Lethal Profit by Alex Blackmore

of a friend, so we’ll be the ones to break it first.’
    Like Terry, Geoff had always had aspirations above red top status that had been thwarted at an early point in his career because he didn’t have the right accent or well-connected parents. Terry could hear the anticipation in his boss’s voice as he told him to get back to the office with the story and fill him in right away. As he hung up his phone and shoved it into the pocket of his shiny suit, Terry Dowler’s jowled face was set in smug anticipation of the glory and recognition waiting for him back home. Finally, his time had come.

    When the smart but unremarkable dark-skinned man carrying a small leather briefcase hit him hard on the shoulder, spinning him so that their bodies met almost like lovers, he opened his mouth to spit a retaliatory curse but was distracted by a small stabbing pain in his right thigh. He dropped his bag in shock, bent down over his thigh and, by the time he looked up again, the man had disappeared. He rubbed his leg with his palm as the pain subsided and picked up his bag. It had felt as if the man had pinched him but it must just have been a muscle twinge from the impact – he was getting more of that as the years went on. Terry pulled himself together, cursing the rudeness of the damned Frogs and then treated himself to a Eurostar upgrade as a reward for the day’s efforts. On the train he noticed his iPhone was missing and realised the man at the station must have been a thief. Once again he cursed the damned Frogs and anyone else he could think of. When he calmed down he decided he’d report it the minute he arrived in London. He could claim it on insurance, get a knock off one from his brother then sell the new one on E-bay for a tidy profit. The theft of the phone might mean he had lost the sound recording, but he had Sophie’s number so he would just call her back and explain what had happened, maybe get her to email a quotable statement or something. Anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to forget the story in a hurry. He sat back in his seat with a beer and looked forward to getting back to London and breaking this thing wide open. By the time the Eurostar pulled into the terminal at St Pancras International Terry Dowler was dead.

    Pushing open the glass doors to her hotel, Eva greeted the sour-faced receptionist. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away from reception and noticed the hairs on the back of her neck stand up with unease. She stood waiting for the tiny lift to make its rickety way back down to ground level and then leaned against the mirrored interior as it took her up to the first floor. Finally, she opened the door to her room and threw her bag on the bed. She walked towards the bathroom.
    And then she stopped. On the floor next to the battered old wardrobe was her hairbrush. Eva looked around the room. Had she left it there? She thought back. No. The hairbrush had definitely not been there when she had left that morning. She walked into the bathroom and checked for clean towels. The towels were hanging over the door in exactly the same position that she had left them, one was still damp. The maid had not come.

    Eva immediately rushed to the bed and pulled back her mattress. She dragged out her laptop and sighed with relief. Thank God. At least she hadn’t been robbed. But when she opened the laptop she realised it was off. She had charged it overnight, which meant it had full power, and from the standby state she had left it in that morning would have had to be physically shut down in order for it to be turned off. She sat down on the bed with the laptop in her hands. A chill trickled down her spine. Someone had been in her room.
    As she looked around it become obvious that, although not much was out of place, things had been moved. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar even though she had shut it firmly that morning. The two books on the night stand were not lined up