Arthur hit the speed dial. Number seven (for sinners).
“Cute gag”, he thought,
“I should've been a comic”.
The phone rang, but that's all it did. If Leyland Rondel had his phone on he'd answer it, Arthur knew that for sure. So what was the gig? If Rondel was busy he'd turn it off and the blunt answer-phone message would kick in, no “please”...no “thank-you”, simply business.
“Leave a message...”
Rondel never asked, you left a message or you didn't call. Arthur tried it again. There was a long delay but it was answered.
Rondel knew he'd been hit...and hard. The champagne bottle hadn't smashed but a crack left hidden below the label allowed frenzied bubbles a hissed passage to the floor next to his head. For a moment he mistook the moisture for a spilled Red - his own - but the smell told him he'd been lucky and he wouldn't need stitches whilst he arranged for Heather's grave.
The room spun slightly and reversed back into focus, like a DJ spinning flipping the beat. He pulled his body up to the bed. Still sat on the floor, he rested his shoulder against the cushioned quilt. He wasn't in any rush, Heather wouldn't get far without raising suspicion. Even a cornered bird can hurt you, but let it fly and it'll head straight to the sky without direction.
He could hear the muffled hiss of the gas lessening inside the bottle, but a pulse from his breast pocket gradually gained his attention and the ring tone that woke his ear-drums was as good as the signal from a tracking beacon. He didn't even have to look for Heather, she'd already left a trail.
“Where is she?”
“Leyland, you didn't answer...you...always, always answer. Things got out of hand at the office did they?”
“I've not got time for your inane remarks Mister Shane. I'll say it once more, and you'll give me an answer, or I'll find her and then I'll visit you and make you as immobile as those forged Monets you can't shift.”
Arthur knew when business was business. He delighted in tormenting his former boss, but he knew he wasn't untouchable. A gift of immunity from Leyland was about as genuine as a lady with a bag of rough-cut diamonds on short notice.
“I don't know where she was heading, but she'll need to clean-up. If she goes anywhere looking like she is, she'll either get certified or arrested. Oh....and she was driving the gift you gave her. Licence plate number....”
“I KNOW THE DAMNED PLATE SHANE, I GOT HER THE PILE OF JUNK.”
“Should be easy for you to track then Mr Rondel.”
“One day you may actually be funny Mister Shane, dead funny.”