Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) Read online

  His hands noted how her ribs jutted through her pink polyester cardigan and he closed his eyes for a moment. If he could reach right into her lungs and rip out the tumour, he would have done. Bastard cancer.

  "Hey, mum. How are you?"

  "Apart from gasping for a wet? Elaine!"

  Elaine stuck her tongue out at Turner, behind their mum's back, and started to fill the kettle with water. Turner released his mum and took a step back. Elaine was right; she did look pinker in the face, and she was smiling broadly. She opened her mouth to speak but suddenly the kitchen filled with the shouts and screams of twin five-year-old boys.

  "Uncle Turner! Uncle Turner! Look at this! I got a plane! Look!"

  Turner started to laugh as the boys wrestled with each other in their efforts to get to their favourite uncle first, but Elaine stepped in. "No!" He started to protest but she ushered them out of the kitchen, back into the living room, alternating between threats of a spanking and promises of McDonald's.

  Turner's mother smiled, but her eyes were downcast as she dropped a teabag into a chipped mug. She didn't look up at him. Instead, she kept her attention on the kettle as the steam began to rise from the yellowed plastic.

  "Mum?"

  The more he looked at her, the more he thought the pink in her cheeks wasn't healthy at all. Her face was red, and the skin seemed stretched and shiny. Was her hand shaking? Was she really plumper, or was that just the treatments she was having? Her body had changed shape, and he'd heard that steroids could do that.

  And what kind of selfish ignorant son got himself sent down just when his family needed him the most? He swallowed his bile as best he could, but he couldn't keep the sneer off his face. A sneer at himself, and his low-life ways.

  She looked up and he tried to hastily smooth his expression, hoping she wouldn't misinterpret what she saw. She didn't mention it. "Turner. So, was your house okay?"

  He'd moved out of the family home just before he'd been caught. He left his neat little terrace in the care of Elaine and his mate Lee. It was only round the corner, one more unremarkable red-brick street in the Manchester warrens, and everyone knew who he was and where he was. The house had been left untouched during his sentence. He wasn't a big local hard man, but he was known. "Yeah, Elaine did a good job."

  "Speaking of jobs…"

  "Oh, mum. Really?"

  The kettle clicked off, and he was released from her accusing stare as she fussed about making her tea, shooing him out of the way when he stepped forward to try and take over. He tried to change the subject while she was occupied with the milk. "Anyway, I was thinking, you need this place redecorating, don't you? I'll grab Lee. Between us, we can get the kitchen done in a day. Maybe two. What colours do you think?"

  His mother turned around again, and leaned on the countertop, almost exactly in the same pose that Elaine had been in, a few minutes before. It was funny how such things passed down the family. Was it genetic or was it learned and copied? He nearly opened his mouth to remark on it, then reminded himself he wasn't in prison any more, and random conversation wasn't needed. Inside, you'd talk about anything to fill the hours. On the out, time was more precious.

  "Turner, you've been out a week, and I know that's not long. But there must be some idea of jobs. You've got skills, haven't you? Have you been down to the Jobcentre yet?"

  "They don't let you through the door without an appointment written in gold on a marble slab. Job? What bloody jobs. I wish. And even if there were jobs, what chance have I got now? With a record?"

  She didn't reply, and in the silence sang the unspoken obvious sarcasm: you shouldn't have got yourself in that position, then.

  Turner threw his head back and studied the ceiling, then wished he hadn't, as he noticed a dark stain, cobwebs, and peeling paint. "Anyway, something's come up. Yeah. A potential… job."

  His mum clicked her tongue in disappointment. "Like the last thing was a potential job? And turned out to be driving a getaway car?"

  "This is legit, actually legit. My brief put me in touch with a journalist-type. She wants to write an article."

  "On you?"

  "Yeah, why not?"

  She shook her head but she was smiling. "So how much will you get for it?"

  "I dunno. I have no idea how much they earn for a story. Must be a couple of grand, surely?"

  "You haven't sorted it out?"

  He suddenly felt stupid. Emily didn't even have a definite commission yet, after all. But he shrugged. "It's in hand. It'll be good."

  "What then? After that?"

  Turner grabbed his coat and slung it on, suddenly needing to be outside, to be free, to be in the open air once more. "I'll have found a job by then," he said, fighting the rising panic as the walls closed in around him. He had to walk out of the door, to prove to himself that he really was free again. "Sorry mum. Gotta go." Breathe, walk, go, escape. These moments hit so fast, and he had to get away. When the fear gripped him, he didn't care how rude he seemed.

  Outside his heart rate took a while to drop back to normal. What had triggered it this time? The thought of a job, perhaps, and his uncertain future.

  Perhaps that bastard Riggers really was the only option, and Turner's back prickled with sweat as he walked briskly down the street, heading for nowhere except somewhere that wasn't prison.

  * * * *

  Emily was pleased with her choice of café. It was a quiet little place by Salford Quays, where they could sit and watch the measured slow business of the water-folk and day trippers. It was still an hour before the noonday rush when the trendy media types would be flocking out of the offices all around, proudly wearing their security passes hinting at Very Important Jobs at the BBC. It was a big enough café to have a licence for alcohol and a range of decent food, and small enough to be still considered smugly boutique.

  She was ten minutes early, and was just applying a fresh slick of lip gloss when Turner appeared around the corner, ambling and looking at the boats as he walked. Her hand jerked in annoyance - she hadn't expected him to be on time. She patted at her skin, rubbing off the smear of gloss, and shoved the tube out of sight as he approached.

  He walked with coiled power, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets but his head alert and his eyes all around, checking out corners and passers-by and seagulls and cars, like any moment he was expecting to have to react to something like a cinema action hero. He grinned broadly when he saw her, and stuck his hand out as he reached the outdoor table.

  Emily was taken by surprise and social convention took over, propelling her to her feet to shake his hand. They both sat down and she fiddled with the menu, trying to hide the sudden nervousness.

  "Got a commission yet?" he said without preamble, leaning back in his chair, his broad chest hard under his thin white tee.

  "Blimey, you don't hang about. Hello. How nice to see you. How are you?"

  "Hello. I'm fine. Got a commission yet?"

  She shook her head, putting the menu down on the table, relaxed by his banter. "Well, not quite. Nothing definite, no actual commissioning order or whatever. But I've been chatting to a few contacts and there's interest. The thing is, the thing what I'm worried about, well not worried, but you know, I have to be sure, about… I mean, I am sure. But you know…"

  "No. I really do not know," he said as she ground to a halt. "I lost you at about "commissioning order", to be honest. Let's get drinks."

  Choosing the drinks gave her valuable breathing space, and once their coffees arrived, she was ready to explain a bit more. "Look, we need to tighten up on the angles a bit more. One magazine was interested in a three-person case study of men who'd done really long sentences but are now going straight, preferably with interviews with their partners too, because it's a women's mag and they're really into "love conquers all" and all the bullshit."

  He raised an eyebrow at her cynicism but didn't interrupt. She took a sip of overpriced coffee, then continued. "On the other hand, we could make mor
e of the whole "social scandal" angle. There's a weekend supplement to a national newspaper that made some interested noises if we could get some concrete examples of obvious abuses."

  "Such as?"

  "I don't know. I thought you'd have some idea. Like, a bloke who's really qualified for a job, the best person for it, and he's overlooked."

  "That's not news, that's fact."

  "Something headline grabbing, though. Perhaps an ex-criminal is replaced by someone who isn't qualified and then there's an accident. I don't know."

  Emily was trying to sound confident but it seemed to be harder with each passing minute. Ideas that were perfect in the privacy of her own flat sounded like weak nonsense when she blurted them out. And who was she kidding? The women's magazine would be a pretty poor deal, and she'd be lucky to get £300 for it - including the photos she'd be expected to provide.

  £300 was all very well, but half of that going to Turner - it was a waste of her time. She could spend the next week temping in an office, and earn more.

  She forced herself to think clearly. It wasn't just about the money. It was a chance to get her name back out there in investigative journalism, and to move on from the disaster of her last writing assignment. It was beginning to feel like her last chance. How much did she really want this? How much was it about proving herself to Tom Khalil that he couldn't just wreck her heart and her job prospects - like he thought he had?

  An idea began to form in her head. I'll see this through - to prove I can. To him, to myself, and to everyone. But then maybe I will make a change…

  "Hey, penny for your thoughts." Turner was looking at her with amusement, and she realised she had been pondering in silence for some moments. "Or maybe a quid. Inflation and all that."

  "My thoughts aren't worth that much," she said, and he smiled at her weak joke. It was enough to make her smile back. "Sorry. There's a lot going on right now."

  She half-wanted him to ask about it, so she could refuse to answer, and seem all mysterious and complicated. But he didn't. Tactfully and infuriatingly, he changed subject completely.

  "So, ever wondered what would lead you to robbing a bank or a post office?"

  She spluttered into her coffee, and looked around, suddenly fearing eavesdroppers. "No, actually."

  "Oh come on. We all have, surely?"

  "No!" She set her mouth in a tight line, but she could feel a smile trying to escape. "Well, only in the abstract. You know. Like, how would I do it if I were going to? I see stuff in the news sometimes, and I think, if I were that burglar or whatever, I'd be so much better."

  Turner laughed. "Hell yeah, I got that all the time in prison. Guys would tell me about what they'd done, and I'd be amazed how stupid they were. And the stuff they'd believe, too. You know, I met a guy who claimed that his name was false or something because the state always wrote it in capitals, so it didn't actually apply to him."

  "Straw man, fictitious entities, all that. It's a conspiracy thing that started in America."

  "It exists? You've heard of it? Fuck. I thought it was just him, spouting bollocks. Really, there's more than one out there?"

  "Yeah, there's a whole movement. I came across them when I was covering some new-age-hippy-traveller sorts. Some of them were really nice but… yeah, you're right. Spouting bollocks."

  "No shit." Gradually his grin faded, and his face went blanker. "So, then. What would lead you to commit some massive crime?"

  She saw that he was genuinely interested in an answer and she wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, letting the heat gnaw her fingers. "I don't know. I'm kinda talking as I think here… perhaps not money. I've been hard up. I've been, well, almost desperate and I've always found a way, whether it's been temping or selling half my clothes on eBay or whatever. Maybe that means I've never been desperate enough… But still, I like to think that money wouldn't make me steal or rob."

  "Does it depend who or what the money is for?"

  "Oh, yeah, well, if we're getting all theoretical, then sure. Would I steal to be able to feed seventeen starving children? Of course I would."

  "Your own?"

  "I don't have any kids."

  "But if you did?"

  "I would, then. Or anyone else's, actually. If you see someone in proper distress…. Yeah, you do what you need to do. Don't you?"

  "Don't I?" Turner challenged her.

  "It was a rhetorical question, I didn't-"

  "No, I understand. But do I do what I need to do? Did I do what I needed to do?" Turner looked up and fixed Emily with a stare that seemed to pin her to the chair, his colour-shifting eyes now dark brown, with just flecks of orange at the edges. The joking man had gone, replaced by this man of unknown menace. She was acutely aware of his past - or at least, the shapes of his past. The details were clouded by threat. Did she really want to know? What if he were some unspeakable monster?

  She didn't want him to turn out to be hateable. Her stomach flipped. Oh no. Don't. Don't fall for this man. This is danger.

  He was oblivious to her ruminations. "I told you how I struggled to get work once I'd been discharged from the Army, but that's not the whole story. I did some labouring, some odd-job work, some cash-in-hand stuff. I know enough people in the North-West to keep myself busy, but the money was small stuff. I'd saved a ton in the Army but it was all in one of those high-interest accounts that you can't touch for years. I'd started the process of getting at it, to buy a house. But months before it was released to me, something… happened."

  She nodded, gripped by his tale. She didn't want to say anything at all that might stem his flow.

  He was frowning, his dark brows drawn tight. "Someone happened, perhaps I should say. When I was in Afghanistan, my sister Elaine was in a relationship with an absolute cu- cocksplash of a man. I swear. A vile little Manc smackrat. And he got her pregnant."

  Emily bit back the observation that it took two to make babies, not one. It wasn't the time for that. Her cup was empty now, but she hung on to the smooth china anyway. Turner was working himself into an angry state as he continued.

  "So, I get back and he's running around like the biggest dog in town, leaving her at home with twin boys. He's putting it about, playing away, making a fool of her. I can't stand that. I tell her to throw him out. And she does, bless her, and then what? She's my sister and now she's on her own with two kids and no money, and he's not for paying any maintenance."

  His fists were clenched and Emily caught sight of the scars on his knuckles. He caught her looking, and deliberately relaxed his hands, drawing in a deep breath. "Okay. Thing is, I didn't know how much of a twat this man was. Not then. He said he had no cash and I believed him, like a fool. There are my nephews, struggling. They want things that all kids want. My mum… so, I had to earn more than I was getting. So when he says he's got work for me… yeah, yeah. I didn't ask too many questions, did I?"

  Emily nodded again. She knew that feeling. Sometimes you didn't want to ask because you didn't want to hear confirmation of what you suspected. It was easier to kid yourself when you could pretend you didn't know.

  Much like this whole conversation, she thought, unwilling and yet desperate to hear all the details.

  Turner shrugged but kept his hands flat on the table, and spoke in slow, thoughtful tones, as if trying to put his anger back inside his body. "And that was my first crime, as a getaway driver, and I got a fat stack of cash for it, which kind of made it all right. For a while. I gave it to Elaine and thought that made it okay."

  "I can see that side of things," Emily said, trying to appease him.

  He dismissed her platitude. "It was wrong and no amount of hindsight and morals and rethinking is going to make it right, because I know what I did and I know what I suspected and I chose not to think too hard about it. So, doubly wrong. I wasn't just a criminal, I was a dishonest one. But that changed."

  "To an honest one?"

  "Yeah, at least, to one that didn't lie about what sort of sc
um I'd become, yeah."

  "You're not…." She couldn't finish the sentence, and blushed, looking down. Fuck. Shut up.

  Her stumbling almost-compliment made his face relax into a wolfish grin once more, and the tension started to ease. "Let's get another drink." He looked around for the waitress but she was just inside the door, flirting with some grey-suited corporate types. "One moment. Same again?"

  Emily nodded, and held her breath until he disappeared into the gloom of the café. Once alone, she could give herself a damn good talking to. Top of the list of warnings was do not fall for this man. He might be good fantasy-fodder but don't even hint to him that you know he's hot.

  Falling for the subject of an article was how it had all gone so wrong before. More than once, in fact, and she was getting far too old to just stumble through the same old mistakes. Tom Khalil had been the last in a string of dodgy decisions, but he had been the worst. He'd played her for a fool and made off with more than her pride. He'd made off with her professional credibility.

  Oh, and all her research on a big story, which made him a fat stack of cash, a number of television interviews, and suddenly he was the go-to spokesperson on a range of social topics.

  But Turner Black wasn't Tom Khalil.

  No. He is a criminal and he is a subject and he is a bit too cocky.

  All of those things were just part of the appeal.

  Dammit.

  She craned her head, shuffling forward in the seat, and could see him by the counter, laughing. The waitress was laughing back, standing just that little too close to him. And he's a player.

  She reminded herself of her objectives. Get a story, get paid, move her career into new pastures.

  And other aims, too. Go and visit Kayleigh, for a start. That would be nice. She missed her old friend. Then, find decent men to date. Join an agency and do it seriously. Start planning for the future. Normal stuff. Easy stuff that everyone else managed without a hitch.