‘I’ll be driving,’ said Jake. Then, as an afterthought, he added: ‘Is Miss Cooper there? Could I talk to her?’
‘I’m afraid she’s out at the moment,’ said the woman.
‘Perhaps you could get her to call me when she comes in,’ asked Jake.
‘I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper left instructions she can’t receive or make phone calls,’ said the woman, and Jake noted the genuine note of apology in her voice as she said it.
Why? wondered Jake.
‘No problem,’ he said.
‘In that case, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow,’ said the woman.
Jake hung up.
In the two months since he’d been sacked from the department he’d had time on his hands, so he’d learnt to drive. It hadn’t been as hard as he’d thought. He didn’t yet have a car of his own, but he could hire one. He wondered if it would be better to hire one here in London and drive all the way to Mull, or catch a train and hire one when he got to . . . where was it the woman had said? Oban.
He’d check it out as soon as he got home, once he’d looked at the email.
L needs your help. But the woman he’d spoken to on Mull hadn’t sounded as if there was a panic situation. But who was this Miss Cooper?
He looked at the items in his trolley: food, snacks, milk, washing-up liquid. Well, I won’t be needing any of these if I’m going to be in Scotland, he thought. He dumped the trolley at the end of an aisle, and headed home. The sooner he was on his way to Mull, the better.
He was relieved to find the email from Craigmount Guest House in his inbox, with details of where the guest house was on the southern part of the island, and links to the ferry operator’s timetable of sailings. Within an hour he had his journey north arranged. By tomorrow afternoon he’d be talking to this mysterious Miss Cooper face to face.
He was packing for the trip when his phone beeped. It was a text: Don’t go to Mull.
Chapter 2
Jake stared at the text.
Don’t go to Mull.
Who’d sent it? And why? There was no clue. Whoever had texted him had made sure their own number stayed secret.
It has to be something to do with MI5, reasoned Jake. He knew his phone and his computer were kept under surveillance. That had been the case ever since Lauren had been sent to exile in New Zealand. So they would have been hacking in and learnt about Mull. There was no one else he could think of that would be bothered. It had been a long while since he’d had any contact with Pierce Randall, the dubious but wealthy international law firm, over the hidden books. And they’d already double-crossed him twice, so they were unlikely to be in contact with him. No, it had to be MI5 warning him off. But why?
He looked at the text again.
Don’t go to Mull.
Well, the hell with that, thought Jake. The woman I love needs my help; and if that means going to Mull, then there’s nothing on earth that’s going to stop me going there.
At half past eleven that night, Jake arrived at Euston station by taxi, his overnight bag packed with essentials. He didn’t know how long he’d be away for: two days or a month. It didn’t matter. There was nothing for him to stay in London for.
At this time of night, the subterranean taxi area was almost deserted, just a few late-night people trying to get home and a couple of taxis at the rank. Jake headed up the stairs towards the ground-level concourse. Two young men wearing hoodies were coming down the stairs. Jake moved to one side to let them pass, but the two men moved with him, blocking his way. At first, Jake couldn’t see their faces — their hoods were pulled well forward — but then he realised they also had scarves pulled up under their hoods so that only their eyes were visible.
Trouble! thought Jake.
Jake moved again, to the other side of the stairs, but again the two men moved with him, blocking his way.
OK, thought Jake. I either stay here and fight them, and get beaten up and robbed, and miss my train; or I do a runner.
Jake moved suddenly to his left, sliding under the metal rail that divided the up and the down stairs, and began to run. He wasn’t quick enough. Being upstairs from him, the two men had the advantage. They both darted under the handrail and leapt at Jake. Jake swung his overnight bag and hit one of them hard, sending him stumbling back. Seeing that the man was caught off-balance, Jake swung his bag again, this time thumping it with all his might against the side of the man’s head. The man fell tumbling down the stairs, with a sickening crunching sound as he bounced down from step to step.
Jake went to swing the bag back to ward off the other attacker, but he was too late; the guy was on him, the fingers of one hand digging into Jake’s throat. Jake realised with horror that he had a knife in his other hand.