Danni lay on the side of the bed, her body still vibrating with pleasure. She looked up into his eyes, then planted another kiss on the side of his cheek. ‘They don’t think you’re coming back, you know,’ she said.
‘What?’
He could feel her hands tickling his chest, and couldn’t help himself from smiling. It was so long since he’d been with a woman — there had been one brief girlfriend when he managed to hold down a job for three whole months quite soon after Diana threw him out of the house but since then nothing — that he’d forgotten how good it felt to have someone’s arms around you. It made him feel alive again, pushing away the demons that raged inside his mind: already he was wondering about when he might see her again.
‘They were talking about it, I heard them,’ said Danni. ‘Layla and some of the other case officers.’
‘What did they say exactly?’
‘They reckon there isn’t much you can do,’ said Danni. ‘This Hassad guy, they reckon he’s a ruthless bastard, and whatever you offer him, he won’t accept it. He’ll kill Katie Dartmouth just like he said he would, and then … well, it’s not going to leave you in much of a position, is it?’
Her eyes flickered up tenderly towards Porter’s.
Porter remained impassive. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said firmly. ‘Whether I can get her out or not …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hell, I don’t know. It’s worth trying, that’s all I know.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’
‘Of a few ragheads? Fuck, no. They run around screaming to Allah and all that bollocks, but you put in a bullet into them and they fall over pretty quick.’
‘But … of dying?’ asked Danni.
Porter paused. He’d thought about that sometimes over the last few years. When you lived out on the streets, you got used to the idea you weren’t going to reach a ripe old age. ‘Dying isn’t so bad,’ he said. ‘There are worse things that can happen to man. Trust me, I’ve been there.’
Slowly, Danni climbed on top of him, grinding her crotch into his groin. There was a wicked, lustful smile playing across her smudged red lipstick. ‘I want to fuck you one more time before you go,’ she said.
THIRTEEN
The BMW 520 pulled smoothly away from the kerb, and turned sharp right onto Vauxhall Bridge. Porter sat back, listening to the low hum of the engine. Don’t get used to it, he warned himself. They’ll take you to the airport in style because it suits them. But once you get off that plane, they’ll toss you straight back into hell.
It was only just after six and there wasn’t much traffic around at this time of the morning. Living rough, Porter had learnt there was no such thing as a quiet time on the London streets: it was a cliché, he knew, but the place really had forgotten how to sleep. Still, as the BMW turned up through Pimlico and Kensington on its way to meet the M4 heading out towards Heathrow, the school-run mums hadn’t yet started wheeling out their Chelsea tractors, and the delivery vans hadn’t begun their rounds, so the place was relatively calm. He watched as the silent, darkened streets slipped past, recognising places where he’d kipped down for the night, tried his hand at begging, or grovelled to some puffed-up arsehole for a few hours’ work washing up or sweeping steps.
I might never see this place again, he thought. And so what? I won’t miss a single street of it.
He’d come down to London after Diana had thrown him out. They had a house they’d bought together soon after Sandy was born on the outskirts of Nottingham: Diana liked it because she’d grown up there, but Porter had come from Luton, and had never really felt at home that far up into the Midlands. Without Diana, there hadn’t been much reason to stay, and, if he was being honest with himself, if you were a heavy drinker, it wasn’t a great place to hang around: the pubs all got to know you, and wouldn’t serve you any more after your first ten or twelve drinks. He’d come down to London to try his hand on the security circuit, and he’d managed to get a couple of bodyguard jobs, but after they caught him with alcohol on his breath that work had all dried up. Nobody wanted some drunk bastard looking after them. He’d stayed in London, though, even as his life gradually fell apart. You could always get a drink, so long as you had a few pounds in your pocket, and sometimes even when you didn’t.
‘Sleep OK?’ said Layla, sitting by his side in the back of the BMW.
He glanced at her. She was dressed more casually today, in jeans, and a white blouse and blue jacket, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She had brought an overnight bag with her, even though she was planning on getting the afternoon flight back to London, because anyone who turned up at airport without any luggage automatically made themselves look suspicious.
‘Pretty good,’ said Porter gruffly.
That just about described it, he reflected. After making love to Danni for the second time, he’d fallen fast asleep in her arms, and slept probably better and more deeply than he had done for years. By the time he’d been woken up by the ringing of the alarm clock, she was gone, with just the lingering smell of her perfume, and a thin trace of lipstick on the pillow to remind him that she’d ever been there at all. I’ll probably never see her again, and might not even want to, he’d thought as he stepped into the shower. She was way too young for their relationship to be anything more than brief or physical, but the few hours they’d stolen together had been memorable all the same. Something to cheer myself up with when the ragheads are about to put a bullet through my head or a sword through my heart.
‘Medical treatment help you sleep?’ said Layla.
Porter looked at her again. There was just a trace of a smile around her lips, and suddenly it was clear to him exactly what had happened.
‘How much did you pay her?’
‘Pay who?’ said Layla lightly.
‘The nurse,’ said Porter.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I might have had too much to drink over the last few years,’ growled Porter. ‘But the alcohol hasn’t rotted all my brain cells, not yet anyway. I’ve still got enough going on upstairs to know that young girls don’t go to bed with guys old enough to be their father unless somebody is making it worth their while.’
‘Maybe she likes you,’ said Layla with a shrug.
‘I have many faults, but I’m not vain,’ said Porter. ‘What’s the deal?’
Layla paused. The BMW had passed through Hammersmith now, and was roaring along the fast lane of the M4 towards the airport. ‘She’s not really a nurse at all, although she knows how to give someone an injection, and stick a plaster on them if they’re cut. She does the honey traps for us. She beds men, usually middle-aged men, and then we threaten to tell their wives unless they do something we want them to do. It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course, but a damned good one all the same, and still works a treat.’
‘So why me?’
‘One of the psychologists we got to watch a video of you talking suggested it,’ said Layla. ‘He said he reckoned your self-esteem was low.’
‘Well, you just spoilt it by telling me.’
Layla shrugged. ‘You’d already guessed.’
Porter laughed, ‘Well, if by some bloody miracle I get back from this hellhole you’re sending me to, tell them I’m still feeling a bit down,’ he said. ‘I might need a repeat prescription.’
‘I’ll try …’
‘And ask her to bring her sister as well.’