The Solitary Man by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page A

death sentence. Unless the Organisation got him out, he'd die within the walls of the prison. He banged the back of his head against the tiled wall. They had to get him out. He wouldn't grow old and die in prison, he'd rather kill himself first. He banged his head again, harder this time. There was something cleansing about the pain, it helped him focus his thoughts, his anger. He did it again, so hard that the dull thud echoed around the cell. Harrigan began to cry. He bit down on his lower lip so that he didn't sob out loud, but his body trembled and shook.
    THE PORTABLE TELEPHONE BLEEPED and the Chinese teenager undipped it from his belt and spoke into it. Down on the pitch the South Africans were warming up.
    'What a wanker,' said Tim Metcalfe, pouring himself a tumbler of lager from a green and white Carlsberg jug. 'Fancy bringing his phone to the rugby sevens. No class, no class at all.'
    Warren Hastings grinned at Metcalfe. With his ripped and stained fake Lacoste polo shirt and baggy shorts, Metcalfe was hardly the epitome of good taste himself.
    'What? What are you grinning at?' Metcalfe asked, wiping foam from his upper lip with the back of his arm.
    'Nothing, Tim.'
    'Well, come on, you've got to agree with me, right? We're here to watch the rugby, not to talk on the phone. Well, am I right or am I right?'
    'You're right,' agreed Hastings. It paid not to argue with Metcalfe, who had the tenaciousness of a bulldog and would continue pressing his point home until he'd beaten down all opposition. It was a skill honed from years of selling life insurance.
    Chris Davies, a burly bearded photographer, put a large hand into a McDonald's bag and pulled out a cheeseburger.
    Metcalfe reached over and plucked the burger from Davies' hands. 'Thanks, Digger,' he said.
    'You've the manners of a pig, Tim,' said Davies.
    'That's an insult to pigs everywhere,' said Hastings, pouring the last of the lager into his tumbler. He tossed the empty jug into Metcalfe's lap. Metcalfe didn't notice - his eyes were fixed on the far side of the pitch. Hastings turned to see what he was staring at. A female streaker had climbed on to the field and was running across the grass, chased by Gurkha security guards dressed in red tracksuits. The girl was in her twenties with long blonde hair and large pendulous breasts that swung to and fro as she ran.
    'Bloody hell,' wailed Metcalfe. 'Would you look at them buggers move.'
    Hastings wasn't sure whether his friend was referring to the girls' breasts or the diminutive Gurkhas in pursuit. The stadium was filled with roars and catcalls and someone let off an airhorn high up in the stands. The referee blew his whistle and the players stopped to watch the girl run to the centre of the pitch, her hands raised above her head, waving to the crowd. The spectators in front of Hastings got to their feet to get a better look.
    'Come on, get her off the pitch!' shouted Davies. 'Get on with the game!'
    'Hey, give the girl a chance,' said Metcalfe. He had a pair of binoculars around his neck and he raised them to his eyes. 'Bloody hell,' he repeated.
    Hastings arched his back and rotated his neck. He'd been sitting for more than two hours, and although he was enjoying the rugby, the stadium seats were far from comfortable. He took off his steel-framed spectacles and polished them with the bottom of his shirt.
    One of the Gurkhas lunged at the girl but she swerved and the man fell at her feet. The crowd roared with delight and the girl stopped and took a bow.
    'Shit, we could use her on our team,' said Davies in admiration.
    Hastings put his glasses back on. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as if someone had touched his spine with a piece of ice. He had a feeling of dread, as if something terrible was about to happen, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine what it was. The streaker had started running again, but the Gurkhas had surrounded her and Hastings could see that it would only be a matter