Steel coughed, spluttered, groaned. ‘SODDING HELL…’
‘WHAT?’
‘THINK I BROKE MY ARSE…’ She dug a finger into her ear and jiggled it about. ‘CAN YOU HEAR THAT?’
The Transit van’s front bumper clanged back down against the road, lying amongst the stoned seagulls.
Logan clutched at the ancient red telephone box, pulling himself up on wobbly feet. ‘That’s what happens when you mess with a pair of paramilitary nut-jobs who’ve got a thing for explosives.’
‘HELP ME UP.’
He hauled her to her feet. ‘Stop yelling at me.’
‘WHAT?’
Christ. ‘Never mind.’
‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU.’
The door to the hotel bar swung open and a figure in jeans and a hooded top stepped out onto the stone balcony, her caramel-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytaiclass="underline" Susan. She stared at the burning wreckage in the middle of the road, then at the MX-5 with its two blown-out front tyres. Then at DI Steeclass="underline" standing next to Logan with her legs planted wide apart, one hand holding onto his arm, as if the tarmac was bobbing about on rough seas.
Susan’s eyes narrowed. She stuck her fists on her hips. ‘Roberta Steel, what the bloody hell have you been up to?’