She took off her clothes with the same relaxed grace she'd displayed in the bar, like a woman who was perfectly comfortable with herself and her surroundings. She unpeeled her trousers first, uncovering slender, finely sculpted legs. Then she dropped her blouse to the floor, revealing slim, elegant shoulders and breasts that seemed larger than they'd looked when she was clothed. Her bra and knickers were red lace La Perla, designed more to provoke than to protect. She must have known she was going home with a guy tonight, decided Matt. A woman doesn't wear underwear like that unless she is on the prowl. I just happened to be standing in the right place.
Alison dropped to her knees before him, unbuttoned the fly of his jeans. Her tongue moved slowly, teasingly against his groin, and Matt could feel his muscles relaxing as the pleasure flooded through his body. He ran his fingers slowly through her long hair, admiring the skill with which she seemed to be working every nerve-ending in his body. He waited until he could stand it no more, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her towards the bedroom. Her hair broke free, trailing across his shoulder. He rolled her on to the bed and lay on top of her, his movements swift, urgent and uncontrolled. He could feel her yielding beneath him, and could feel her excitement mounting as he pushed into her. Within minutes, her screams were ringing in his ears.
Forty minutes later Matt leant back on the bed. Every muscle in his body felt stretched, each nerve taut. At his side, Alison rolled over, reaching out for her bag and retrieving a packet of Dunhill. She lit one, blowing a plume of smoke high into the air. Then she lit one for him and moved to place it between his lips, but Matt shook his head.
'I've given up,' he said, breathing in the smoky air. 'Did I approach you in the bar, or did you approach me?' he continued.
The trace of a smile flashed across Alison's lips. 'You mean, are you the hunter or are you the prey?'
'Exactly,' said Matt.
She reached across the bed to rest her head on his chest, her tongue flicking across his nipple.
Matt reached out across the bed to find her. His hand moved through the sheet. Nothing. Drowsily he opened his eyes, looking around the tiny room. Nothing. Light was streaming in through the window and the sky was bright blue. He stood up, walking towards the bathroom. 'Alison,' he shouted. He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls. Then silence. Nothing. She was gone.
Matt shrugged and walked towards the kitchen. He threw some coffee into the percolator, and took a flask of orange juice from the fridge, drinking it straight from the bottle. The smell of her still lingered on his body. Strange, he reflected. Last night she was all over me, this morning she wakes up and buggers off without so much as saying goodbye.
That's a guy's job, isn't it?
Matt glanced at his watch. It was already half past nine. He needed a shower, and he needed to get on with his life. Last night was fun, but that was all. She was right to take off.
'You're a stupid boy, Matt Browning.'
The sound of the voice rattled through his ears, catching him off-guard. Matt looked up. The man sitting on the sofa was called Harry Pointer. Matt had met him a couple of times before. A fat, ugly brute of an Englishman with a nasty rash on the top of his balding head, Harry ran errands for Gennady Kazanov, local landlord and an investor in the Last Trumpet. Harry wasn't the heavy muscle, although he knew how to throw a punch and fire a gun when he had to. But mainly he did the talking and the translating: the muscle that travelled with Kazanov spoke Russian or Ukrainian or Georgian, not English.
'How the fuck did you get in?' demanded Matt.
'Mr Kazanov owns the block, remember,' said Harry. 'He has keys to all the apartments.'
'And that gives you the right to barge in here whenever you like?'
Pointer shook his head. 'No,' he replied slowly. 'The fact you owe us half a million gives us the right.'
'I've told you,' said Matt, 'I'm doing everything I can think of to get you your money back.'
'Thinking isn't what you do best.'
Pointer stood up. He was wearing cream chinos and a bright blue shirt, and the tattoos were visible all the way up his arm.
'Tell Kazanov he's just going to have to wait,' said Matt.
'He's waited already, Matt. He's tired of waiting. Mr Kazanov is a patient man; he knows that sometimes it takes time to make money, but even his patience will be exhausted eventually. You know what troubles him: he doesn't see you working. He watches, and he sees some guy too busy knocking off the tourist honeys in the bar to spend his time worrying about how he's going to pay Mr Kazanov back.' Harry paused, moving closer to Matt. 'And Mr Kazanov doesn't like that.'
Matt shrugged, walking towards the balcony. He looked to the beach below. A pair of girls were sunning themselves, one in a pink bikini, the other in blue. He looked more closely. No, neither of them was Alison.
'We know where she works, Matt. We know all her movements.'
'That's more than I do.'
'No.' Pointer laughed. 'We know where Gill works, Matt. The Dandelion Playschool, Puerto Banus. The kids get out at two-thirty every afternoon. She walks home to her apartment. Takes her about fifteen minutes. Plenty of good spots along the way where a couple of men could pick her up, take her away to somewhere quiet.'
Matt turned slowly away from the window. His eyes narrowed and he could feel the muscles in his chest tightening. He had few expectations of Kazanov. He knew better than to believe the man had made his money in the Russian oil business. He knew he was a hard, ruthless thug who had worked for the KGB before looting a fortune when the system in his country started to come apart. And he knew that if he didn't get his money back to him sometime, he was likely to come after him. But Gill. .
'Don't even think about it,' Matt snapped.
A thin smile started to spread over Pointer's lips. 'A primary school teacher. I reckon she uses her hands a lot,' he said, drawing out each word. 'All that painting and building things with the kids. If some guys snatched her and chopped off her right hand, I reckon that would be pretty bad for her.'
Matt squared up to Pointer, close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. 'I'd kill any man who laid a finger on her,' he said, his voice rising. 'I'd kill the man, then I'd kill Kazanov. Then I'd kill you. Slowly.'
Pointer backed away. 'Calm, Matt, calm,' he said quickly. 'We're just having a hypothetical conversation.'
'Let's keep it that way.'
'You've got a month, Matt,' said Pointer. 'Then we come after you. And you can shout and scream and threaten all you like, but remember this: we don't give a fuck if you've been in the Regiment or not. To me you're all just a bunch of pussies. And anyway, there is no back-up. You are just one man, and we're an organisation. We'll kill you, and then we'll cut her up, and there's nothing you can do to stop us.'
Matt looked straight into Pointer's eyes: it was like gazing into the face of a statue, he thought. 'Where the hell am I going to get half a million pounds in a month?'
THREE
The look in the man's eyes told Matt everything he needed to know. There wasn't any money. There never would be any money.
I'm just an embarrassment. They want to get rid of me.
Eddie Addler shifted his pen from one side of his desk to the other. His eyes darted up to the window, then to the door, then to one of the oil paintings hanging on the wall. Anything, Matt thought, to avoid looking me in the eye.