Page 2 of The Fallen
No one saw anything.
They were all sitting in the drawing room having a grand old time when they heard a shot.
They all ran out and found a bleeding-out Daddy Broderick.
They all saw nothing.
Simple. Clean. Relatively effective, considering there's so many of them to back each other up. A lie, but there we go.
Every single one of them crowd around him and nod like donkeys at the seaside, throwing this fuck-up over to him like he can solve everything and make it go away. He can with regard to fault and blame. A dead body, though? Even Landon Broderick can’t make that disappear.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, as he looks at me again.
His gaze flicks to the door, listening to the loud bell ringing from the main entrance. “Where’s your car?”
“Down by the old servants' houses.”
“Still fake plates?” he asks. I stare. Not bothering to answer that. “Disappear then. You weren’t here. If you see any police before you get to it, find another way home.”
“What do you mean he wasn't here?” Ivy snaps. “How is that helping?”
He glares at her then looks back at me. “Go. I'll call you later.”
I duck away immediately, tracking my way through innocuous back corridors to get away from the incoming police that might be in the gardens already. Four rooms later and I'm through to some old back kitchens and looking for a door I saw earlier on my hunt around the grounds. I pick up an old cloth on the way to it, ready to make sure my prints are nowhere near this place, and eventually use it to unlock a door and leave the house.
It's only a short sprint through a walled garden into the woods, and then I'm back to the side of the old road within a minute or so. I keep in the woodland, making sure I'm hidden by the undergrowth until I finally see the partially derelict houses come into view. The car gets started the moment I get into it, and I spend the next ten minutes scoping out the area around me as I drive out. Nothing to see, though. No Neve. No anything. Not even a fucking cop car that might have been clever enough to think a murderer might have used a back road rather than come down a main drive.
By the time I'm heading back towards London, I'm already thinking about what Landon’s next move is going to be. It probably involves me going hunting, and if not that, then it's certainly going to involve me doing something to get her back to him. I'm not bothered either way. He keeps me entertained. And when it's not him, it's one of my other clients who wants me to bend rules and find info.
It's not surprising so many people get away with breaking the law. Not only are the British police force a pile of shit, but there are people like him roaming the courtrooms with the sole intention of keeping people out of prison for money. I chuckle and cruise for a while, comfortable with that thought. Much as it might make me seem like a degenerate, I'd be out of business if I wasn't happy to tow that line, too. I'm just as bad. Worse even, if you consider some of my associates and what I do for them. But what I don't do, what I fucking refuse to do, is pretend I'm anything else than I am like he does.
I pull into heavy traffic and grind to a halt, a sigh dropping out of me. I fucking hate traffic. Traffic, pretentious twats, and cats. This world is full of all three. The cats I can avoid, but the other two things are fucking live everywhere, especially in my line of business. Guess the twats pay well, though. Can't really complain. And traffic is just a bane for everyone.
Some fella in front of me gets out of his van and pisses on the side of the road, his mate following with the same move. Makes me feel like getting out and teaching them some lessons. Could be kids around looking at that shit, getting ideas about how this world is evolving. Pissing on the side of the road? That's how it starts. Did where I grew up, anyway, according to my gramps. Nice place turned rough, he said. Gangs breeding more gangs. Kids growing up too fucking fast and making more kids before they even know what life is. Be better, he said.
Tried.
Failed.
The phone rings. “Landon,” I answer.
“I need you to find her,” he says sharply.
“Alright.”
“Whatever it takes. And keep her somewhere until I ask for her. No seeing anyone.”
“Alright.”
“And keep your fucking hands off her.”
I ease the car off now traffic is crawling again, amused that he thinks I'd be interested in an uptight Broderick princess. “Alright, Landon.”
The phone goes dead.
She might be pretty, but I like my women harder than that. Preferably used to what real life is and ready to make allowances for my behaviour. Although, maybe this one isn't what I thought she'd be. Maybe she's a killer. A smart one.
Can't say I mind that thought.
