Lennon chose leave. He sat at home for three days before boredom got the better of him. On the fourth day he boarded a flight to Barcelona. The hotel was a pit. George Orwell was supposed to have stayed there during the Spanish Civil War. From the looks of it, he’d picked the wallpaper. But the room had a balcony overlooking Las Ramblas, and the weather allowed him to sit out in the evenings with a can of San Miguel, watching the tourists and the locals avoid each other’s eyes on the street below. When midnight came, he toured the tapas bars, looking for American or English women he could charm with his accent. Most nights, he succeeded.
He returned from Barcelona only to feel like a spare wheel, no real use to anybody, so every crappy meaningless job came his way. Including this one.
Rankin and Crozier’s hands became more animated. Fingers stabbed at the tabletop as points were made. The mugs shook. Lennon blinked and focused, shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward.
Crozier held up his hands, palms out, maybe trying to placate the other man. Rankin didn’t look like he was having any of it. His forefinger wagged in Crozier’s face. Crozier sat back, his shoulders slumping in exasperation.
Lennon glanced down to his pad and noted the change in tone. When he looked up, Crozier was on his feet, turning to leave.
Good, Lennon thought. If it was over, he could get the fuck out of there and type up the notes. That done, he could wait around for some more shit work.
Rankin tugged at Crozier’s sleeve. Crozier slapped his hand away. Rankin stood, his chair tipping over.
‘Jesus,’ Lennon said to the empty van. ‘This is getting a bit tasty.’
Rankin pulled a knife from his pocket and buried the blade between Crozier’s ribs.
Lennon blinked, tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
Rankin withdrew the blade. Crozier didn’t go down. He stared at the other man, his mouth slack. Rankin drove the blade home again.
‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He reached for the radio, hit the emergency button. It would send a signal out to every receiver on the network, saying an officer needed assistance, pinpointing his position.
Crozier swung a fist, throwing Rankin back, still clutching the knife. Rankin tumbled over the chair, disappeared from view. Crozier put a big hand to his side, pulled it away, examined the bright red on his fingers. He staggered back until he met the wall.
Lennon opened the glovebox and grabbed the Glock 17 and the wallet with his ID. He threw the door open and stepped out. He shoved the wallet down into his pocket and pressed the Glock against his thigh. He ducked into the traffic, his gaze fixed on the window, adrenalin crackling through him, sending sparks to his fingertips.
Rankin reappeared, clambered over the chair towards Crozier. The bigger man put his hands up, but too slow. The blade punctured his neck.
A car horn blared and tyres squealed as Lennon crossed the road. A woman screamed inside the café. Lennon raised the Glock. Crozier slid down the tiled wall, Rankin over him, the knife ready to come down again.
Lennon hit the door shoulder first, raised the Glock and aimed to where Crozier lay bleeding. No Rankin. The woman screamed again. Lennon wheeled the gun around, saw Rankin seize Sylvia’s hair, bring the blade to her throat. Sylvia gasped, eyes wide behind thick glasses. Rankin held her close.
Lennon pulled his wallet and flipped it open. He showed Rankin the ID and tucked the wallet away again. He levelled the pistol, left hand supporting the right, shoulders set for the recoil.
‘Let her go, Andy,’ Lennon said.
Rankin back-pedalled, dragging Sylvia with him by her hair. He glanced over his shoulder and guided her behind the counter towards the rear door.
‘Don’t, Andy,’ Lennon said as he followed. ‘The alley’s closed off. There’s walls at either end. You can’t go anywhere.’
Rankin pulled Sylvia tight to him, the blade up under her chin. Lennon saw red on her skin. He couldn’t tell if it was Crozier’s blood or hers.
‘Oh Jesus help me,’ Sylvia said.
‘You’re all right, Sylvia,’ Lennon said as he reached the counter. He gave her the easiest smile he could manage. ‘Andy’s not going to hurt you. Everyone round here likes you too much. Where’d they go for their fish and chips if anything happened to you, eh? No more pasties, no more sausage suppers. Everyone knows Sylvia does the best feed in town, right? Right?’
Sylvia didn’t answer as Rankin backed towards the door.
‘How’s that going to go down around here if Andy hurts you, eh? He won’t be able to show his face. Come on, Andy, let her go. We can sort it out. Crozier’s still breathing. Don’t make it worse.’
Lennon searched for some sign of doubt or panic on Rankin’s face, found nothing but dead eyes set in his tanned skin.
‘I’ll cut this old bitch open,’ Rankin said, his lips moving against her dyed hair. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’
‘No,’ Lennon said, taking a step closer. You’re not that stupid. Everyone knows how smart you are, right? You can’t get away. Even if you could, where would you run to? This isn’t the Dandy Andy we all know.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ Rankin pointed the blade at Lennon. ‘Nobody calls me that to my face.’
‘Sorry,’ Lennon said. He raised his hands, the Glock aimed at the ceiling, in apology. ‘I didn’t think. I’m not a thinker like you. You’re the smart one in your crew, that’s how you got where you are today, right?’
Rankin brought the blade back to Sylvia’s throat. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
Lennon stopped. ‘You know you can’t go anywhere. You know you can’t hurt Sylvia. You’re too smart to do that. It’s time to think, Andy. What’s the best thing to do? What’s the smart thing to do?’
‘Christ,’ Rankin said. The death slipped from his eyes. Fear replaced it, childish panic, reason about to flee.
‘Easy, Andy,’ Lennon said. He held his hands out to his sides, the Glock aimed towards the hotplates and fryers at the back of the open kitchen. ‘Take a few breaths, all right? Let’s be calm about this. Let’s be smart.’
Rankin gulped air, and the sanity returned to his face. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘How do we get out of this?’
‘Let Sylvia go for a start,’ Lennon said. ‘Then put the knife down.’
Streets away, a siren wailed.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ Lennon said. ‘Best if we’re all calm by then, eh? You and me just sitting at a table waiting for them, right? ’Cause if they come storming in with you and me facing off like this, it could get tricky. Right?’
Rankin looked to the windows at the front of the café. His mouth curled as the panic threatened to take him again. Dead calm overcame it.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Good man,’ Lennon said. ‘Now, just let go—’
Rankin shoved Sylvia at Lennon. The top of her head cracked against his chin. They both tumbled backwards. Lennon grabbed the counter with one hand, reclaimed his balance, cradled Sylvia with the other arm. A cool draught washed around them from the open door as Rankin vanished through it.
Lennon gathered Sylvia to him. ‘You all right?’
She gawped at him through her crooked glasses, her mouth opening and closing.
‘Sit down,’ he said, forgetting Rankin for a moment. Even if the prick got out of the alley, he’d be lifted in no time. Sylvia was more important right now. He lowered her to the floor, her back against the rear of the counter. ‘Deep breaths. You’re all right.’