Free A Good Day To Die by Simon Kernick Page A

tumbleweed dodging between the traffic. It suited me fine, because if anyone was following me, I'd have known about it.
    The Lantern was a shabby little place in need of a serious paint job on a quiet backstreet no more than a hundred yards from the junction of Pentonville Road and Islington's Upper Street, and also not far from where I used to live. I got there at just before ten and walked past on the other side of the road, seeing immediately that the corner table Pope had mentioned was empty. I kept walking until I got to Chapel Market, fifty yards further on.
    The market was in full flow and crowded, another familiar sight that was vaguely comforting. It was a dry day and chilly, with a blanket of unbroken white cloud overhead, and there was also the first sniff of Christmas in the stall decorations and the excited faces of the many young kids milling around with their weary-looking parents. It was December 6th, and Asif Malik had been dead, andhis wife and kids grieving, for just over five weeks.
    I turned and headed back in the direction of the cafe, watching the street like a hawk. Two Italian men in white tops were unloading vegetables from a van and taking them into a restaurant. Other than that, there was little to attract my attention.
    As I passed the cafe, however, I saw that the corner table was now taken. I didn't get a good look at the occupant but continued on casually until I came to the door, then stepped inside. The interior was cramped, with no more than seven or eight tables. Two workmen in white hard hats and fluorescent jackets sat at one of the tables, piling into plates of sandwiches, while at the corner table sat a good-looking guy in his early forties and wearing it well, with a lean face, a full head of dyed blond hair and a very nicely tailored Italian suit. He was smiling at me with the sort of confidence that left neither of us in any doubt that he knew exactly who I was. It wasn't an unpleasant smile either. Tomboy's description had been basic in the extreme, and I think I'd been expecting some middle-aged, greasy individual with a lot of jewellery and bad hair. The name Les never seems to conjure up much in the way of sophistication. However, this guy was a cross between a stockbroker and a good timeshare salesman. A definite Tom or Greg.
    He stood up as I walked over. 'Mr Kane, thanks for coming. Take a seat, please.' The sameauthoritative voice I'd heard on the phone the previous night.
    We shook and his grip was tighter than it needed to be. He kept his hand there for several seconds and I think he wanted me to flinch, although he continued to give me that welcoming smile. I didn't, and he let go.
    I sat down opposite him, noticing that he had an orange juice and a black coffee.
    'I've ordered a sandwich,' he told me, sitting down as well. 'Do you want something? It's on me. They do a good ham and salad ciabatta, I'm told.'
    'No thanks. If the waitress comes over, I'll have a coffee. Otherwise, forget it.'
    'Thanks for coming to see me. I'd just like to say, before we start, that I'm very happy with the services I've received from you and Mr Darke. It would be a pity to spoil it all now by getting involved in things that, frankly, don't concern you.' The same expression remained on his face as he spoke but the tone had changed subtly. He was telling me, not asking me.
    The waitress walked towards us. She was young and thin, with a skimpy black halter-neck top that rode up past her cute, pierced belly button. With the temperature outside struggling to stay above zero, it gave me the chills just looking at it. I ordered a large filter coffee and a mineral water, since Pope was paying.
    'Fine,' I said to him when she'd turned away. 'Iunderstand what you're saying. The only thing is, they do concern me.'
    'Why?'
    So Tomboy hadn't told him about my relationship with Malik, which was good. I didn't want him to make any problematic connections. 'That's my business, I'm afraid.'
    Pope stroked his