Free Blood Falls by Tom Bale Page A

he declared in a grand voice, like he was quoting from a play or a speech.
    ‘Too right,’ Leon said. With a pointed look at the journalist, he added, ‘Especially when I’m surrounded by fuckwits.’

Fifteen
    JOE TRIED TO put the incident with the security men out of his mind. He explored a series of narrow lanes on the town’s southern perimeter. Beyond the crest of the hill, and thus robbed of the stunning sea views, he discovered a large council estate, dating back to the 1950s or ’60s, the houses constructed of prefabricated concrete panels. There were a few unkempt gardens with the usual broken bikes and discarded mattresses, but for the most part the properties were well kept. Plenty of pot plants and satellite dishes that had escaped the attention of the local vandals.
    Or maybe there weren’t any vandals. Joe passed a couple of empty houses, their doors and windows boarded over, but even these had no graffiti, no sign of fires or attempts at forced entry. Trelennan might have its own slice of poverty to accompany the affluence, but its inhabitants seemed remarkably well behaved.
    And no burglar alarms here, he noted. No sign of the LRS logo at all.
    Beyond the estate, the town’s boundary resumed along the top of the hill. Here, on the south-eastern corner, the incline was much steeper than on the western side. This was the wooded area that Joe had seen from the seafront: the Alpine district, with a scattering of large, secluded homes and one or two exclusive hotels dotted among the trees.
    Joe smiled ruefully. He was firmly back in LRS territory. Their alarm boxes were everywhere; then one of their vans came drifting along a parallel street, slowing at the junction while the driver checked him out. Not Reece or his buddy, but it could have been the man he’d seen last night.
    He carried on walking. The road was arranged in a series of switchbacks, with stone retaining walls to hold back the banks of bracken and gorse. Signs urged drivers to remain in a low gear. There was no pavement for pedestrians, and Joe had to press himself against the wall every time a car came past.
    The sound of rushing water alerted him to a fast-moving stream. Joe peered over the wall and watched the clear, bubbling water flowing beneath the road. After that, he was sure he could hear its progress as a distant, almost subliminal noise as he descended into the town.
    As he emerged from the tree cover, the blustery wind hit him full in the face: an effect that the locals probably described as ‘bracing’. But the clouds were slowly breaking up, allowing a hint of sunshine to peek through, and Joe felt his mood lifting.
    At the top of the High Street he paused by a large office building with a religious bookshop on the ground floor. The front of the block was shielded by a cloister. Joe stepped behind one of the brick columns for shelter and privacy, made sure his phone had a signal, then checked the time: just after eleven o’clock.
    Perfect.
    It was Joe’s new phone, so the number wouldn’t be familiar, but he was calling a mobile that Maz reserved only for him. Just as he’d expected, his friend was eating when he answered.
    ‘Anything nice?’
    ‘Cream doughnut,’ Maz said, all but purring.
    ‘Lovely. I wouldn’t normally interrupt your elevenses, except that I ran into a face from the past.’
    ‘You’re kidding.’ There was a sudden bout of coughing.
    ‘Jesus, Maz. Don’t choke on your doughnut.’
    ‘Too late.’ More coughing. ‘What happened?’
    Joe gave him a brief update: Danny Morton, the chase through Bristol and Joe’s escape. Nothing about where he’d gone afterwards.
    ‘How the hell did he find you?’
    ‘I don’t know. You got any ideas on that score?’
    A beat of silence. Then: ‘Christ, you don’t think that I …?’
    ‘No. What I meant was, you’re the only direct contact I’ve had.’
    ‘But you never told me where you were.’ Maz’s voice was indignant. ‘You just said the