Newton’s Fire. Will Adams

they? Not on top of everything else. She parked and hurried across. ‘What is it?’ she asked the policeman. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘Do you live here, ma’am?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes. Why?’

      The front door opened and three men came out; plain-clothes officers, presumably. They looked big and purposeful and more than a little mean.

      ‘This young lady lives here,’ the policeman told them.

      The eldest of the three was blond-headed, about forty, wearing an expensive pale-grey suit. When he looked at her, he gave a little double blink that she found strangely unnerving. ‘Rachel Parkes?’ he asked, coming towards her.

      ‘That’s right. Why? Who are you? What’s going on? Has there been a break-in?’

      ‘No. Nothing like that.’ He nodded at her front door. ‘Perhaps we could talk inside.’

      Something about him and his companions gave her the creeps. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with them. ‘What’s wrong with out here?’ she asked.

      ‘Very well.’ He touched her shoulder to turn her away from the policeman, then adopted the falsely sombre expression of one about to deliver tragic news.

      Her heart plunged. Bren had done it, the thing she’d feared he’d do, too proud to be a burden. ‘My brother,’ she said.

      The man shook his head. ‘Your aunt. Penelope Martyn.’

      The relief was dizzying; she had to put a hand on the railing to steady herself. Then came a strange mix of grief and guilt and puzzlement. ‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘But why tell me? I’m not her next of kin.’

      ‘There was a fire,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe it was set deliberately. Do you know a young man called Luke Hayward?’

      ‘Luke Hayward?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Why? Was it him?’

      ‘Let’s just say his name rang some rather loud bells. Let’s just say we’re very keen to talk to him. Which is where you come in.’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘You’ll appreciate I can’t tell you too much. This is an active murder investigation. But have you checked your email recently?’

      The question took her by surprise. ‘No. Why?’

      ‘Your aunt sent you a message just before she died. It may be nothing. It may be everything. If so …’ He spread his hands to indicate how self-evidently valuable it could prove, then beckoned to one of his companions, a man with gold earrings, glossy black hair and a trimmed black beard. He stepped forwards and opened up a laptop for her, like a waiter with a humidor.

      ‘You want me to check? Out here?’

      ‘I did suggest we go inside.’

      ‘Do you guys have ID?’

      The man shook his head. ‘We were off duty when the call came in. All hands to the pump.’

      ‘Leave me your details. I’ll forward you the email if I find it.’

      ‘This is a murder enquiry,’ he said. ‘Your aunt’s killer might be getting away right now.’

      Rachel sighed and turned to the policeman. ‘And you vouch for this, do you?’

      He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘I don’t know the specifics, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But these gentlemen are with the security services, yes; and my orders certainly came down from on high.’

      It wasn’t the most fortunate choice of words. Rachel’s brother had been sentenced to life in a wheelchair because of orders handed down from on high. Anger cleared her mind and gave her courage. She turned back to blond-hair. ‘What were you doing inside my house?’ she asked.

      That double blink again. It gave him away. ‘I beg your pardon.’

      ‘You heard me. Why were you inside my house if it’s an email you’re after? Were you going through my things?’

      ‘This is a time-sensitive investigation,’ he said. ‘Your aunt’s killer is on the loose. Are you trying to help him?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Then just log in, will you?’

      ‘Like hell I will!’

      She span on her heel, squeezed between two parked cars, hurried back across the road, fishing out her car keys as she went. The man called out for her to stop but she ignored him. Something thumped into the small of her back and her whole body jolted. She fell into the road, her limbs twitching, her muscles drained and feeble, saliva leaking from her mouth to form a small pool on the sunlit black tarmac. Polished shoes arrived beside her face. The man crouched to grab her collar. He hauled her to her feet then pressed the nodes of his taser against her throat. Though still dazed, it occurred to Rachel how bizarre this all was, being assaulted so brazenly while a policeman just stood there and let them.

      The waiter held out his humidor once more. She didn’t want to submit, but she was scared and alone and she found herself complying. Her hands kept breaking into spasms so that she had to type with a single finger. She entered her username, was almost through her password when an engine roared in the street behind and a horn tooted loudly and she turned in bewilderment to see a red BMW hurtling with lethal speed towards their little group.

      TEN

      I

      Avram crossed the Jaffa Road and was instantly in a different world, the ultra-Orthodox black uniforms of Mea Shearim replaced by the garish shorts and T-shirts of Ben Yahuda. He bought a card at a kiosk, found a payphone, dialled one of the several numbers he’d taken the trouble to memorize. ‘It’s me,’ he said, when Danel picked up.

      ‘It’s happening, then,’ said Danel. Half statement, half question.

      ‘Bring everyone you can trust,’ Avram told him. ‘Netanya, tomorrow afternoon. Same place, same time.’

      ‘It is,’ said Danel. ‘It’s really happening.’

      ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ He finished the call, walked briskly to another bank of phones. ‘I need the truck,’ he said, when Ephraim answered.

      ‘When?’

      ‘This afternoon. Tonight.’

      ‘I sold the last one,’ said Ephraim. ‘I’ve got a new one. It’s dark blue and a little bigger. But shabby. I was going to repaint it this week.’

      ‘Shabby is fine. As long as it runs.’

      ‘It runs beautifully. I’ll leave it for you now.’

      Avram moved on again for his third call. An abrasively cheerful young American woman answered. When he asked for Francis, she told him to hold, then went away singing a spiritual. Her voice faded and the minutes passed, so that Avram began to fear he’d been cut off. But then suddenly a man came on. ‘This is Francis. Who are you?’

      ‘You know who.’

      ‘Oh.’ Silence stretched out. ‘What do you want?’

      Avram lowered his voice, less from the fear of being overheard than from shame. ‘I need a cow,’ he said.

      ‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Francis.

      ‘I need her by seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

      Francis laughed. ‘That’s not possible. You know it isn’t. Not perfect. Not three years old.’

      ‘You told me once that you didn’t believe the nine previous heifers