Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (4 page)

"Turner, you've been out a
week, and I know that's not long. But there must be some idea of jobs. You've
got skills, haven't you? Have you been down to the Jobcentre yet?"

"They don't let you through
the door without an appointment written in gold on a marble slab. Job? What
bloody jobs. I wish. And even if there were jobs, what chance have I got now?
With a record?"

She didn't reply, and in the
silence sang the unspoken obvious sarcasm:
you shouldn't have got yourself
in that position, then.

Turner threw his head back and
studied the ceiling, then wished he hadn't, as he noticed a dark stain,
cobwebs, and peeling paint. "Anyway, something's come up. Yeah. A potential…
job."

His mum clicked her tongue in
disappointment. "Like the last thing was a potential job? And turned out
to be driving a getaway car?"

"This is legit, actually
legit. My brief put me in touch with a journalist-type. She wants to write an
article."

"On you?"

"Yeah, why not?"

She shook her head but she was
smiling. "So how much will you get for it?"

"I dunno. I have no idea how
much they earn for a story. Must be a couple of grand, surely?"

"You haven't sorted it
out?"

He suddenly felt stupid. Emily
didn't even have a definite commission yet, after all. But he shrugged.
"It's in hand. It'll be good."

"What then? After
that?"

Turner grabbed his coat and slung
it on, suddenly needing to be outside, to be free, to be in the open air once
more. "I'll have found a job by then," he said, fighting the rising
panic as the walls closed in around him. He had to walk out of the door, to
prove to himself that he really was free again. "Sorry mum. Gotta
go."
Breathe, walk, go, escape.
These moments hit so fast, and he
had to get away. When the fear gripped him, he didn't care how rude he seemed.

Outside his heart rate took a
while to drop back to normal. What had triggered it this time? The thought of a
job, perhaps, and his uncertain future.

Perhaps that bastard Riggers
really was the only option, and Turner's back prickled with sweat as he walked
briskly down the street, heading for nowhere except somewhere that wasn't
prison.

* * * *

Emily was pleased with her choice
of café. It was a quiet little place by Salford Quays, where they could sit and
watch the measured slow business of the water-folk and day trippers. It was
still an hour before the noonday rush when the trendy media types would be
flocking out of the offices all around, proudly wearing their security passes
hinting at Very Important Jobs at the BBC. It was a big enough café to have a
licence for alcohol and a range of decent food, and small enough to be still
considered smugly boutique.

She was ten minutes early, and
was just applying a fresh slick of lip gloss when Turner appeared around the
corner, ambling and looking at the boats as he walked. Her hand jerked in
annoyance - she hadn't expected him to be on time. She patted at her skin,
rubbing off the smear of gloss, and shoved the tube out of sight as he
approached.

He walked with coiled power, his
hands shoved in his jeans pockets but his head alert and his eyes all around,
checking out corners and passers-by and seagulls and cars, like any moment he
was expecting to have to react to something like a cinema action hero. He
grinned broadly when he saw her, and stuck his hand out as he reached the
outdoor table.

Emily was taken by surprise and
social convention took over, propelling her to her feet to shake his hand. They
both sat down and she fiddled with the menu, trying to hide the sudden
nervousness.

"Got a commission yet?"
he said without preamble, leaning back in his chair, his broad chest hard under
his thin white tee.

"Blimey, you don't hang
about. Hello. How nice to see you. How are you?"

"Hello. I'm fine. Got a commission
yet?"

She shook her head, putting the
menu down on the table, relaxed by his banter. "Well, not quite. Nothing
definite, no actual commissioning order or whatever. But I've been chatting to
a few contacts and there's interest. The thing is, the thing what I'm worried
about, well not worried, but you know, I have to be sure, about… I mean, I am
sure. But you know…"

"No. I really do not
know," he said as she ground to a halt. "I lost you at about
"commissioning order", to be honest. Let's get drinks."

Choosing the drinks gave her
valuable breathing space, and once their coffees arrived, she was ready to
explain a bit more. "Look, we need to tighten up on the angles a bit more.
One magazine was interested in a three-person case study of men who'd done really
long sentences but are now going straight, preferably with interviews with
their partners too, because it's a women's mag and they're really into
"love conquers all" and all the bullshit."

He raised an eyebrow at her
cynicism but didn't interrupt. She took a sip of overpriced coffee, then
continued. "On the other hand, we could make more of the whole
"social scandal" angle. There's a weekend supplement to a national
newspaper that made some interested noises if we could get some concrete
examples of obvious abuses."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. I thought
you'd have some idea. Like, a bloke who's really qualified for a job, the best
person for it, and he's overlooked."

"That's not news, that's
fact."

"Something headline
grabbing, though. Perhaps an ex-criminal is replaced by someone who isn't
qualified and then there's an accident. I don't know."

Emily was trying to sound
confident but it seemed to be harder with each passing minute. Ideas that were
perfect in the privacy of her own flat sounded like weak nonsense when she
blurted them out. And who was she kidding? The women's magazine would be a
pretty poor deal, and she'd be lucky to get £300 for it - including the photos
she'd be expected to provide.

£300 was all very well, but half
of that going to Turner - it was a waste of her time. She could spend the next
week temping in an office, and earn more.

She forced herself to think
clearly. It wasn't just about the money. It was a chance to get her name back
out there in investigative journalism, and to move on from the disaster of her
last writing assignment. It was beginning to feel like her last chance. How
much did she really want this? How much was it about proving herself to Tom
Khalil that he couldn't just wreck her heart and her job prospects - like he thought
he had?

An idea began to form in her
head.
I'll see this through - to prove I can. To him, to myself, and to
everyone. But then maybe I will make a change…

"Hey, penny for your
thoughts." Turner was looking at her with amusement, and she realised she
had been pondering in silence for some moments. "Or maybe a quid.
Inflation and all that."

"My thoughts aren't worth
that much," she said, and he smiled at her weak joke. It was enough to
make her smile back. "Sorry. There's a lot going on right now."

She half-wanted him to ask about
it, so she could refuse to answer, and seem all mysterious and complicated. But
he didn't. Tactfully and infuriatingly, he changed subject completely.

"So, ever wondered what
would lead you to robbing a bank or a post office?"

She spluttered into her coffee,
and looked around, suddenly fearing eavesdroppers. "No, actually."

"Oh come on. We all have,
surely?"

"No!" She set her mouth
in a tight line, but she could feel a smile trying to escape. "Well, only
in the abstract. You know. Like, how would I do it if I were going to? I see
stuff in the news sometimes, and I think, if I were that burglar or whatever,
I'd be so much better."

Turner laughed. "Hell yeah,
I got that all the time in prison. Guys would tell me about what they'd done,
and I'd be amazed how stupid they were. And the stuff they'd believe, too. You
know, I met a guy who claimed that his name was false or something because the
state always wrote it in capitals, so it didn't actually apply to him."

"Straw man, fictitious
entities, all that. It's a conspiracy thing that started in America."

"It exists? You've heard of
it? Fuck. I thought it was just him, spouting bollocks. Really, there's more
than one out there?"

"Yeah, there's a whole
movement. I came across them when I was covering some new-age-hippy-traveller
sorts. Some of them were really nice but… yeah, you're right. Spouting
bollocks."

"No shit." Gradually
his grin faded, and his face went blanker. "So, then. What would lead you
to commit some massive crime?"

She saw that he was genuinely
interested in an answer and she wrapped her hands around the coffee mug,
letting the heat gnaw her fingers. "I don't know. I'm kinda talking as I
think here… perhaps not money. I've been hard up. I've been, well, almost desperate
and I've always found a way, whether it's been temping or selling half my
clothes on eBay or whatever. Maybe that means I've never been desperate
enough…
But still, I like to think that money wouldn't make me steal or rob."

"Does it depend who or what
the money is for?"

"Oh, yeah, well, if we're
getting all theoretical, then sure. Would I steal to be able to feed seventeen
starving children? Of course I would."

"Your own?"

"I don't have any
kids."

"But if you did?"

"I would, then. Or anyone
else's, actually. If you see someone in proper distress…. Yeah, you do what you
need to do. Don't you?"

"Don't I?" Turner
challenged her.

"It was a rhetorical
question, I didn't-"

"No, I understand. But do I
do what I need to do?
Did
I do what I needed to do?" Turner looked
up and fixed Emily with a stare that seemed to pin her to the chair, his
colour-shifting eyes now dark brown, with just flecks of orange at the edges.
The joking man had gone, replaced by this man of unknown menace. She was
acutely aware of his past - or at least, the shapes of his past. The details
were clouded by threat. Did she really want to know? What if he were some
unspeakable monster?

She didn't want him to turn out
to be hateable. Her stomach flipped.
Oh no. Don't.
Don't fall for this
man. This is
danger.

He was oblivious to her
ruminations. "I told you how I struggled to get work once I'd been
discharged from the Army, but that's not the whole story. I did some labouring,
some odd-job work, some cash-in-hand stuff. I know enough people in the
North-West to keep myself busy, but the money was small stuff. I'd saved a ton
in the Army but it was all in one of those high-interest accounts that you
can't touch for years. I'd started the process of getting at it, to buy a
house. But months before it was released to me, something… happened."

She nodded, gripped by his tale.
She didn't want to say anything at all that might stem his flow.

He was frowning, his dark brows
drawn tight. "Some
one
happened, perhaps I should say. When I was in
Afghanistan, my sister Elaine was in a relationship with an absolute cu-
cocksplash
of a man. I swear. A vile little Manc smackrat. And he got her
pregnant."

Emily bit back the observation
that it took two to make babies, not one. It wasn't the time for that. Her cup
was empty now, but she hung on to the smooth china anyway. Turner was working
himself into an angry state as he continued.

"So, I get back and he's
running around like the biggest dog in town, leaving her at home with twin
boys. He's putting it about, playing away, making a fool of her. I can't stand
that. I tell her to throw him out. And she does, bless her, and then what?
She's my sister and now she's on her own with two kids and no money, and he's
not for paying any maintenance."

His fists were clenched and Emily
caught sight of the scars on his knuckles. He caught her looking, and
deliberately relaxed his hands, drawing in a deep breath. "Okay. Thing is,
I didn't know how much of a twat this man was. Not then. He said he had no cash
and I believed him, like a fool. There are my nephews, struggling. They want
things that all kids want. My mum… so, I had to earn more than I was getting.
So when he says he's got work for me… yeah, yeah. I didn't ask too many
questions, did I?"

Emily nodded again. She knew that
feeling. Sometimes you didn't want to ask because you didn't want to hear
confirmation of what you suspected. It was easier to kid yourself when you
could pretend you didn't know.

Much like this whole
conversation,
she thought, unwilling and yet desperate to hear all the
details.

Turner shrugged but kept his
hands flat on the table, and spoke in slow, thoughtful tones, as if trying to
put his anger back inside his body. "And that was my first crime, as a
getaway driver, and I got a fat stack of cash for it, which kind of made it all
right. For a while. I gave it to Elaine and thought that made it okay."

"I can see that side of
things," Emily said, trying to appease him.

He dismissed her platitude.
"It was wrong and no amount of hindsight and morals and rethinking is
going to make it right, because I know what I did and I know what I suspected
and I chose not to think too hard about it. So, doubly wrong. I wasn't just a
criminal, I was a dishonest one. But that changed."

"To an honest one?"

"Yeah, at least, to one that
didn't lie about what sort of scum I'd become, yeah."

"You're not…." She
couldn't finish the sentence, and blushed, looking down.
Fuck. Shut up.

Her stumbling almost-compliment
made his face relax into a wolfish grin once more, and the tension started to
ease. "Let's get another drink." He looked around for the waitress
but she was just inside the door, flirting with some grey-suited corporate
types. "One moment. Same again?"