Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) by Adrian Magson Page B

pretend to be so surprised.’ The newcomer steered him out into the flow of pedestrian traffic and across St Martin’s Lane, stepping through a line of plastic garbage bags at the kerb, one of them spilling a scattering of packaging into the gutter. ‘You knew I’d call on you one day. It’s the way things work in this business, remember? Favours made, always repaid. You had your favour, now it’s time to pay.’
    Maine felt sick as he was led down a narrow alley alongside a gym. With no other pedestrians around, he felt horribly vulnerable. He stopped suddenly, ripping his arm free, fear giving him strength. But his legs wouldn’t let him run.
    ‘What do you want, Paulton? You must be crazy coming back here!’ He cast around desperately, his earlier pleasure now gone, a man searching for a way out of a bad situation. Unfortunately, he saw neither police nor security men, although on reflection, he knew deep down that neither would have been of any help to him.
    ‘Really? Why is that, Keith?’ Paulton feigned surprise. ‘Is it because I’m a black sheep in the intelligence community – a sordid little secret nobody wants to talk about?’ He cocked his head on one side and showed his teeth. But it wasn’t in a smile. ‘Or is it because I scare you shitless and you can’t face up to what you did and don’t want to be found out?’
    ‘No! I . . .’ Maine choked on the words. ‘What?’ The single word was all he could manage, a sign of resignation. ‘How did you know I would be here?’
    ‘I didn’t. But I know where you work, Keith.’ Paulton’s tone on the last few words was pseudo ghostly, the kind to frighten children. But this threat was very real.
    ‘You followed me?’
    ‘Of course. It’s one of the things I’ve always been particularly good at, even if I do say so myself. But then, operate in some of the nasty places I’ve been to in my time, and you need to be good at something. You really should check your back more often, though, Keith.’ He prodded Maine in the chest with a stiff finger, forcing him back against the wall of the building behind him. ‘Now, I want you to help me find somebody.’ Any feigned geniality had now gone, replaced by a harder tone.
    A dulled look. ‘Why should I?’
    ‘Do you really expect me to explain that?’
    ‘Is it someone important, is that it? I’m not going to help you kill anyone.’
    ‘I’m not asking you to.’ Paulton’s voice was smooth, persuasive, but developing a harder edge. ‘Not that it would make much difference if I were. I need some information, that’s all; you have access to the files and I know you’ll get it for me. Just one person, that’s all I’m asking. Then I’ll be gone for good and never bother you again. Scouts’ honour.’ He smiled. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you – me out of your life forever?’
    ‘What will you do to this person?’
    ‘Like I said, don’t ask. That way, what you don’t know can’t come back and bite you on the arse.’ He gave a huff of impatience and his voice dropped as a door opened along the alleyway and a bag of rubbish was dropped outside. ‘Remember what I know about you, Keith. Five years ago you sold confidential weapons files to a French intelligence officer for hard cash.’
    Maine flinched. ‘I was tricked. I thought he was a journalist.’ It was a claim he’d always made, but right now it sounded even more hollow than ever.
    ‘Really? Was that what he told you? Boy, you were dumb. What was it he paid you – twenty-five grand? That must have bought you some nice little first editions.’ He applied more pressure until Maine cried out in pain. ‘Do you recall what happened to him, Keith?’
    Pain etched Maine’s face. ‘No. I don’t. Why should I?’
    ‘He fell under a train in Norwood Junction. He should have stood back from the edge like they always tell you.’
    Maine looked horrified. ‘I didn’t know!’
    ‘Nor should you. That was my job,