Mick, a proper old geezer, sold his scrap-metal yard and retired out here ten years ago. Not much of a conversationalist but lives next to the course, and always free for a game of golf. The men play a couple of times a week.
He hacks his ball out of the bunker, and levers himself back onto terra firma.
Rob and Mick walk down toward the green, Big Mick’s ball a good twenty yards or so to the left of Rob’s.
As he waits for Big Mick to reach his ball, Rob sends a message to Nelson Nunez. Rob writes:
Friend visiting, needs gun. Same place, same terms. 24 hours?
Big Mick has reached his ball, and signals for Rob to hit his next shot. It lands in a bit of trouble about five yards over the green. Rob likes landing in trouble; it forces you to use your brain, to adapt. Up ahead, Big Mick hits his next to within eight feet of the hole.
Nelson replies:
I have the perfect thing. Advise if further help needed.
Rob realizes that Nelson might actually be of further use. Much as he loves Eddie, his old pal might need some help finding where Amy Wheeler is. And if Rob knows islands, it won’t have escaped St. Lucia that Rosie D’Antonio has come visiting.
If you hear where Rosie D’Antonio is, let me know. The person she’s traveling with is the target.
Nelson replies:
I might be able to take care of it myself? For a fee?
That’s a thought. Eddie might take a while to arrive, and Nelson Nunez knows his work.
Sure, if opportunity presents itself. Two hundred. But don’t harm Rosie D’Antonio. Too much publicity if she dies.
Nelson replies with a thumbs-up. Rob is reassured. It’s a small island, and he has Eddie Flood and Nelson Nunez to help him. If one of them doesn’t kill Amy Wheeler, the other one surely will.
Big Mick and Rob reach the green. Big Mick steps onto the beautifully manicured surface, a nice gentle putt in front of him, while Rob just keeps on walking toward the deep trouble.
48
“May I make you a cup of tea, Mr. Taylor?”
“Only if you’re having one?” says Tony Taylor. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Couldn’t harm, could it? After your journey?”
The journey had been a pleasant surprise, if Tony Taylor is honest. The A31 turned out to be clear as a bell—couldn’t believe his luck there. M27, no major problems. The traffic backed up around Junction 2 of the M3—but when doesn’t it? The usual fun and games on the M25, but then clear from Junction 9 all the way to Letchworth Garden City. So, all in all, Tony couldn’t complain. Should have taken two hours and twenty-three minutes, actually took two hours and fifteen minutes.
Tony had been tempted to say no to the whole plan, but Steve was a good mate, and so, against his better judgment, he decided that, just this one time, he would risk the traffic.
“Couldn’t harm at all,” says Tony. “Nice cuppa.”
He gave back the time he’d saved, however, because parking was prohibitive in the center of Letchworth Garden City (“£2.40 an hour?” he’d said to the attendant. “Who do you think I am? Rockefeller?”) and so he had parked on a residential street eight minutes away from Felicity Woollaston’s office. So it was swings and roundabouts.
“A nice cuppa,” agrees Felicity. She must be, what, seventy-odd, good nick, great hair. “I’m guessing you’d like PG Tips?”
“Then you’re guessing right,” says Tony. “Give that woman a goldfish!”
Felicity laughs as she fills the kettle. Apropos of absolutely nothing, Tony thinks she has a delightful laugh.
“Thanks for seeing me at short notice,” says Tony. “I’m not really in show business, so I’ve no idea how it all works.”
“What are you in, Mr. Taylor?” Felicity asks as she uncouples a pair of tea bags.
“Cars,” says Tony. “And call me Tony. Only the taxman calls me Mr. Taylor!”
Felicity laughs again. “Taxman indeed. Are you sure you’re not in comedy? You’re a hoot.”
Tony knows he is a funny guy, but people often tell him that he’s not. It is refreshing to see his banter making an impact. And on a professional.
Steve had called him yesterday, outlined what he needed. Just a bit of info, Tony, tell a few white lies. “Like a spy?” Tony had asked, and Steve had said, “Well, no, not really, just a friendly chat, see what you can see,” and Tony had said, “That sounds a lot like a spy to me,” and Steve had said, “Look, mate, would it make you happier if I said you were a spy?” and Tony had said, “Me? No? No skin off my nose, I’m just saying, call it what it is,” and Steve had said, “Okay, you’re a spy,” and Tony had sucked his teeth and given it some thought and said, “Okay, I’ll do it, for you, mate. I’ll spy.” Then they’d talked about the weather in St. Lucia for a bit, too hot, but Tony could have told him that, and how Amy was, she’s very well, and what Rosie D’Antonio was like. “Very much her own woman,” apparently.
“So what brings you to Letchworth Garden City, Tony?” Felicity asks.
“My nephew,” says Tony. “He’s an influencer, you see.”
“I see,” says Felicity, filling their mugs. “In what area?”
“Southampton,” says Tony.
“No, what’s his area? His specialty? Who does he influence?”
Tony knew he should have thought his story through more on the journey up. But spies have to think quick.
“Spies,” says Tony. The word was in his head, and now it is on the table.
