The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

forensic scientist shrugged and walked over to two police officers, who pointed towards the stairs. He left the room without a glance.

“Fat lot of good this will do,” Marnie said. “I only know about these things from watching Silent Witness and CSI, but I’m guessing they don’t excel in the world of forensic science out here. I doubt they even watch those shows.”

“I doubt they even get Quincy,” Ramsay commented flatly. He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out. He saw Simon Mereweather’s number on the display. “Hello?”

“Drop whatever you’re doing and get down to Batumi on the coast. There is a lighthouse and a Ferris wheel on the seafront. Caroline will be there.”

“What?” Ramsay asked incredulously. “A trade?”

“No. She escaped, and she’ll be waiting for you.”

Ramsay was already walking, Marnie snapped to and followed, her expression one of concern. He strode out across the farmyard, talking as he went. “Is she okay?”

“She sounds shaken, and she has no money or phone, so hurry and pick her up. Call me as soon as you have her.”

Ramsay put the phone back in his pocket and reached for the keys to the hire car.

“Problem?” Marnie asked.

“No. Caroline is safe. But she has no funds, no way of contacting us and we have to drive to a town called Batumi and pick her up. She escaped…”

“Escaped?” Marnie interrupted.

“Yes,” Ramsay replied tersely. “I don’t have the details yet, because I’m sure Simon hasn’t either.”

“What about Rashid?”

“Screw him.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously, screw him. He isn’t going to be with MI5 after that little stunt he pulled.”

“Well, it must have been important,” Marnie protested. “Rashid is a good man.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Ramsay paused, shaking his head. “I saw you and him kissing at the airport.”

Marnie stopped walking. “Firstly, that is between me, and my soon to be ex-fiancé. Rashid actually made me realise I was making a mistake, whatever happens or doesn’t happen between Rashid and myself when we get home.”

Ramsay stopped and turned around. “And secondly?”

“Secondly, don’t take a cheap shot at me because you’re pissed off with him.”

He turned back and carried on walking. “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was uncalled for.”

“Forget it,” she said. She took out her mobile and started searching for the name of the town. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll start satnav guidance now.”

“How far is it?”

“One-hundred and thirty-eight kilometres.”

“About two-hours then.”

“Try four and a half.”

“What?”

“That’s what it says here. It’s not the M1, that’s for sure.”

Ramsay got into the Skoda Superb, had the engine started before Marnie got in. As her backside hit the seat he took off at speed, the front wheels throwing up gravel that scattered down the side of the vehicle. Her door closed when enough wind force pushed it shut. She was struggling with the seatbelt, which had locked up when the wheels lost traction.

“Holy crap!” she shouted.

“Four and a half hours, my arse,” he said, and took the car up to eighty miles per hour down the narrow country lane. The car scudded over potholes large enough for a corpse to be buried in, the car bouncing and weaving its way down the track. “I said two-hours, and by Christ we’ll do it in two.”

58

 

Batumi, Georgia

King could see the lighthouse in the distance. It had been recently painted and he imagined that the up and coming town had seen some investment with the intention of seeing Batumi elevate to a holiday resort that appealed to couples and families, as well as casino goers and clubbers. The Ferris wheel would indicate that the town’s council envisaged more for the resort than blackjack and slot machines. Further up the seafront, King could see towers and other fairground attractions, that looked set in place for the summer. Perhaps the town council would follow the Spanish and import better sand, rather than the dark quarry dust and chippings the beach was made up of.

King knew the difference a few streets could make. The tourists wouldn’t see this aspect of Batumi though. Tenement housing, run down businesses and vacant properties. Some properties looked to have been broken into, squatters taking up residence. A few hundred metres off the strip, set back from the three parallel streets running along the seafront. There were a couple of bars, but they were dark and foreboding-looking places only the hardened traveller or misguided fool would wander into in a state of inebriation.

There were three of them. King had watched for an hour and was certain of the system they were using. He watched as a white Mercedes with large after-market exhausts and spinning wheel hubs pulled in, its windows as dark as coal. The driver’s window lowered, and a man casually walked over, his gait more swagger than purpose. He bent down, said very little as King watched the driver hand over a fold of banknotes. The man turned and walked back to the bar, where a youth of around fourteen took the money and darted down the alleyway. King had a good enough view to see the boy hover at the entrance to a tenement block. A scruffy-looking man appeared, took the money and stepped back inside. King watched for a few minutes, and then saw the man appear in the entrance and hand the youth a package. The boy ran back along the alley and stopped at the edge of the bar, handed the package to the frontman, who sauntered back over to the Mercedes. The window lowered again, and King could hear rap music fill the air. The man stepped back, and the Mercedes powered away, its rear wheels lighting up on the rough tarmac. The man sat back down at a table outside the bar and the youth had faded away