Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (5 page)

Emily nodded, and held her breath
until he disappeared into the gloom of the café. Once alone, she could give
herself a damn good talking to. Top of the list of warnings was
do not fall
for this man. He might be good fantasy-fodder but don't even hint to him that
you know he's hot.

Falling for the subject of an
article was how it had all gone so wrong before. More than once, in fact, and
she was getting far too old to just stumble through the same old mistakes. Tom
Khalil had been the last in a string of dodgy decisions, but he had been the
worst. He'd played her for a fool and made off with more than her pride. He'd
made off with her professional credibility.

Oh, and all her research on a big
story, which made him a fat stack of cash, a number of television interviews,
and suddenly he was the go-to spokesperson on a range of social topics.

But Turner Black wasn't Tom
Khalil.

No. He is a criminal and he is
a subject and he is a bit too cocky.

All of those things were just
part of the appeal.

Dammit.

She craned her head, shuffling
forward in the seat, and could see him by the counter, laughing. The waitress
was laughing back, standing just that little too close to him.
And he's a
player.

She reminded herself of her
objectives. Get a story, get paid, move her career into new pastures.

And other aims, too. Go and visit
Kayleigh, for a start. That would be nice. She missed her old friend. Then, find
decent
men to date. Join an agency and do it seriously. Start planning
for the future. Normal stuff. Easy stuff that everyone else managed without a
hitch.

Turner came back out, carrying
two brimming coffee cups with ease, not a single drop spilt. "And so
then," he said, as if he hadn't been away, "I carried on committing
crime."

* * * *

The following day dawned misty,
and Turner knew it was going to become bright and clear. It was a day to be out
of Manchester and away from the smog and exhaust fumes. While he'd been in
prison, he'd found a number of escapes, working on the principle that though
they had his body, his mind was still free. When he wasn't in the library or
the gym, he'd spend long hours in the chapel. He wasn't religious but he liked
the calm of the room, and the fact that the various chaplains would bring
decent biscuits in just added to the appeal. He learned how to meditate from a
Buddhist convert, and found he could lose himself in building visualisations
from memories, creating fantasy inner worlds that mirrored the reality he'd
left behind.

His favourite mental exercises
would recreate places he'd gone camping, both as a kid, and while on leave from
the Army. But now he could go up to the hills once more, for real, and he was
compelled to rediscover his old haunts.

He threw his solo tent into a
battered old rucksack, with a light sleeping bag, a mat and some food. He used
to take the earliest train out to the Peak District or the Pennines, but his
Range Rover Sport was sitting, unused and unloved, in the lane at the back of
the row of terraces. It smelled of car polish and fake leather; he'd bought it
just before he'd been sent down, and it was like a shining testament to his
pursuit of money. He pushed aside the sudden sick feeling.

The money had been the impetus,
but what had kept him on that course of crime? His mind flicked back to the
rest of the conversation with Emily. He still couldn't believe quite how honest
he'd been with her. It was those big eyes of hers, and the way she listened.

Who was he kidding? She was
trained to listen. Probably did it at journalism college. How to interrogate
someone without them even knowing. It would all be body language and subconscious
manipulation and shit like that.

He drove out of Manchester,
against the flow of commuter traffic that was battling their way in to their
sad little grey jobs. He didn't envy them. That was half the problem, as he'd
ended up confessing to Emily: the thrill of the chase had infected him. Crime
for crime's sake, perhaps. The thought that it was all a game. After all, his
were victimless crimes, weren't they?

He'd been on courses in prison
which had demonstrated to him that
nothing
was a victimless crime. He
felt shame, deep shame, now. And yet it did nothing to get away from the fact
that he craved adventure. The Army had given him adventure, but civilian life
had been a wet and empty wasteland - until he'd taken part in that first raid,
and he'd experienced the thrill of real danger once again.

He drove faster as he hit the
motorway, overtaking with violent swerves, trying to reach that buzz, that
thrill that made him feel alive. Only when he cut up a red Audi did he get a
grip and slow down; he caught sight of the driver's terrified face in his rear
view mirror, and it caught in his throat. The woman had hair like Emily's, and
he was struck by his laddish irresponsibility.

Turner was soon off the main
roads and onto a minor route, where he knew there would be lay-bys to leave his
car. Walking briskly helped him. The meditation in the chapel had shown him how
to calm down, but he still found it easier if his body was engaged in some
activity. Striding over the hills with his backpack brought him a quiet peace.
The chatter in his mind receded and he walked, just walked, no aim, no purpose
and no demands upon him.

It was almost with regret that the
walking had to end, and he found an ideal place to camp for the night, a
sheltered hollow with a view of the rising sun. It was cool now, and he quickly
pitched his tent. He'd brought no cooking equipment, preferring instead to camp
light.

He sat with his back against a
rock, his fleece zipped up tight against the darkening air, and ate cold beans
straight from the can.

I'm free.
Slowly it was
sinking in. Prison had been hard, but only at first. After the first few weeks,
he'd adapted. Everyone did. Some sank into depression or bursts of anger;
mental illness was rife. But you survived. It didn't kill you. Once you
realised that, it was just a waiting game. Waiting for freedom.

Now I'm free.

Now what?

The beans were cloying in their
tedious monotony and he put the can aside, half-finished, to reach for a tin of
lager and some chocolate chip cookies. It wasn't the best drink in the world
but it was far better than the one experience of hooch he'd had inside. Brewed
from oranges, bread and water, and hidden in tubs around someone's cell, prison
homebrew had made him vomit. After that, any cheap booze was like ambrosia.

He closed his eyes and listened
to the wind on the dry grass. Faintly, he thought he could detect the rumble of
traffic, even here. He sniffed, but his nose was clogged with the scent of
beans and lager, and there was no hint of nature to be had. He opened his eyes
and saw the trail of an aeroplane as it dipped towards East Midlands Airport;
there was no real wilderness to be found here.

His thoughts turned to jobs. He
had to do something. Not just for the money - a need that was pressing - but to
give him purpose. He had to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

What did ex-soldiers
do?
There was door security, of course. He had never fancied being a bouncer, but
it was a possibility. Could he get the SIA licence with his record? Maybe. What
else?

Close protection officer. He'd
heard about others like him who left the country and work for agencies in war
torn places, offering protection or security to businessmen or governments.
Although he had no urge to return to Afghanistan or Iraq, at least he knew the
areas and he knew some of the customs. And he'd be important; he'd be someone.

For a moment he allowed himself
the luxury of imagining himself at the centre of a fire fight, being a hero and
saving the day. But the fantasy was replaced by the image of his mother, ill,
maybe dying. Would she be proud of him? And was that pride enough to make up
for his absence in her hour of need?

Fuck.
He knew he couldn't
leave Manchester, never mind the country.

Think. Think logically.

Was he the same man that had gone
into prison? No, he was cleverer now, that was for sure. He knew more about
crime and he knew more about conviction. Would he have still committed the
crimes he did? If he could go back?

No. And yet… what else would he
have done?

Turner felt uncomfortable. He
hadn't come out here for a bout of introspection. He downed the rest of the
can, and finished off the beans.
Classy bit of dining
, he thought,
letting a half-grin creep over his face.
I wonder what Emily would make of
this?

And what do I care what she
might think of it?

Ahh, come on lad,
he
admonished himself.
She's… nice. Horrible word. But she is. Nice.

The sort of woman worth going
straight for.

The thought, once had, could not
be unthought. He crushed the can in his hand, not caring that the jagged edges
bit the flesh of his palm.
Would I?

I'd go straight for her, if I
could. But this magazine or newspaper bullshit really isn't going anywhere, is
it?

He'd done some research, asked
around, spent a bit of time searching the internet on his smartphone. Even if
the mythical commission did appear, it wouldn't pay as much as he'd hoped. And
it wouldn't pay for months. He hadn't realised that at first. But depending on
when it was published, there could be up to two or three months before the cheque
fell into Emily's lap.

Too late - way too late - he had
to get his finances sorted now.

He began to work his way through
the cookies. Something flitted through the air above him - a bat, perhaps,
hunting for the moths that were creeping out into the dark. Predator and prey.

That led him to thoughts of
Riggers. The odious little twat had turned up on his doorstep last night, all
wide grins and baggy grey sweat pants. Somehow the shithead had managed to
escape a custodial sentence. All the blame from the bank job had fell onto
Turner, as he'd been made out to be much more than a mere getaway driver. Some
of his other crimes - the stuff that Riggers had led him into after that - had
added up on to his sentence as well. Stuff that miraculously didn't seem to
stick to Riggers at all. And Riggers still had dirt on him for other crimes,
and he wasn't going to let Riggers use any of that against him if he could help
it.

Older and wiser, Turner kept his
mouth shut, and had let Riggers in. He wanted to hear what he had to say, and
he kept his itching fists close and hidden behind his back. Punching the rat's
teeth out would have been satisfying, but he'd also be depriving his nephews of
a dad. And he couldn't do that. Turner's own dad had never been around. At least
Riggers took the twins to the park once or twice.

Probably to look at pretty girls
in short skirts, or make drugs deals, but whatever.

Riggers had been sniffing around
to see if Turner was still up for a "bit of this, a bit of that" as
he called it, trying to sound like he was some international man of fucking
mystery.

"Robbing?" Turner had
said, sneering at the cocky young man.

Riggers had a dangerous edge to
him, always had, and his breezy smile had faded. "Yeah. But you don't have
a problem with that, do you?"

Turner folded his arms.
"That's in the past for me."

"What did they pin on you in
the end? Not the Post Office at Little Jobling, and what about those lock-ups
on the eastern Industrial Estate? No-one ever found out who did them. Unsolved
crimes. What was that Crimestoppers' phone number again?"

Turner had sworn at him. Riggers
had dropped a few more unsavoury hints about needing money to buy "his
lads" some shoes, and needed Turner's "particular skills" and
other such bullshit. Eventually Turner had thrown him out.

But it lingered. Knowing what he
knew now… he'd do things differently.

This time, he wouldn't get
caught.

Jerky Marmalade
was the
band's name but they were much better than the awkward moniker suggested. Emily
had genuinely loved them ever since she first met the folk-pop-punk fourpiece
at a grassroots festival in Liverpool. She'd been writing for an underground
Socialist magazine, and was covering the infiltration of big business money and
advertising into supposedly "by the people, for the people" events.
She'd spent as much time chatting with the long-haired singer as she had in her
efforts to expose the corporations' influences on retailers at the festival.

She hadn't heard of them, or from
them, for over a year now. She had the CD on loud, and it took her right back
to those days on the alternative scene. Even this time last year, she could
claim to know every hippy, every drop out, every agitator and protester and tub
thumper in the north-west.

And now?

She sighed and slid down in the
bath, ducking her head under water so that the singer's wail was momentarily
drowned. It was eleven in the morning and normal, decent people were at work.
She'd always loved the freedom of freelancing but what was the point when people
didn't
know
how edgy and different she was being? Facebook updates
boasting about her casual lifestyle soon lost her friends.

She laughed at her own vanity,
sending bubbles through the water, and resurfaced to a great gulp of air.
Kayleigh might be right. Time for a nine-to-five, safe and secure staff
writers' position?

Some kind of change was needed.
Kayleigh had shown the way, in that. When she'd left for her new life in
Belgium, five months ago, Emily had been devastated. She couldn't tell Kayleigh
that, and spoil her friend's enthusiasm, but she couldn't deny her feelings of
abandonment.