Free Low Profile by Nick Oldham

quite able to remember her surname.
    Alison picked up his plate. ‘Marsh … yes, that’s me.’
    â€˜So … look, sorry, not to pry, but how come this place is yours? Must be an interestin’ story there.’ He posed the question in a conversational way.
    â€˜It’s a long story, but I run it with my stepdaughter, Ginny.’
    â€˜You said you didn’t have one of those husband things …’
    â€˜I don’t … like I said, long story.’
    â€˜Hey!’ He held up his hands. ‘I apologize … just curious, and don’t mean nothin’ by it … but I also can’t help but notice the rock on “that” finger … third finger, left hand … engaged?’
    â€˜You ask a lot of questions.’
    â€˜Us Yanks do … inbuilt curiosity.’ He grinned, although it was more a grimace than a grin as a shot of pain made him want to crease over.
    â€˜I am engaged – you’re right,’ she said.
    â€˜Wow – congratulations.’ Hawke held out his hand. Alison, holding his plate with her left hand, shook it with her right. ‘Who’s the lucky guy?’
    â€˜Erm, his name’s Henry,’ she said, almost shyly.
    â€˜Does he work here?’
    â€˜No, not yet. He’s a police officer … hopefully he’ll retire soon and then we’ll run this place together … at least that’s the plan.’
    â€˜Well, ma’am, you have my very best wishes for the future,’ Hawke said magnanimously.
    â€˜Thank you, you’re very kind.’
    Alison collected everything from the table but Hawke’s coffee, gave him a sweet smile, then headed back to the kitchen.
    Hawke turned to the window, his cold eyes not focusing on the pretty village scene in front of him, his mind collating the information he had just put together by asking a series of very innocent questions. He drank his coffee, left more than enough money on the table for the meal and walked out of the pub.
    He had every intention of returning.

FIVE
    A s instructed, Flynn turned east towards the African mainland once the boat was clear of Puerto Rico; then, when far enough away from the possibility of prying eyes, he spun
Faye
around and headed back, keeping Gran Canaria on his right. He ploughed west through the deep Atlantic, following the lower curve of the southern edge of the island, eventually heading north.
    The sea was comparatively smooth, but even so
Faye
crested and dipped through the white caps as she made easy progress. These were the type of sea conditions she revelled in, and Flynn loved being at the helm of a boat he adored. It was a movement, however, that did nothing to alleviate the seasickness that had taken over Costain’s girlfriend, who Flynn had learned was called Trish. She hung pitifully over the side, retching horribly on an empty stomach and getting no sympathy from Costain, who seemed unaffected by the motion and stood behind Flynn in the cockpit.
    â€˜She might be better in the stateroom,’ Flynn suggested over his shoulder. ‘She can crash out there in air-conditioned splendour.’ He did know, though, that doing this – lying down, eyes closed – often made the condition worse. ‘Or failing that she can have a coffee and food. There’s some sarnies in the cool box. Sometimes eating actually helps.’
    Costain just sniggered.
    The girl was left to heave.
    They passed Puerto Rico, then, further along the coast, Puerto de Mogán, a more upmarket resort than the now slightly squalid Puerto Rico. Although they were well out of sight of each port, the mountains behind rose grandly, reminding Flynn, as ever, that Gran Canaria was stunningly beautiful.
    Beyond Mogán, the coastline became more barren and hostile and less accessible, although there was a series of excellent beaches along this stretch, Lomo Tasarte, but they were difficult to get to other than on foot