Thorn In My Side (14 page)

'Why?' Kristina
was looking at him with that quizzical look he’d always loved. He
mentally shook himself.
She’s married, that means
there’s
a huge ‘Don’t Touch’ sign hanging around her neck… Behave
yourself
. He gave himself a mental kick.

'Do you know
something, I think perhaps, Kristina
,
that we might be right
in thinking it’s a love triangle thing.’

'There’s four
of them. In case you don’t know, Mr Yorke, a triangle has only
three sides.' She held three fingers up, as she repeated with a
sarcastic twitch to her lip, 'Three sides.'

'Don’t be
picky.'

She laughed.
'OK, so what do you reckon?'

'Remember –
although nobody has legally declared it, we still have one girl
missing. What if one of them found out that the other one was
having an affair with his girlfriend? That would be a motive as old
as time.'

'Enough to
warrant?'

'Wouldn’t be
the first time.' Mike rested the palms of his hand on the desk, and
chewed his lip as he looked down at her.

'I don’t buy
it.' She shook her head.

'Why?'

'Because the
way I see it, it would have to be Evan, but I know you’re betting
on it being Danny.'

'Why Evan?'

'Because he
could have done it while Danny was asleep on the bench.'

'Or,' Mike
rubbed at the small mole on the side of his neck, just above his
collar line, 'Danny could have pretended to have slept for an hour
or two on the bench. Now that would give him plenty of time. He’ll
have a good idea what time the milkman comes. He could have slipped
out five minutes before the milkman was due, and pretended to be
asleep.'

Kristina tapped
her teeth with her fingernail. 'Not sure if any of it holds
water.'

'Hmm. Actually,
I’m not sure any more either. For a fact, they were seen together
too much last night. But I’ve a strong hunch who the dead girl
really is.' He strode to the door. 'Reagan,' he shouted, 'bring
Miller back in.’

Two minutes
later, Evan was standing in front of Kristina and Mike.

'Would you care
to take a ride with us, Mr Miller?' Mike asked.

Evan had a
feeling that it wasn’t a request. Trembling, he nodded.

'
Idiots!!!'

Dressed in
brown monks' robes, tied in the middle with thick string which was
fraying at the ends, their hair shaved in the middle into a perfect
round spot, the two men kept their heads down and stared at the
floor, cringing as The Leader berated them over and over. The
tongue lashing had gone on all day, every time something reminded
him of the one who had escaped – and he had been reminded often in
the last twenty-four hours.

'Do you realise
what could go wrong if word gets out? Do you?
Do you?
' he
yelled. 'It won’t just be me, they’ll come after all of us.
All
of
us.'

They kept
silent, having answered this question too many times to count.
Neither of them had a clue who would come after them. As far as
they knew, the man in front of them was The Leader. Everything they
did was under his orders. If they thought him mad, they kept quiet
out of fear. They had seen too much not to be afraid. They had
followed him from France – not that they’d had a choice, they did
what they were told, and unless there was trouble, like now, life
was good. Very good.

Shaking his
head, The Leader began pacing the floor. 'How the hell can she have
disappeared?'

Knowing this
question wasn’t meant for them, and that the Leader was just
sounding off, they still held their silence.

'Impossible.'

He stopped
pacing and turned to them. Silently they waited their fate. The
Leader did everything on a whim. If he wanted them dead, there was
nothing they could do about it. Fighting would be futile, because
everyone in his service would turn against them. They had done the
same to others.

Just as he
opened his mouth, his mobile phone rang. Frowning, he pulled it
out, looked at the caller id, and smiled, his thick lips stretching
across his fat face.

'Pray these
have had more success,' he said quietly, as he pressed the answer
button.

He listened for
a few minutes. His face, already angry, grew even more so. Eyes
bulging, he threw the phone across the room and, hands clasped
behind his back, began pacing back and forth.

Stopping
suddenly in the middle of the floor, he glared at them.
'Impossible. She’s only a woman! A slip of a girl. No peasant girl
can outwit me.
Impossible.'

They kept their
heads down. A moment later they heard the door slam, then the key
turn in the lock. Quickly they glanced at each other, their fear
jumping the space between them. Finding out at first hand what it
was like to be on the other end of the treatment they had been
dishing out for years, the brother on the left felt his heart swell
and burst with fear. As he collapsed in a heap, the other, a lapsed
Catholic, fell to his knees, imploring the God he had neglected for
years to save him.

Tarasov and
Prince Carl shared a taxi to the airport. Prince Carl was bumming a
lift home from Tarasov. His own private jet was in use by his
family, who were looking at property on Bali. They joked about it
as they watched the English countryside flash past them.

'So both
daughters are finally leaving the nest?' Tarasov asked, a smile in
his voice.

'Yes, and
friends at last. Thought it was never going to happen. Although
Sabrina is the firstborn, Aimee is her equal in everything,
actually surpassing her in some things. I’m pleased they’ve finally
buried the hatchet. The last thing I want is a family war. Both
girls have quite a following.'

'Your Sabrina
will be the first woman leader for nearly fifty-seven years, is
that right? When her turn comes, of course. And that, we both know,
won’t be for a long time yet… Hopefully.'

Prince Carl
sighed. 'That has been a bone of contention between them for years,
ever since they were brought into the loop – when my brother and
his oldest son were lost to us in that plane crash.' He shuddered.
'The only thing we can’t account for -- genuine accidents…' He
paused for a moment, then, shrugging the past away, went on, 'When
Aimee found out that her sister would be the family head when I
pass on...' He shook his head, remembering just how very badly
she’d freaked out. 'Any problems like that with your children?'

'No,' Tarasov
said simply, but thinking,
not with my children. The
three of them inherited their mother’s weak genes, all of them
too
easygoing for their own good. None of them will be a
force in the
families, though a couple of the
grand-daughters are looking good.
The shame of it all,
though, one of the peasant bastards I fathered
thirty years
ago is a real mover and shaker. He will rise, but
can’t
ever be in the loop. He will never be recognised as one of
mine. Even if I pointed him out, family shoulders will only
shrug. So what? It
happens all the time. We all have a
peasant or two like him.

Tarasov had
murdered his older brother when he’d been admitted to the loop –
pushed him off a mountain when they had been skiing. Suspicions had
been aroused, but no one had come right out and said anything. It
happened, had been happening for centuries. It was the way of the
families. The leaders had to be the strongest. It was the way, had
been since the beginning. Sometimes the true leader was not always
the first-born.

He turned to
Prince Carl, and broke a cardinal rule. He spoke about family
business away from the meeting. 'Tell me, do you think that
Simmonds is overreacting? We all know how excitable he can get,
sometimes over the smallest little thing. How he doesn’t blow a
gasket when he gets het up, I’ll never know.'

He watched as
the blood flushed Prince Carl’s face and neck. Prince Carl looked
at the driver, noticed the wires coming from his ears. Obviously a
music freak. Safe though, they had used him often enough. Turned
his face to Tarasov, he studied him for a moment before saying,
'No, I don’t think he is for once. These are trying times. A loose
cannon is the last thing we need.'

'Yes. I suppose
the fool in Northumbria will only end up attracting attention to
himself.'

Prince Carl
nodded his agreement. 'I’m afraid we made a mistake in not clamping
down on free speech a long time ago. In my opinion, we have always
been too lenient with the peasants. They should have found out long
ago who the real masters of the world order were. I have always
thought it a mistake that would one day rear up and bite us when we
least expected it to.'

'Ahh, but think
about it, Carl, we have. You can still lose your head in a lot of
countries for having a loose tongue. Disappearances can still very
easily be arranged.' He took out his gold cigarette case and
offered Prince Carl a cigarette.

'No thanks. Not
keen on those Turkish ones.'

Tarasov
shrugged, took one out for himself, and when he’d lit it went on,
'And the British and Americans are well on their way to losing what
they see as an constitutional right. The do-gooders are curbing
free speech on a daily basis. It makes me smile when I read of some
of the silly things they come up with, and the government backs
them! Running scared in case they upset this minority, or that
minority. Playing right into our hands.' He rubbed his hands
together to emphasis the fact. 'Yes, give credit where its due,
Slone worked well on introducing that ploy.'

Prince Carl
laughed. 'Yes, he did. Who would have thought the peasants would
fall for that one? Especially as he had the gall to call it
‘political correctness.’ And Simmonds, you’ve got to give him
credit for taking the competitiveness out of English school sport.
Now that was a stroke of genius. Really, the silly misguided fools
are doing our work for us. And Christmas, what about that?'

Tarasov
sniggered. 'They won’t be celebrating
that
much longer. Each
year puts another nail in the Christmas coffin… Best thing we ever
did, though, was when we gave them religion, now that was a master
stroke. They’ve never stopped fighting with each other since. Must
have taken a hell of a lot of planning back then.'

'Ahh, but
remember – the Historian still insists that it had nothing to do
with us, that all those things in the Bible really happened.'

'Come on –
all
those things?'

Prince Carl
shrugged.

'You’re a
believer, aren’t you?' Tarasov said, looking at Prince Carl with
amused disbelief.

'Does it bother
you?'

'Hell, no… It’s
made us all a lot of money.'

'It still
does!'

When they
reached the airport, the car drove them right to the door of the
private plane. As soon as they got out of the car, the driver took
off without a backward glance. They boarded, and were soon on their
way, heading through the clouds over the rich blue and green world
that they owned, and would go to any lengths imaginable to keep
that way.

Jill glanced at
her watch. Five minutes later than the last time she’d looked.
'Where the hell is he?'

She shrugged,
muttered, 'Men!' under her breath, and glanced at the tide chart on
the wall next to the small window. The causeway from the mainland
to the island wouldn’t be crossable till nearly seven o’ clock.
So why am I being so impatient?
Billy will have
made their tea. He always does when the causeway’s closed at
this time of day. Why am I stressing so much?

The girls knew
what time she’d be picking them up from her cousin Billy’s house,
though sixteen-year-old Jayne kept insisting she was too old to be
babysat. 'The days the crossing is open after school I could quite
easily make my own way home. And why the hell shouldn’t I!'

Jayne repeated
this mantra on a daily basis, as if it was pre-recorded and all she
had to do was press a button for the words to spew forth. Perhaps
she was right. But Jill wanted them where she knew they were
safe.

Am I being the
control freak that Jayne constantly accuses me of being?

She shook her
head in denial.
No, Jayne is nothing but a
miserable
twisty little cow most of the time, with a sense of humour
that went into serious decline a good few years ago. A
teenage
whirlwind, who thinks the world revolves around her
and no one
else. Her attitude alone causes more friction
than enough in the flaming
house.

Daily Jill
thanked God for thirteen-year old Cassie,
a sweetheart.
She
smiled at the thought of Cassie.
Though to be truthful, not so
long ago, Jayne had also been a
sweet even-tempered
child.
Jill sighed.
Hormones! Who the hell
invented
them?

A knock on the
door disturbed her thoughts, and she got up. 'Come in.'

Mike put his
head round the door. 'All ready for us?'

'Sure.'
About time, too.
She opened the drawer and pressed the
button that would automatically push out the panel bearing the dead
girl, and watched as a man and a woman PC followed Mike Yorke into
the room.

The man was
visibly trembling, his eyes darting here and there around the room,
anywhere but at the table. Finally they found a spot in the region
of his shoes.

'Evan Miller,
meet Jill Patterson, our very own pathologist,' Mike said.

Definitely
don’t like the twinkle in his eye. And it is a twinkle, however
clichéd it sounds. The man’s a menace,
Jill thought,
and
the silly
policewoman’s falling all over him
already.