Safe House by Chris Ewan Page A

Menser grabbed for the bunk he was sitting on. Closed his eyes. The hollow boom of the hull striking water. Bottoming out. The vessel slowly righting itself. Groaning. Creaking.
    He hated this. Hated the feeling of powerlessness. Being at the mercy of something beyond his control. Tossed around.
    When he looked up, she was smiling. His unease was lighting her face. Menser couldn’t ignore how attractive she was. Lithe. Shapely. Young and fit.
    Everything he wasn’t.
    ‘So, where do you take me?’ Her voice was croaky. Dry from disuse. But he was pleased to hear it, all the same.
    ‘You’ll see soon enough.’ He clenched his toes in his shoes. As if maybe he could clamp himself to the floor. Fight the swirl and the dip.
    ‘How long do we have?’
    ‘Not long.’
    ‘So you will be killing Pieter soon, I am thinking.’
    He held her gaze. Moderated his tone. ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Because you killed Lukas already. I heard the shots from inside the van.’
    Menser could have told her she was wrong. That it was Clarke who’d done the shooting. That it was Clarke who’d stepped out of line.
    Improvisation, Clarke had called it. As if it was something to be proud of. Compensation for the way he’d screwed up.
    They’d waited four hours after the accident before returning to the cottage. The biker was gone by then – must have been spotted by a passing motorist. Only the two men remained, in the positions they’d discussed and practised many times. It made them simple to outflank. The leader, Pieter, had been quick to know he was beaten and easy to subdue. But the second man, Lukas, had panicked and fled for the woods. Menser had sent Clarke to deal with him while he focused on emptying the cottage of all their equipment and belongings. Everything ended up in the back of the van. Everything except Lukas.
    Clarke swore that the man was dead. That he was well hidden in the woods. Menser wasn’t comfortable with the situation, but time was running short. They left the body and headed for the trawler – Menser driving the van, Clarke in the red rental car. But with every minute that passed, he regretted the decision even more.
    ‘He shouldn’t have run,’ Menser said. ‘He left us no choice.’
    She shook her head. Raised her knees to her chest and hugged her shins. ‘It was his only choice.’
    ‘Your friend Pieter didn’t see it like that.’
    ‘But Pieter will die, yes?’
    The boat twisted and dived. Menser bounced up off his bunk. Landed on the small of his back. Swore under his breath.
    ‘Got a minute?’ The voice belonged to Clarke. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a drenched rain slicker and a yellow fisherman’s hat. Water dripped on to the floor from his outerwear. He held a roll of gaffer tape in his hand.
    Menser scrambled to his feet, using the wall for balance.
    The girl twisted over on to her side. Stretched out along the bunk, pointing her toes inside her canvas training shoes.
    ‘Goodbye, Pieter,’ she said, in a small voice, and tucked herself into a ball.
    Menser closed and bolted the door.
    ‘Anything?’ Clarke asked.
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Maybe she’s just that stupid, you know?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘We could try their laptops again. Go back through their bags. See if we missed something.’
    ‘They’re clean.’
    ‘Then you think maybe we should call him? Let him decide?’
    Menser snatched the gaffer tape. It was light. The roll almost empty. He squeezed it in his hand. Felt his knuckles pop.
    ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because it’s a bad idea.’
    ‘And why’s that?’
    ‘Because, Clarke. Jesus. Because. ’
    Up on deck, it was so much worse. The painted metal was slick underfoot, as slippery as ice. Water had pooled and collected around the stacked lobster pots and dented oil drums, the puddles coloured with traces of diesel. A hook the size of a man’s head swung wildly from a mast above them. Spray and foam pawed at the