,” I say.
I know I sound corny as hell, but I feel like the luckiest woman alive to have Simon in my life. After a handful of disastrous relationships, I’ll always be grateful to the blind date who stood him up during one of my shifts at the restaurant two years ago. He waited for over an hour and we talked a little more each time I tended his table to top up his drink, or rather he talked and I giggled pathetically. Then, he came in a few days later, and a few days after that. Eventually, I found the courage to be flirty with him and told him it didn’t look like his date was going to turn up.
“Oh, she’s here. I just haven’t asked her out yet,” he said before setting his lips into the most devilish smile.
I’ve been his ever since.
After a month in my new job I’m finally starting to feel at home there. I haven’t shadowed anyone in two weeks. I could find my way around the aquarium with my eyes closed and I actually have friends, or at least acquaintances that might one day be friends, to sit with in the cafeteria. I look forward to going in each day, almost as much as I look forward to coming home to Simon. Sometimes I wonder if those tiny bubbles of excitement that pop in my belly when I see him will ever fade. I hope not.
Those bubbles appear, as always, when he gets home from work. He’s earlier than usual tonight. “Won’t be a sec!” I call out from the kitchen. After giving the beef stew in the slow cooker a stir, I pop the lid back on and wander through to the living room. The first thing I notice is that he’s not dirty tonight. He looks a little flustered too. He tries to hide it with a smile, but I know him too well to fall for that. “Everything okay?” I ask, ambling over to him and kissing his stubbled cheek.
“Of course.” He takes my face in both hands, staring into my eyes. “I love you,” he whispers, and then he presses our lips together.
I open my mouth instinctively, craving the taste of him. His tongue swirls and dances with mine before he sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling gently. Then, he drops his forehead to mine.
“I love you, too,” I say, growing a little concerned. Running my fingers through his short brown hair, I encourage his head up to face me again. “Something’s bothering you.”
He sighs and palms my cheek. “Had a run-in with my father. No big deal.”
Ugh. Simon’s parents always manage to put him in a bad mood. They have lots of money, not unlike my own father. The only difference is my dad doesn’t think I’m a waste of space because I didn’t go to university and achieve some big fancy career. His mum’s okay, if not a little snooty, but his dad weirds me out if I’m honest. He’s got a mean face and a condescending attitude to go with it. Thankfully, they live up in Scotland and we don’t have to see them often. I’ve only met them twice, in fact. “Your mum and dad are here?” I question.
“Just my father, and he’s gone now. He passed through on his way to Birmingham. Business.” Simon shrugs.
Like mine, Simon’s dad is a businessman, only he owns a chain of casinos instead of restaurants. He’s a self-made man, which is why I don’t understand his problem with Simon working in a trade. Who says Simon won’t go on to own his own construction company one day and be as successful as his father? He’s only twenty-eight. He’s got dreams, too, and lots of time to achieve them. Sometimes I wonder if there’s more to their relationship than Simon tells me, but then I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Simon tells me everything.
My lips part, ready to ask him what happened, but he talks first.
“Something smells good,” he says, raising his nose as he follows the smell towards the kitchen.
“Stew,” I say, disappointed that he doesn’t want to elaborate. “It’s ready. I’m just waiting on the cobs in the oven.”
He nods. That’s all. My beef stew is his favourite. I learned how to make it from Dominic, the head chef where I used to work. Usually, Simon’s face lights up when I make it.
Damn his pompous twat of a father.
Later in the evening, we’re curled up in bed with the TV on the chest of drawers playing to itself, because neither of us are looking at it. We’re freshly showered, and naked, and while Simon twirls strands of my long hair around his fingers, I hook one leg over his thighs and snuggle closer.
“Do you ever think of just…getting away?” Simon asks. With my head on his chest I can’t see his face, but his voice sounds curious.
“What, like a holiday?”
“More like…moving. Emigrating, maybe.”
My head snaps back in surprise, and then I shuffle back until I’m lying on my side, facing him. “Emigrating?” He can’t be serious.
“I’ve been looking into it.”
What?
“There’re so many more opportunities abroad, so much more for our money. And, really, what’s keeping us here?”
Gobsmacked, my breath stutters for a moment before I can answer. “Uh…my dad. My job.” I shake my head, wondering where this has come from. “The house, the fish—”
“Okay, okay,” he interrupts. “It was just an idea.” He smiles but I sense disappointment behind it.
“Sounded like more than an idea to me.” My tone is unintentionally snippy, the aftermath of shock, most likely. I bet this has something to do with his bloody father making him feel like he’s not good enough, not achieved enough.
“It was, but you’re right. Now’s not the right time. Let’s just start with a holiday instead.” His reassuring words didn’t serve their purpose because it would never be the right time for me. I’m a home bird. I don’t like change. That’s probably the main reason why it took me so long to find the courage I needed to leave the only job I’d ever known despite craving something else entirely.
“Hmm.” I return the smile he’s offering, but unease pokes at my stomach. “We’ll start saving,” I suggest. I wouldn’t mind going back to Corfu, actually. I visited the Greek island many times as a child with my parents. I only have vague memories, but it could be fun to explore it again.
Leaning over me and trapping my body with his strong arms, Simon turns playful. He pecks kisses along my lips and nose and then flashes a grin which makes every one of my muscles turn to jelly. “Let’s be spontaneous for a change. Reckless.”
I’m confused, yet I can’t help but smile wider at the mischievous look on his face.
“Let’s just book a ticket. To anywhere. Tomorrow. Let’s go on an adventure!”
I start laughing because, clearly, he’s pulling my leg. I just can’t work out why. “What is wrong with you?” I choke out through the laughter as he kisses my neck. “Have you been drinking?” I know he hasn’t, but I can’t think of another reason for his behaviour tonight.
A throaty chuckle tumbles from his mouth. “No. I…” He looks down on me, his smile fading along with my own. A moment of seriousness crosses between us and I don’t quite understand what it is or what it means. “Never mind. I’ve just had a hell of a week at work. Escaping seemed like a good idea for a minute…but now I realise I just need to look at you and all my problems go away.”
Oh hell. He’s got me again. My insides start to melt at the same time every inch of my skin becomes acutely aware of the closeness of him. I forget what I’m planning to say the second his hand dips under the duvet, his callused fingers stroking a trail towards my pussy. I’m throbbing in anticipation before he even reaches his destination and when he slides one finger along the seam of my folds, so gently, so teasingly I can barely feel it, I throw my head back and gasp. “Oh…God.”
And just like that, everything is right with the world.
Chapter Two
Lincoln
The quickest way to kill someone is with a bullet. The most fun, with a blade. The smartest, however, is to stage an accident or suicide.
Poison.
Overdose.
A car accident or trip down the stairs.
The possibilities are endless. My job requires creativity, intelligence and skill, and I excel in every one of those areas. I don’t consider myself a murderer. More a servant of justice. There are no good people in my world. Therefore, if you end up in my crosshairs the chances are you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Dead.
Of course, death isn’t the answer to every problem, very few in fact, and skimming the scum from the pool isn’t the only thing I’m good at. I’m a negotiator. I have great instincts, a survivor’s instinct. I’m fast. Smart. I work best alone. I’m cautious. Stealthy. Aware of everyone while making sure no one is aware of me. I don’t trust but demand loyalty and I pride myself on being able to sniff out a liar in a landfill of steaming shit.
That’s why I’m one of Arthur Cowan’s most reliable men. He saved my life. Taught me everything I know. Trained me in his own image, or so he says.
I dread seeing him today when I pull up on his courtyard next to the sculpted bushes. For several minutes I simply sit, hands on the steering wheel, eyes closed, composing myself. This is it. I know what he’s going to ask. It’s time to complete the job.
With a crank of my neck and a heavy sigh, I exit the car and make my way to the grand front door where I’m met by one of Arthur’s men. I nod once as I pass him, heading straight to where I know Arthur will be – in his library, drowning in whisky.
The door to the large room is open, and Arthur is stood as if expecting my arrival. He pours another glass of whisky from his crystal decanter and goes to pass it to me, but I decline with a raised hand. He simply shrugs, drinking it himself.
“Arthur…” I begin, but then my words fall away. I’ve never seen him look quite so…broken. I’ve never seen him look anything other than in complete control, in fact. His eyes are dark. His skin is pale. His hands are trembling with every lift of his glass to his lips.
Murder and death aren’t new to us. We lose people, we take people, it’s part of the business. We all know the risks…except Marcus. He didn’t. He was fifteen years old, a kid for fuck’s sake, innocent, and now he’s rotting in a morgue, burned beyond recognition. The firebombing was senseless. There was no deal being interrupted. We weren’t due any pushbacks. It was fucking point scoring. Petty. Mindless. Somebody’s got to pay for that. Fletcher has got to pay for that.
Marcus wasn’t even supposed to be in that damn storage locker…but I was. I’d been held up that day, in something as innocent as fucking traffic of all things. But I was supposed to be there meeting with the others to examine the latest shipment, before the fucking lot exploded killing everyone inside.
No.
Has Fletcher finally figured it out? Was I the target?
“When will it be done?” Arthur asks, looking me square in the eyes as he slams his glass down onto his walnut desk. He no longer looks broken. He looks determined and vengeful. This is the real Arthur, back from his moment of weakness.
“We should wait until after the funeral,” I suggest. “Until the heat dies down.”
“He killed my son.” His voice is stern, callous even, but not raised. “Twelve of my men. He stole business from me. There’s only one thing that needs to die, Lincoln, and it isn’t the goddamn heat.”
Tension ripples through my shoulders. He’s being rash, acting on emotion, something he taught me is a dangerous move. Emotions can be manipulated, taken advantage of. Emotion is weakness. “If we hit too soon, the police—”
“I trusted you to follow the girl for a reason,” he says. “Are you telling me you’re not up to the job?” There’s a sliver of threat in his tone and I know better than to ignore it. It doesn’t matter what we mean to each other, he’d slit my throat before he’d let me disrespect him. You don’t gain the kind of power a man like Arthur Cowan has by letting something as trivial as feelings get in the way.
I sigh in resignation. “Of course not. Consider it done.”
“When?”
“I’ll need a couple of days to plan. The aftermath, mainly.”
For a moment he looks like he might argue but, grieving or not, he knows disposing of a body takes a little working out beforehand. Not a necessity, granted, but preferable. Surely he can give me that much. “Two days,” he agrees with a single nod.
When he turns his back to me I consider myself dismissed and leave the library. Before I go I decide to find Rosemary, Arthur’s wife. It doesn’t take long. She’s sitting in the conservatory looking out onto their lavish garden.
“Hey,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb her calm.
Rosemary’s always been fond of me, more so than Arthur, but I’m indebted to both of them nonetheless. She smiles faintly and pats the spot next to her on the rattan bench. “Linc.” She breathes my name with so much sadness and then, for a while, she says nothing at all. Her eyes are filled with loss as she stares absently through the glass walls. Pain radiates from her body. She looks like she’s suffocating. I don’t understand or share her grief. All I feel is searing anger, a raging inferno of fury and retribution that can only be quelled with the blood of my enemy.
“You’re going to put this right, aren’t you, Linc?” Still her focus is on outside as she speaks.
“I promise,” I assure her, and I mean it. “I just wonder…” I trail off for a few seconds, wondering if what I’m about to say is a good idea. “There’s going to be retaliation,” I begin, pausing again when Rosemary’s head whips around to face me. The sudden dryness in my mouth surprises me. I’m not a nervous man.
“This is retaliation!” she snaps.
“Of course, of course. What I mean is, we can take more from him than his daughter. What’s she worth, really? If we end him, we end everything. Take everything.”
Her eyebrows disappear behind her fringe. “Does Arthur know what you’re suggesting?” She’s angry. I’ve gone too far. “That you’re coming to me behind his back?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“Death is too good for him! He needs to feel what I am feeling! I need to take what he took from me!”
In an effort to calm her before someone alerts Arthur, I take her hand. “Rosemary. I was thinking aloud, and I was out of place. Forgive me.”
She takes a few stuttered breaths, nods, and then goes back to looking out onto the garden.
“I need to get going,” I announce, placing her hand onto her lap. “Call me if you need anything.”
“You know what I need,” she replies without a trace of emotion.
With that, I turn and leave.
Time to get to work.
It’s early afternoon when I reach my flat. No one knows about this place, not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur. It would be foolish to have no private space, nowhere untraceable. That’s why I pay the landlord in cash once a week on a no-questions-asked basis. The area is a shithole, the flat itself falling apart, but I’ve made it impenetrable with various locks and surveillance equipment.
I gather what I need as quickly and efficiently as possible and then I make the relevant phone calls to start putting my plan into action, a plan I’m making up as I go along. I’m careful about who I contact. I trust nobody, but I know which people value money over loyalty. I know who can be bought, or who can be persuaded with some not-so-gentle encouragement. I also know people who are stupid enough to trust me. Different people serve different purposes and my instincts when it comes to using those people have yet to fail me.
After meeting a couple of contacts everything is set in motion and all that’s left to do is wait. At the aquarium, I park around the back in a car which, like my flat, no one else knows about. Arthur has a vast assortment of expensive vehicles that I drive on a regular basis, but each of those are fitted with tracking devices. This car, my car, is essential for carrying out my own private business. I’m sure to situate myself a good distance away from the designated Staff Only bays as I begin studying every person who enters and leaves the giant blue building. There’s only one who really matters, of course.
Kate Fletcher.
I remember the day Arthur asked me to start following her. I knew why, knew what the potential outcome might be, and I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I had the eventual perfect murder all planned out in my head from the start. Oblivious to her father’s sins, Kate didn’t deserve a painful death. She had no valuable information for me to extract beforehand through threats or torture. She’d been marked for a quick and clean bullet from a gun widely accessible to low-rent street gangs after a ‘home invasion gone astray’.
Harold Fletcher and Arthur Cowan have been at war since before I was even born. There have been episodes of peace, times of agreements and truces, but any hope of that ever happening again ceased the moment Arthur’s eldest son, Ronan, ended up paralysed in one arm at the hands of Harold’s chief gofer. Bullets flew over some petty dispute about a weapons contract. No need for it at all when Arthur and Harold already had a treaty in place. Naturally, Arthur wanted the upper hand after that, needed to exploit his enemy’s greatest weakness. He would make it clear he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Fletcher’s daughter the way Fletcher had hurt his son.
