Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 102

‘Drive.’

They drove in silence for a full ten minutes, before Melissa indicated an alleyway adjacent to a derelict restaurant. It was quiet down here, not a soul around to disturb them. As he turned to look at her, Tony was surprised to see that she was shaking.

‘If I tell you what you want to know, I’ll need money. Lots of money.’

‘Not a problem,’ Tony replied. He’d figured out on the way over that it could only have been the prospect of financial gain that induced her into his car.

‘Five grand up front. More to follow.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And I’ll need somewhere to stay. Somewhere she can’t find me.’

‘We can offer you a safe house and round-the-clock protection,’ Tony replied without hesitation.

‘Round the clock – you promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Shake on it,’ Melissa demanded and Tony obliged.

Melissa let out a deep sigh – she looked exhausted by the evening’s events. Then without looking up at Tony she whispered:

‘The girl you’re looking for is Lyra. Angel’s name is Lyra Campbell.’

Cold. Freezing, freezing cold.

Simon Booker’s eyes crept open, briefly flickering closed once more as the harsh light of the naked bulb assaulted them. His head was so foggy, he was so confused. What the hell had happened to hi-

There she was, watching him. Angel. With the iron bar. Now it slowly came back to him, jagging sharply as the memories flashed through his mind.

He was weak. His face was sticky with blood, his mouth horribly parched. But still he tried to get up. Only to find he was held firm. Looking around he saw his arms were tied together with thick green wire and secured to the wall behind him. He was naked and stretched out on the mattress, his clothes nowhere in sight. He tried to shout at her, only to become aware of the tape stuck firmly over his mouth.

‘You pathetic little shit.’

Simon Booker jumped as her venom broke the silence.

‘You sad little lowlife.’

She was walking towards him, the iron bar still in her hand. She tossed it from hand to hand.

‘Did you think you could trick me?’

Simon shook his head vigorously.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

He shook his head even harder.

‘Trick me, then attack me?’

She swung the bar down as hard as she could on to his kneecap. He screamed, the duct tape enveloping his agony, making it hard to breathe. Now she brought it down on his other kneecap, the bone crunching on impact. Simon howled once more, trying to turn his body from the blows that rained down on his legs, his thighs, his chest. Again and again and again. She paused briefly, shouted something unintelligible, then swung the bar between his splayed legs to connect with his groin.