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The next morning, after a remarkably good night’s sleep, in the circumstances, I wake up in my own apartment. I stretch, then check my phone for the time. Seven thirty-five. I roll out of bed and head for the shower. Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed for business, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I fix myself a couple of slices of toast and my usual slug of morning caffeine and plan my day.
I have loose ends to tie up with the police. Sergeant Morris needs a pep talk, and Inspector Whymark needs handling, too. I expect PC Prattface to behave himself from now on after Tony’s visit, but we’ll keep an eye on him. Then there’s all the usual housekeeping stuff. Payments to chase up, deals to arrange. We have a shipment of cocaine due to arrive at the Port of Glasgow any day now, and that will need cutting and distributing. It’s all go, as my mother used to say.
My mother died at the start of the Covid pandemic, alone, in hospital in Aberdeen. I wasn’t allowed to visit her, and I was the only one at her funeral. I think of the girl upstairs, also grappling with the imminent loss of her mother and unable to be there.
Shit. What a fucking mess.
I finish my breakfast, then stick a couple more slices into the toaster. I’ll be a responsible jailor and feed my prisoner before heading out on my business.
She’s still sleeping when I enter, her ash-blonde hair spread across the pillow. She appears peaceful, for once. I guess she’s naked beneath the duvet because my jacket is draped over a chair, and the blanket I gave her is spread across the foot of the bed. If she’s going to be here for a while, I suppose I’d better do something about getting some clothes for her, and other things, too. A hairbrush, toiletries, maybe some books or magazines.
She senses my presence, and her eyelids shoot open. I’m struck, and not for the first time, by the deep kingfisher blue of her eyes. She’s pretty stunning, really, but it’s best not to dwell on that. She’s a prisoner, after all.
“What are you doing here?” she demands, clutching the duvet to her chest.
“Breakfast.” I point to the buttered toast and mug of coffee. “Have a nice day.”
She scrambles to a sitting position. “Wait.”
I pause by the door and glance back at her over my shoulder. “I’m in a hurry. What is it?”
“I just… I… Can I at least know your name?”
I consider that briefly and decide it’ll do no harm. “Jack,” I reply. “Jack Morgan.”
“Whoareyou, Jack?” she asks. “What is this place?”
I turn to face her fully. “I think you’ve already worked that out. Or some of it, at least.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“I suppose so.”
“You kill people.”
“It’s been known.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes. My apartment is right next door.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Is it the police officer asking?”
She pauses, clearly confused. That in itself is telling. Eventually, she shakes her head. “I told you, I’m not here as police.”
“Police officers are never off duty,” I remind her. “Or so I hear…”
“No, but… I don’t care about any of that. I just want to go home. To my mother. She needs me, and I don’t have long. She’s very ill.”
“I do sympathise, but I’m afraid that isn’t possible just yet.”
“Then when?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You must know.” Tears glisten; she’s trying hard not to break down but not quite succeeding. “Please, Jack…”
