spittle struck the net curtain and gravity tumbled it over the lace to the floor with a splat. Anarchy.
Rebellion
.
Disgusted, she turned her back and ignored the laughing eyes of the bitch.
She only had to wait.
Chapter 12
Over hill and vale
Amy hadn’t said goodbye.
Jason had packed his bag and marched into the hallway in his leathers, ready for another fight. But she’d just stood there, fiddling with her fraying hoodie sleeve, watching him. Her eyes were wide, huge dark pupils eclipsing all but a slither of green around the edges, black holes in her drawn, milk-pale face.
He did not speak and she said nothing, and he was gone before he could regret it.
Except now he felt it. He’d known working with Amy would be difficult from the first moment he stepped into her domain, and expecting it to get easier had been foolish. Being Amy’s friend was as much hard work as being her cleaner or her assistant. Every time he thought he understood, she demanded more – and he was running out of life to give.
But he also had his faults, no point denying it. He had something about him that stopped her trust being total, keeping parts of the work from him, trusting Owain the copper over Jason the ex-con. And how had he reacted to that? By running off to North Wales with a woman she hated on sight, even if that was totally misguided. What was there to hate about Frieda?
He parked up outside Dylan’s, behind Frieda’s Mercedes, and waited in the car. The sky was a mixture of oranges, pinks and shadows, and he reckoned they only had an hour or so before they lost the light completely. But the country lanes were better by headlights – you could see a driver coming by the glare off the hedgerows, and only a heavy-duty lorry would have difficulty passing a touring bike on a back road.
If he could forget Amy’s face, he could get excited about this trip. Hot bike, hot woman, hot trail of a murderer. An entirely legal buzz in his veins with an acceptable level of danger for his mam and his boss.
Operating under the protection of the National Crime Agency, he could wander where he pleased, piss off the local cops if the investigation called for it. He could have the freedom he’d possessed as a kid running with his best friends through Butetown – then, he hadn’t cared about the law, thinking himself invincible. Now, he knew what the weight of the law felt like, but Frieda could give him licence to break the rules.
Of course, she might turn out to be a stickler for rules and a complete killjoy, but she was taking a completely impractical bike over Snowdonia in pursuit of a case. He suspected she had a little rebel in her.
A sudden rapping at the glass made him jump and he wound down the window.
‘You’re late,’ Frieda said.
He locked the car, handed the keys to Dylan and donned his helmet. Frieda held out her hand silently for his pack and stuffed it in the saddlebag. Her leathers were perfectly fitted for a hard ride, no vanity in the cut and a few scuffs on the elbows. She’d clearly put in a lot of riding time but the leather was still expensive, well-maintained.
Jason mostly wore jeans and jacket riding around Cardiff, but he suited up for a long ride, like seeing Lewis in Swansea or taking in the coast. His one-piece was in need of thorough conditioning and he brushed at the flecks of mud dusting the outside of his thighs.
‘Stop preening, princess. We have a lot of road to go.’
Jason didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t comment when she mounted the bike and nodded her head towards the pillion. He was too tall to ride like this for long, but he’d known what he was signing up for. The thrill of the ride would be worth the sore arse.
He mounted the bike and chose the grab rail over her waist, before leaning in a little. ‘I’m heavy for a pillion.’
‘I’ve chauffeured men hundreds of times,’ she said dismissively. ‘My ex was built like a wrestler and we survived the Lake District.’
The
MR. PINK-WHISTLE INTERFERES