Free Safe House by Chris Ewan

he could have explained. But Clarke wasn’t the type to listen. Take that ridiculous patch of facial hair below his lip. Menser had told him to lose it. Warned him it was memorable. And what happened? The bumfluff remained.
    Same thing when they’d snatched the girl. He’d told Clarke not to speak to the biker, but Clarke had gone ahead and done it anyway. He’d claimed the guy was concussed – like the green jumpsuit had convinced him he was a genuine medic – but Menser didn’t like it. Taking chances was something you did if you wanted to get caught. And Menser didn’t. Not ever. Especially not now.
    He put his hand to his gut. He was going to have to get past the sickness. Go below deck and repair whatever damage Clarke had caused. Maybe he could turn it to his advantage. Make the girl see that he was the one she could deal with. A rational mind. A reasonable guy.
    Someone she could trust.

Chapter Ten
     
     
    Lena stared blankly at the figure in the doorway. Deep inside her gut, she experienced a flutter of relief. It was the older man. The one with no hair. He was clinging to the doorframe because the boat was tipping and swirling around. In his spare hand he carried a plastic mug. Steam was rising from it.
    ‘I brought you some tea,’ he said, and extended the mug towards her, spilling hot liquid over his knuckles as the boat pitched suddenly to the right.
    She had to fight back a smile. Tea . Of course. This was what the English always offered you. It didn’t matter that they’d imprisoned you in a ship’s cabin in the middle of a storm. It made no difference that you’d been drugged and abducted against your will.
    She wanted to decline. Or even better, ignore him. But she was thirsty. Her mouth was dry and she was suffering from a headache that wouldn’t go away. It had been with her since she’d first come around to find herself in this . . . cell , she supposed she should call it.
    The room had metal walls, painted white, and no window. There was a grubby linoleum floor, a metal toilet, a metal sink and two bunk beds with rusted frames. The door the man had come in by was metal, too. It had riveted panels and a sturdy lock. She’d tried opening it already. Many times. But the door had been bolted on the outside.
    ‘Either you want it, or you don’t,’ the man said. ‘But if I was you, I’d take it. You keep refusing and we might forget to come down here altogether.’
    Her thirst was too much. Her headache too urgent.
    Lena unfurled her right hand, the one that wasn’t inflamed and throbbing. The man approached and placed the mug in her palm. It wasn’t so bad when she finally took a sip. The tea had plenty of sugar in it. She could feel the sucrose zinging through her system, like a tiny spark of energy.
    The cabin tipped and rocked. The door swung backwards and the man grabbed for it. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.
    ‘Mind if I sit down?’
    He stumbled across and collapsed on to the bunk that faced her own. The veins pulsed in his temples. His ears and his scalp were flushed red. Lena could see that he was wearing a pair of pale-blue wristbands.
    ‘We need to talk,’ the man said, and spread his clammy fingers, as if he was prepared to be entirely open with her.
    Lena didn’t reply.
    ‘About the cottage,’ the man continued. ‘About what you’ve been doing up there. And about Melanie Fleming. Her, in particular.’
    Lena said nothing. She sipped her tea. Nursed her wrist in her lap.
    The man smiled glumly. Shook his bald head. ‘You know what concerns me? What concerns me is that you’re not concerned. Now, if it was me, and I was in your position, I’d be terrified.’
    The man waited a beat. Exhaled sharply.
    ‘Look, if you talk to me, I can help you. Maybe between us we can think of a way to make some of this go away.’
    Lena slumped against the wall of the cabin.
    ‘Listen, you know the police have been looking for you, right? Maybe not publicly. Not in a