Page 79 of Everything That Kills Me
“Has there been an update yet?” Zeph asked.
“They know the dead guy is a Russian national,” Paulo said. “He came a roundabout route to the UK to see his daughter. She’s at King’s College. No suspects.”
“They’ve identified the Russian,” Martin said. “Sergei Golonov. He was suspected of poisoning a US senator several years ago.”
“Wow.” Zeph widened his eyes.
He almost told them Jack had been staying in the same hotel. He needed to be careful.
Martin and Paulo drove home that afternoon, their car packed with Zeph’s belongings. He’d kept back a medium-sized blue holdall with all he’d need for the holiday. Anything that was left, that he didn’t want to take, he’d have to throw away or stuff into a corner of Jack’s car.
His room looked sad and Zeph didn’t want to spend time there. So he went to see if Richard needed any help and he did.Richard was disappointed Zeph wasn’t going to be around after the weekend but having him work for two solid days cheered him up. Zeph too. But all he was thinking about was Jack’s return.
Twenty
Jack walked from Aversham station to one of Thomas’s many safe houses and still took countersurveillance measures because they were ingrained into him. No one else had got off the train, but it was possible Thomas’s house was being watched, so Jack detoured via a public footpath, crossed private land and finally climbed over a fence at the rear of the property.
He thought he could guess Thomas’s response to what he was going to tell him. But it made no difference. Jack was taking Zeph on holiday.
The back door opened when he tried the handle and he realised Thomas had seen him coming. As Jack went into the kitchen, Thomas shouted, “Wipe your feet. Your shoes are covered in mud.”
Jack looked down, smiled and took them off. “Want a drink?” he called.
“I’ll have a coffee.”
When Jack heard the bark, he almost dropped the coffee pot.What the hell?
He started the machine before he went into the lounge. On the floor by Thomas’s feet was a medium-sized, grey and white dog. The moment he saw Jack, he ran towards him wagging his tail. It wasn’t a breed Jack recognised. He bent down and stroked him.
“Name?” Jack asked.
“Django.”
“What is it?”
“A dog.”
“Ha!” All the time he’d lived with Thomas, he’d refused to get a dog. “Some alien breed?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Jack went back to get the coffees and Django stuck to his heels. He followed him back when he returned to Thomas.
“Where’s he come from?” Jack asked.
“A sack.”
Jack sighed.
“Some sick bastard had tied three puppies in a sack and thrown them away. I heard barking when I was out for a run and I took them to the vet’s in the village. Two died. Django survived.”
“You always said you didn’t want a dog.”
“I know. I didn’t. But look at him.”
Django was trying to bite his tail and fell over.
“He looks intelligent,” Jack said.
