Ian Rankin - Westwind

He squinted ahead into the sunshine. The sky was blue, peppered with tiny high-level clouds. If the sky was blue, how come space was black? He could always ask Hepton. There was a lot he should ask Hepton, but this probably wasn’t the time.

Blake Farquharson carried only one case as he left his home. A small case, the kind one might use on an overnight trip. Not that he was going on an overnight trip. He was fleeing for ever. He had some money in a confidential account, tucked away on a Caribbean island. They would find him eventually. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it shouldn’t happen here, at home, in England.

The streets seemed quiet. He looked up and down for a taxi, and was elated to see one turn the corner in his direction. Its orange light was on, too, proclaiming it for hire. He waved an arm, and the taxi signalled, pulled into the kerb and stopped.

‘Heathrow,’ Farquharson ordered, getting in.

‘Of course,’ said the driver, his voice oddly inflected.

The taxi started off, and Farquharson stared at the driver. He looked familiar. In the rear-view mirror, the man’s dark eyes wrinkled with pleasure.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do know me, Mr Farquharson. At least, I think you do. My name is Vitalis. You are about to leave the country. Probably for some warm climate. But might I suggest a slightly cooler one? Somewhere your old friends won’t find you? At any rate, let us talk.’

Farquharson stared out of the window. The taxi was not travelling fast. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and tried it, but it was locked. Vitalis was still smiling at him. Farquharson rested his back against the seat and closed his eyes. Slowly they filled with tears.