Page 34 of Undercover Star
Four hours later, Joshwas back on the phone. He'd been watching a group of teenagers scamper down towards the water's edge when Matisse's voice drew him from his abstraction.
"Therehe is." Matisse sounded oddly gleeful as Josh's head whipped around to contemplate a short, stocky figure with sandy hair.
"You sure?" The man didn't look as if he'd reach much above Josh's shoulder were they standing side by side. "He doesn't look tall enough."
"You only saw him on the stairs," Matisse reminded, voice confident. "He was shorter than I am. I remember the way he moves. That rocking motion he has? Any decent dance coach would beat that out of him in a jiffy, but it's a damned giveaway."
While they watched, the man crossed the road to an older Toyota Corolla, opened the back door, and tossed his duffel bag inside. Then he climbed into the driver's seat.
"What now?"
Josh had grabbed the newspapers and the remains of their breakfast and lunch from the dash, and fastened his seat belt. "We follow him. I keep eyes on him, you drive. Try to keep at least a car between us and him."
Matisse hadn't argued. He turned the key, listened for all of five seconds as the diesel came to life, and then pulled out into traffic, two cars behind the blue Toyota.
"He's definitely local," Matisse declared when the car turned off the M74 and started to use smaller roads and little-known rat runs as traffic grew heavy.
"We've left Castle Douglas." Josh checked in with McKinnoch.
"Can you keep up? I take it you're not driving anything official?"
"No, we're not. We're okay so far, but he's got to start noticing us. There's fuck all out here and now we're past Glasgow there's not a lot of traffic."
"Hey." Matisse's glare was white hot. "Don't disparage Galloway. It's fine just as it is."
"It seems you have the company of a Scotsman."
"So I have. He's the one doing the driving. I'd have long gotten lost." McKinnoch laughed, while, in front of them, their suspect turned left. "He's heading to Kirkcudbright."
"Where?"
Josh stared at the map in confusion, and Matisse grabbed the phone from him. "He's got no clue," he said into the handset. "Kirkcudbright." The way Matisse pronounced the word bore no resemblance to what was written on the map.
"Shit. Tide's in," Matisse said after a single glance at the bay. "And he's got a boat waiting."
"What do—"
"Look." He pointed to a small craft as if Josh were a three-year-old. "Harbour. Boat. He's going to catch a ride out of here."
"Thank you, Rock Star. I got it." Josh wanted to curse fate, but he still had McKinnoch on the line and no idea what to do next. Beside him, Matisse put the car in park, and opened his door.
"You coming or what?"
"What?" Josh struggled to process Matisse's sudden burst of speed. Maybe his sleep deficit was finally catching up. Or maybe Matisse had a solution that hadn't even occurred to Josh. "What are you saying?"
Matisse leaned back into the car on a wave of brine and chill air. "You want to keep an eye on the thief. Right? So you can lead your colleagues to him?"
"Yeah."
"Can you swim?"
"What?"
"It's an easy enough question. Can. You. Swim?"
"Of course I can swim."
"Excellent. Then follow me." Matisse turned and raced down the quay to a section where boats lay moored while Josh yelled the details of their plan into his phone. At the end of the pier, Matisse jumped into a boat. "Come on. Don't dawdle."
