A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

a second he looked as if he might smash it down. Instead he dumped it on the coffee table. ‘Think. A name. Something.’

‘Freddie.’ He hadn't paid that much attention. ‘Stupid name, not the slightest bit Irish. Freddie Zuss. Zustaller.’

Jackson dragged his fingers through hair, the colour drained from his face. ‘Shit, shit!’

The spectacle of his fraught boss circling the room, cursing, was almost too much for Mark’s churning stomach. He swallowed, hard, and, with burning throat, stumbled over his words. ‘Wh- what have I done?’ He had done something terrible, whether he intended to or not, and whatever it was went beyond the argument he'd had with Ellen.

‘Zustaller is an alias. The name means Deliverer in German.’

‘I haven't heard of it.’

‘You've heard of Redningsmann. A Norwegian name. It means the same thing.’

Haydocks! Everything in his life came back to that one decision. He had been sober and confident when he had made it. A different man. Idealistic, too, his morals governed by a need to distance himself from his father. He stirred from the nest of empty beer bottles and crumpled letters and slowly rose to his feet.

‘Tell me,’ he said succinctly. ‘What do you know?’

Jackson's expression was pained. ‘I didn't know for certain, not until Sophia finished up the appeal case for your father. I hoped... I hoped I was wrong. I'm sorry, Mark. The man your father murdered was an associate, a relative of Freddie Zustaller, who for years has run a trafficking ring. Zustaller sent his cousin to negotiate a deal in Manchester. Your father killed that man and in turn was arrested, probably betrayed by somebody in his own crew as a result of the aftermath. Zustaller went into hiding, but he protected his money. He gave it to Henderson. He let Haydocks manage it.’

‘No.’ Mark gasped. ‘No, God, no.’

‘If it’s Zustaller she met online, this is his revenge. He wants to punish you in the only way he knows. He will have her met by strangers and quickly drugged. They will feed her drugs until she’s addicted, then sell her to the highest bidder. She will disappear into the ghastly underbelly of our lovely civilised world and within a year she will be probably be dead.’ Jackson grabbed Mark's arm to steady him. ‘Sit. It's not too late. If she's only just gone. We can catch up with her. She must have told you where she was going.’

He blinked the tears away before they could fall. ‘We argued. She told me things about Mum and Dad I didn't know—’

‘We don't have time to go over your misgivings. An address, her mobile number?’

He choked on the laughter. The irony of an accountant who could remember reams of spreadsheets but rarely bothered with phone numbers. Why, when there were apps to do it for you!

‘I never bothered to memorise it – she mainly called me. It's listed on my phone's contacts. Except, my mobile is broken. I smashed it.’

‘You've not written it down? Backed it up? Jesus, Mark, you’re an idiot. What about your mother; would she know?’

‘No, I'm pretty sure Ellen's number comes up as private and she changes it regularly to keep Mum off her back.’ Mark sprang to his feet. ‘She wrote an address down on a piece of paper, the address in Ireland. I threw it in the bin.’ He dashed to the kitchen and emptied the contents onto the floor.

He spread out food cartons, half-eaten chips, biscuits wrappers and apple cores. The smell tortured his delicate nostrils; a warning sign of an impending assault, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He inhaled deeply through his mouth. Amongst the litter were coffee grounds and split liquids, which had blended into a brown soup. He rummaged through the detritus of his life, scattering it across the tiles.

‘It has to be here somewhere....’ He spotted the scrap of paper and fished it out. ‘No!’

Jackson snatched the note out of Mark's hand. ‘I can see the name. It is Freddie Zustaller, but the address is covered in stains.’ He held it up to the light.

‘Can you read it?’

‘No. The ink is smudged.’ Jackson sighed. ‘We'll have to try another lead. Let's hope—’

He’d given a spare key to Ellen. He had also given one to Julianna. When the key turned in the lock, he prayed it was his sister and that she had changed her mind and realised how foolish it was for her to go all the way to Ireland to do the things she loved when she could do them here, where somebody could watch over her. The door swung open. Mark, on his knees, surrounded by rubbish, held his breath.

It was Julianna. Her wet hair was matted onto her face, her cheeks flushed red, her body buried inside an oversized black leather jacket with studs down the arms. She panted, leant on her knees, struggling to catch her breath. Behind her was a thickset man in illustrated leathers carrying two motorcycle helmets. He, too, was breathing heavily and spraying raindrops.

‘Is this the brother?’ the brick-shaped man asked, pointing at Jackson.

‘No. That's my boss,’ she said.

‘Then, this is Ellen's brother.’ The biker pushed past Julianna and scrutinised Mark.

‘That's him.’

Julianna's face was flushed with the heat of exertion, but there was also a peculiar blue tinge around her lips. She looked frozen stiff, as if a coil of steel was compressed inside her, ready to explode. The man next to her matched Jackson for height. Haynes rocked back on his heels. Being in control was the essence of his authority, but since Jackson had arrived at the flat, his highhanded presence had gradually eroded. Now he stood, perplexed, and indecisive. Mark battered aside the threat of humiliating tears; this chaos was all his own fault.

The beefy man grinned from ear to ear. ‘He's sat