Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

a deep breath and glanced at the blue-purple sky that signaled dusk was approaching. The sun was gone, and another long evening was ahead of her. She kicked off her shoes and threw her purse on the coffee table, the mobile phone slipping out onto the glass top. Deciding that a cool glass of wine might perk her up, she headed for the kitchen. While pouring the chilled Pinot Gris, her mobile began to ring. A flush of anticipation ran through her as she hurried to answer the call. She tripped over the shoes, barely righting herself, and dived for the phone just as it went to voicemail.

* * *

It was after five o’clock, and the pub was becoming more crowded by the minute. Gareth Logan took the last swig of his beer and blamed the din for his headache. The culprit was more likely the beer, his third. He dropped a few coins into the wooden tip box, slid off the stool and headed out the door. He had been avoiding the return to his dingy flat but knew that he had to be there to take a call at six. He crossed in the middle of the block, causing several drivers to honk, and then walked the mere hundred yards to his building entrance. Gareth entered his small flat and flopped down on the lumpy sofa. He blew out a long breath, a sure sign that all was not well in his world. His nerves wouldn’t allow him to sit still, so he got up and removed his jacket, throwing it onto the small table in the corner that served for meals and everything else. He grabbed at a magazine and sat down again, this time settling in the ratty lounge chair by the window, where he often used the sunlight for reading. There was only one old ceiling fixture to light the whole dismal room. He flipped through the pages, not really seeing what was there. He swiveled and twitched, rested his head on his hand, flung one leg over the chair arm, and finally got up again. He paced around the room, checking his phone at approximately two-minute intervals.

Gareth was standing at the window when it rang. It was the same voice as last time—the same voice that threatened to have his brother killed if he didn’t help them—whoever them was. Days had passed since the first call, the one ordering him to meet at that pub in King’s Cross, and he had done as he was told—as well as he was able. His efforts to figure out how anyone had made the connection between his brother and himself had been unsuccessful. James had been in prison for over a year, but to Gareth it seemed longer. He still believed his brother wouldn’t be there if he’d had a decent solicitor, one who would have advised him to be tried separately from the other two men.

There were two appeals still pending, but in the meantime his younger brother was trapped inside with hardened criminals. It was ruining their mother’s health, and he had made her an impulsive promise to see it through to the end, the end being either his release, or a transfer to a less hardcore facility. James had been guilty only by association. The wrong choice of friends, slightly older young men who had turned out to be hoodlums, had led him to be present at a robbery he knew nothing about. His so-called friends had told him to wait outside the local off-license, that he wasn’t old enough to buy anything anyway. No one had been armed, the manager nor the young men, but they had brandished all too real-looking toy guns that James had not noticed in their pockets. It was an old story, really… what had happened to him. Gareth might never know how the men with whom he was now forced to be involved had found his brother among all those real criminals, but they had. And now he had to sort it out by any means possible. He had promised his Mum.

“Have you got a second date with her yet,” the voice said, its tone brusque, almost surly. “I told you—time is of the essence. We lost time trying to deal with the brother.”

“I haven’t called yet—I’ll do it now—after this. I was waiting for her to get home from work.”

“You’d better hope she doesn’t stop off somewhere. Make the invitation sound too good to pass up. You know what happens if you drop the ball.”

“I know. You don’t have to keep threatening me. I get it. But if she didn’t like me, I can’t make her go out with me again.”

“Then you’d better turn whatever charm you have up to high. And don’t forget to use the alias. You’re Clive Warren. By the end of the evening I expect you to have information on everything she’s doing and where she’ll be for all of this next week. Is that clear?”

“It’s clear. But only so much is within my power. And you haven’t told me why I’m insinuating myself into her life. When are you going to tell me where this is going? You won’t expect me to hurt her, will you?”

“Not at this time. I have others for that purpose, if it comes to that. Just do as you’re told and your brother will be fine. She may even be fine. Screw it up and they both pay the price. You will too.” The voice paused, obviously letting the threats sink in. Gareth said nothing, just waited to see if there was more. Then the words began again. “Just to confirm that I’m not bluffing, I think you should have your brother’s solicitor contact him—or if he’s allowed family calls, you might want to check in on him. Have them transfer you straight to the infirmary. That’s where he is.”

The voice had become increasingly sullen, and the last sentence carried a downright sinister edge. His last statement