In Cold Blood by Mark Dawson Read Free Book Online Page A

tomorrow.”
    “No, that’s fine. I’ll make a call tonight. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
    He sipped his wine and, again, his open face betrayed his unease.
    “What is it?”
    “What about Isabella?”
    “She’ll stay here. Mohammed and Fatima live here, too. They’ll keep an eye on her.”
    “I didn’t mean that,” he floundered. “What about if—”
    “If I don’t come back? I am coming back, Pope.”
    “But if you didn’t—”
    “—then she would manage very well. She’s lived most of her life without me. That was one thing Control taught her—how to be self-reliant.”
    The conversation was a little stilted after that. Of course, the possibility that Beatrix might be robbed of the scant time she had left with Isabella had crossed her mind. It wasn’t as if she had an indeterminate amount with which to play. Each minute was precious, but it needed to be balanced against the desire for vengeance that she had fostered during her eight years of exile. She had nurtured that from a spark to a blaze and now there could be no possibility of extinguishing it before time. There was more to it than her own satisfaction. Once she started on the path she had chosen, Isabella would be in danger. Once she started to eliminate her targets, she had to assume that the others would realise what was happening and the danger that they were in. They would retaliate—she knew that she would, if the roles were reversed—and they would know that Isabella had already proven to be a valuable disincentive to violence on the part of her mother. They would come for Beatrix and, if they couldn’t find her, they would come for Isabella instead.
    Pope was looking troubled. “Wouldn’t it be better to just…”
    “Let bygones be bygones? Would you do that, if you were me?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. If I had as much to lose.”
    “Then we are going to have to agree that we’re just different people. I have my reasons. Revenge is just one of them.”
    He ran his finger around the rim of the empty glass. “I respect that. And I promised that I’d help you. I’ll stick to that promise.”
    “Thank you,” she said.
    He put the glass back down on the table. “It’s late, I should be going.”
    “You’re welcome to stay,” she said. “We’ve got more guest rooms than we know what to do with.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of course. Mohammed will show you up.”
    “What about you?”
    Thinking of her targets stirred martial thoughts. “I’ve got things to do,” she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    THE SOMALIS were using an old trawler as the mothership. They had transferred the six officers plus the four soldiers from the Carolina to one of the skiffs, sailed south for three or four miles, Joe couldn’t be sure, and met up with the trawler when the big freighter was just a smudge on the horizon. The ship was in a terrible state, barely seaworthy, and, for the first time that day, Joe had been grateful that the surface of the ocean was glassy smooth. The four skiffs, including the disabled one, had been tied to the back and the trawler had towed them behind it as they set sail to the west. They had lined them up on the deck, five abreast, with two Somalis guarding them with AK-47s. The sun was overhead and blisteringly hot. They were given a two litre bottle of water to share out between them and Joe insisted it be rationed carefully. He did not know how far they had to go.
    It turned out that they had sailed for ten hours before they saw land. It appeared as a dark line on the horizon and then, as they drew closer, details began to emerge. They were headed for a town. Joe looked at it as they rose and fell on the swells. There was a thin outcrop of rock that protected the littoral, an old Portuguese lighthouse standing uselessly at the westernmost tip. Behind the natural harbour wall was a port, with skiffs tethered to wooden jetties, and a fringe of beautiful white sand that would have graced the pages of the