Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

The quieter and more winding the roads became, the more relaxed Chet felt. There were no cars now. Nobody following. No risk of vehicle identification cameras or unexpected police patrol cars. Just the Beacons, the heavy rain and a few hardy, bedraggled sheep. When he saw their final destination — the lights of a single, solitary farmstead a couple of hundred metres away, he felt more relieved than at any moment since he’d awoken on his birthday. And that seemed like weeks ago.

‘Where are we?’

It was the first thing Suze had said for a couple of hours. Her voice was cracked and quiet.

‘A B amp;B. We should be able to get a room here for the night. Stay under the radar.’

A pause.

‘We’ll tell the owners we’re married.’

Suze frowned. ‘What? Why?’

‘Because nobody remembers boring married couples. And because I want you in the same room as me, where I can see you. And where we can talk.’

Suze swallowed hard. ‘Right,’ she said, and they drove in silence up towards the farmhouse.

The rain was still heavy, and although it was only a short run from the car to the front door, they were half-soaked by the time they got there. They sheltered in a shallow porch where an old sign said ‘vacancies’, and they had to ring the bell twice before anyone answered. The door was opened by an elderly lady — seventy-five, perhaps older — with wispy grey hair, half-moon glasses and hearing aids on both ears. She peered at them suspiciously, as though guests were the last thing she expected at this bed and breakfast, while a floppy-eared cocker spaniel sniffed around her feet.

‘Yes?’

‘We need a room.’ Chet’s voice was abrupt.

‘A room?’ The old woman had a faint Welsh accent. She looked up at Chet’s scarred face with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Chet was about to reply, when Suze butted in. ‘We’ve travelled a very long way,’ she said, in much more friendly tones. ‘Might you have somewhere for us?’

The old lady’s face softened slightly now that Suze was talking to her. ‘Ah well, you’d better come in,’ she said. She took a few paces back, and the two of them walked into the house. ‘You can leave your rucksack in the porch,’ she told Chet. ‘We don’t want it dripping all over the floor now, do we?’

‘It’s dry,’ Chet told her. It was also heavy on account of the alabaster figurine he’d stashed in there.

Stepping into the farmhouse was like stepping into another century. Heavy oak beams traversed the low ceiling of what appeared to be a large reception-room-cum-kitchen, and a fire smouldered in a blackened inglenook. There was a very old gas oven along one wall, tired-looking floral worktops on either side, and a large butler’s sink, cracked and stained yellow. Heavy flagstones covered the floor and the whole place smelt of woodsmoke.

The spaniel started investigating Suze, sniffing round her feet and nuzzling her ankles with its nose. She bent down to scratch its ears and this seemed to please the old lady, who directed her conversation only at Suze. ‘She likes you,’ she said, in the slightly too loud tones of the almost-deaf.

Suze smiled and stood up again. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘How many nights, dear?’

Suze glanced at Chet, who covertly held up a single finger.

‘Just one,’ she replied, and the old lady took a leather-bound guestbook from the heavy mahogany sideboard.

‘I’ll be needing your names.’

‘Carter,’ Chet said quickly. ‘Mr and Mrs Carter.’

The old lady ignored him. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said to Suze. ‘I’m a little hard of hearing…’

Suze smiled and helped write the name in the guestbook. Moments later they were being led across the flagstone floor, into an adjoining hallway and up a wide, winding, stone staircase that led to the first floor. The old lady climbed it with difficulty. ‘I can’t be doing with stairs at my age,’ she complained. ‘I only come up here for guests.’

The landing had threadbare rugs and creaking floorboards. They passed one room on the right-hand side of the landing before the old lady showed them into a second room. Suze took one look at it and, still in buttering-up mode, said, ‘It’s perfect. We’ll…’

But Chet interrupted her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not this one.’

‘Why ever not?’ asked the old lady.

He glanced up to the ceiling where there was a removable panel, presumably leading to an attic. ‘What else have you got?’

The old lady looked offended, but she led them back along the landing towards the first door they’d passed. This room was much more basic than the other. Frayed curtains, a lumpy, iron-framed double bed. Next to the bed was an occasional table with a beige, functional telephone on it. The adjoining bathroom had mildewed grout between the tiles and an avocado-coloured suite stained white with limescale.

Chet checked the window. The frame was thin and rotten, but it was locked and it looked out on to the front where he’d parked. There was no attic hatch.

‘This will do,’ he said.

‘I can’t give you anything to eat, you know,’ the old woman announced. It sounded like an accusation. ‘And there’s nowhere nearby.’

‘Please, don’t worry,’ Suze told her. She clearly had a way with the oldies. ‘We’re glad for the room. You’re very kind to…’

‘Is there a key?’ Chet interrupted.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘ A key? ’

The old woman looked at him as if he’d made a lewd suggestion. ‘Oh no… no, there’s no key.’

She shook her head and left the couple, muttering to herself and leaving the door ajar. Chet closed the door, then stood with his back against it. He gave Suze a piercing look — one that she couldn’t withstand for long. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands.

‘Are you sure we’re safe here?’

He walked over, grabbed a high-backed chair that was against the wall and lodged it under the door handle. ‘As safe as we can be. But if that woman who’s chasing us is the person I think she is, we won’t stay safe for long.’

‘Who do you think she is?’

But Chet didn’t answer.

She looked up at him again. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For helping me.’

Chet shrugged. Suddenly his leg was very sore, and as he stepped into the room his limp was more pronounced than usual.

‘Your leg?’

He frowned. Then, after a moment, he pulled his trouser leg up a few inches to reveal the sturdy black shin of his artificial leg. Suze’s eyes widened but, he noticed, she didn’t look appalled. ‘I didn’t realise…’ she said. ‘How did it happen?’

‘I had a little disagreement with a man called Ivanovic. It was some time ago.’

‘That looks like more than a disagreement.’

‘He wanted to kill me. I didn’t want him to.’

‘Were you in the military?’ Suze asked.

‘You could say that.’

A pause.

‘Does it… does it hurt?’

Chet didn’t want to discuss his disability. There were more urgent topics. ‘Tell me, why were you eavesdropping on that meeting?’

Suze bit her lip and looked as though she was gathering her thoughts. ‘It’s the Grosvenor Group,’ she said at last.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you know who they are?’

Chet walked over to the window and looked out. The rain was still sheeting. It hammered against the window. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Dickheads in suits?’

‘You work for them?’

‘I’m a freelance security consultant. They pay me to debug rooms, that’s all. It’s not like I’m sitting round the board table.’

‘Of course not. You’re not the kind of person they want.’ She took a few deep breaths and looked around nervously. ‘They can’t find us here, can they?’