Free Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) by Rosie Claverton Page B

engine throbbed through him, a tamed tiger waiting to be unleashed on unsuspecting Welsh roads. She moved without warning, but he had played pillion before to Dylan and his excitable sister, so he knew what to expect from an erratic driver.
    After that, though, she was considerate. The traffic in Cardiff was minimal and they headed for the M4, the main artery of South Wales. However, Frieda ignored the turning and continued on the A470, a broad, busy main road that soon dwindled to little more than a lane with some road markings.
    Jason had never crossed Mid Wales before, never ventured much outside his Cardiff home. He’d looked up the route on his phone before he’d left Amy’s – over four hours, staying on the one road, though that road would change its shape significantly.
    Frieda was a law-abiding citizen, it seemed – or else she couldn’t go too fast with his fat arse weighing down her bike. They soon left behind town lights for trees and vast bodies of water, the haunted Llwyn-on Reservoir the first they saw but by no means the last. The still waters captured the fading light, glowing in muted red as if a dragon slumbered beneath the surface, witness to danger and tragedy.
    The twilight chill settled on them both, and Jason dared to reach out, moving closer to Frieda’s warm body. The last time he’d been in the Valleys, he’d have given anything for a motorbike and a woman beside him, but Frieda’s body heat was the only warmth she was likely to give him.
    Why had she brought him along? National agencies didn’t just pick up waifs and strays, bringing them along for the ride. If she needed backup, she could seek out the local cops, not a former gang runner with priors for assault and theft. Maybe, under that icy gaze, she liked him. She wanted to get to know him.
    But this was business, work. She must’ve seen something he could offer her. But he was the first to admit he was dull-witted compared to Amy or one of Cardiff’s detectives. He was handy in a fight but she had no way of knowing that. Though she had looked over his criminal record – what could she have seen there to make her think he’d be good for this job?
    Of course, Amy had seen something in him, but Amy had been desperate. Thinking about her made him feel uncomfortable, uneasy, and he pushed the thoughts away, out into the night. He was going to enjoy this ride with Frieda, and damn Amy’s expectations.
    Only a few cars passed them as darkness swallowed the road, scattered lights between the trees marking pubs and houses along the way. Villages popped out of nowhere, with increasingly unpronounceable names, and vanished just as quickly.
    He lost track of time just as the road opened out on to a little town the sign proclaimed to be Rhayader. Frieda swung the bike into a deserted car park and killed the engine.
    ‘I’m hungry,’ she declared.
    ‘Pub?’
    ‘Not if you want to drive.’
    They settled for fish and chips, leaning against a wall, hot grease coating his fingers and lips, dripping onto his boots. Frieda said nothing until her dinner was mere paper and scraps, wiping her fingers on the feeble napkins and stabbing her plastic chip fork into their remains.
    ‘The roads are quiet,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in Bangor before midnight. I’ve arranged a room there and we’ll move on in the morning.’
    Jason noted the use of
room
, singular, but said nothing. Was he being brought on this trip as entertainment? Was he okay with that? He’d never been particularly discerning about who he took to bed, but they were working together professionally. Surely that was against the rules?
    But the longer the silence lasted, the harder it was to ask. He polished off his cod, removed the worst of the grease with an unsullied corner of the newspaper, and finished his can of Coke.
    The bike was designed for the novice and veteran alike and, with some gentle nudging from Frieda, he started her up. The NCA officer climbed onto the pillion