Winterland by Alan Glynn Read Free Book Online Page A

vodka burns a welcome hole through his stomach – and his fear. Pretty soon it’s in his bloodstream, shooting warm, happy signals to his brain.
    He never thought this moment would come.
    He’s been looking forward to it for hours, since the middle of the afternoon in fact.
    Which was when it happened. Out of the blue. On the street in front of where he works. As he was coming back to the office. With a can of Diet Coke in his hand.
    Flynn pours another large measure of vodka and replaces the bottle in the freezer. He knocks the vodka back, two gulps this time, and puts the glass into the sink.
    He wanders into the living room again.
    Not saying anything to Claire all evening was hard, but he did need some time to think – and needs this time now to work out what they’re going to do. He could have had a drink earlier, but he didn’t want to get sloppy and stupid and maybe blurt something out.
    He only hopes he didn’t transmit his panic to the girls.
    He looks around. The place is a mess. Normally, he would tidy it up – the crayons and colouring books, the Barbies, the discarded items of clothing, the empty Shrek and Wizard of Oz DVD boxes – but tonight he just leaves it all and goes through the double doors into what is rather grandly called the dining room. You couldn’t fit a proper dining table in here, but it’s perfect for what they’ve done with it, which is convert it into a study.
    Closing the doors behind him, he goes over to the desk and sits down. When he got home earlier, he came straight in here and put his briefcase under the desk. Now he reaches down and retrieves it. He elbows the laptop aside and places the briefcase in the middle of the desk.
    His heart is still pounding.
    After downing five shots of vodka in the space of two or three minutes he should be well on, no question, but apparently the alcohol and adrenaline in his system haven’t finished slugging it out yet for pole position.
    He holds the briefcase, ready to click it open, and takes a deep breath. But he hesitates. He looks up, and around. On the wall above his desk is a framed poster for a design exhibition. Bookshelves cover the remaining three walls. On the floor there are magazines and periodicals stacked precariously high. Ninety per cent of what’s in here is engineering and architectural stuff – manuals on technical drawing, books on skyscraper construction, copies of American Architect and Advanced Structural Review .
    He clicks the briefcase open.
    The man who came up to him in the street this afternoon was pale and thin. He wore a denim jacket and had small, beady eyes.
    ‘Dermot Flynn?’ he said.
    Flynn nodded. The man had an air of menace about him, but when he spoke he was disconcertingly soft-spoken and polite. He smiled as he handed over the thick brown envelope.
    ‘This is for you, boss,’ he said. ‘A little something.’
    Flynn took the envelope in one hand and fumbled with it as he used his other hand to put the can of Diet Coke into his jacket pocket.
    ‘What’s this?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Who are you ?’
    ‘I’m a messenger,’ the man said. ‘And here’s the message. That report, yeah? You know the one I mean. Destroy it. Delete any files you have relating to it. Never talk about it again, to anyone, ever.’
    Flynn stared at him in disbelief.
    The man nodded at the envelope. ‘There’s two things in there,’ he went on. ‘One to show you we can be generous, and the other to show you we can be seriously, and I mean seriously , unpleasant.’ He smiled again, but this time it was thinner, less convincing. ‘So. That’s all clear then, yeah?’
    Flynn swallowed. He was still in shock, still puzzled. He said nothing.
     
    ‘That’s all clear then I said, yeah boss?’
    ‘Look, I don’t know –’
    The man lunged forward. ‘No fuckin’ “looks”,’ he said, ‘or “I don’t knows”, all right?’
    Flynn recoiled at this sudden change in tack.
    Had the guy actually been about