who took care of all the tech stuff.
“There’s something else,” said Lucy.
“What?”
“She said something, just as she pulled the trigger.”
“What did she say?” said Shelley.
A short time later he rang Susie.
“Thank you for seeing Mr. Bennett,” she said. “He tells me you were most welcoming.”
“He seems all right.” Shelley heard the begrudging note in his own voice.
“Did you watch it?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he lied. “Did you?”
“No,” she said. “Nor did Guy.”
“Emma’s last words before she pulled the trigger . . .” he began, and then stopped.
“Yes. Mr. Bennett told me that she said something,” said Susie. “He couldn’t quite make it out, because . . .”
Because of the gun barrel in her mouth.
“I know what she said, Susie. I could make it out. She said, ‘Be lucky.’”
“I see,” said Susie.
“You remember . . .”
“Yes, I remember.”
He took a deep breath. “Listen, Susie, if I’m on board nobody dies, nobody gets hurt. We’re after justice, not revenge.”
“Maybe justice is revenge,” she said softly.
“Maybe.”
There was a pause before she asked, “Well?”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 21
“WHAT IS THIS place?” the man with the cropped hair demanded to know.
Sergei looked around at the cars parked either side of them, at the sign that said “MOT & Service Center,” and at the open roller doors of the garage through which they could see cars on ramps and men in overalls, and said, “This place? This is a tanning salon.”
“Very funny,” growled his passenger. “You people do have a sense of humor after all, then.”
Sergei decided to ignore the “you people.” After all, simply by coming here his passenger was placing his head into the lion’s mouth. So if he wanted to kid himself that he held the upper hand, then let him. Saying otherwise would be like telling a kid there’s no tooth fairy.
They made their way to the entrance, a frosted-glass door that needed a bit of persuasion to open, and then stepped into the front office. Sergei was a regular visitor, of course, and usually there’d be a young woman called Sofia there to greet him, a receptionist who booked in cars, took payment, and behaved as though the garage really was a garage.
Which it was. Partly. But given that the owner was Dmitry—not the registered owner, but the owner all the same—it was also concerned with another sort of business. Dmitry business. Company business. Whatever that might be.
Except today Sofia was absent. Everything else was normal—the smell of dirty carpet tiles, ancient cigarette smoke, instant coffee, and a cluster of cardboard Christmas tree air-fresheners that dangled from her terminal—but in her place sat the Skinsman, his hands interlocked across his chest, head cocked to one side, watching a television mounted on the opposite wall.
It was a strange sight, enough to prompt a derisive snort from Sergei’s companion that coincided with a sudden lull in the TV volume. In response, Grandfather’s eyes slid from the screen to the visitor. For a moment they gleamed with malice and Sergei didn’t like to think what the old man was imagining. Instead he simply greeted Grandfather with a respectful nod and then hustled his guest—oblivious to the malevolence of the old man’s gaze—through the reception area without introducing him, escaping through a second door to an administrative area and more offices.
“Wait here,” he told his visitor, and a moment later he was inside one of the offices, taking a seat opposite Dmitry, who sat at a desk.
In contrast to Dmitry’s home set-up, the office was sparse, desk bare but for an open laptop and two smartphones. Dmitry wore a Harley Davidson T-shirt, one that best displayed his tattooed and muscly upper arms, the way he liked, and his spectacles dangled at his chest.
“Have you been keeping an eye on the internet, Sergei?” he asked glumly.
Sergei thought he knew what was coming, but even so. “It’s a big thing to keep an eye on, Dmitry.”
“Yes, but if you were hoping to see footage of a stupid hooker blowing her brains out, where might you look?”
Sergei shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Dmitry. I’ve never been tempted to look before.”
“The dark web, have you heard of that?” sighed Dmitry.
“I don’t think I have, boss.”
“That’s where you go for the bad stuff, my friend. Cocaine by post, child porn, and bitches blowing their brains out. Instead of ‘dot com’ they use ‘dot onion,’ did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that, Dmitry.”
“In the onion is where I found it. I’ve watched the bitch’s brains go all over our studio,” he waved his hands around, “over and over again.