If I Never See You Again Read Free

conviction rate, and now it appeared that he was sabotaging her contingency plan. She’d been signing up for every course going to keep as far away from him as possible. She’d hoped that by acquiring a new set of skills she could fast-track her transfer to some independent republic away from Dan and his cronies’ sphere of influence – somewhere like the Garda National Drugs Unit (GNDU), or the Criminal Assets Bureau (CAB). But now it seemed that Dan was determined to interfere even with that. ‘That’s bloody well it, I’m going to kill him!’ she said.
Foxy spread his hands to indicate that it was nothing to do with him. He was built like a jockey – wiry, with a head that looked too big for his body. He opened his mouth to say something – but Jo’s eyes had moved to the apartment door to his right. She took a couple of steps past him, and ran her hand down its length.
    ‘Looks like we’ve got a breaking and entering on our hands,’ she said, pointing to the forced handle and scuff marks at the base of the door.
    ‘This building is uninhabited,’ Foxy answered, eyes worried. ‘It’s the only way the insurance would cover today’s training.’
    Jo pulled her hand inside her sleeve then pressed the handle down. She took a deep breath when the door gave way.
    ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll get assistance,’ Foxy said, glancing across the empty balcony and heading for the stairwell.
    But Jo was already inside and patting the wall for a light switch. ‘Anyone home?’ she called. She gasped and tugged her multicoloured Dr Who scarf over her nose, wincing at the bad smell. It was musty and invasive, like burning Bakelite. The heating was overpowering, and something else about the place she couldn’t put her finger on was making goose bumps break out on her skin . . .
She jumped as Foxy, who’d doubled back rather than leave her alone, stifled a cough behind her. He had buried his face into the crook of his arm. ‘Jesus, what’s that stink?’ he asked. ‘Christ, it’s rotten. You don’t think somebody’s popped their clogs in here, do you?’
    Jo was on the move, surveying the small sitting room-cum-kitchenette. There were two doors to her right, one on the left, behind the kitchen area. No pictures hung on the walls; there were no personal effects, just a few bits of sparse, mismatched furniture on the laminate floor in need of a mop. She made her way over to a smudged, glass-topped coffee table, licked her little finger and dipped it into a line of untouched Charlie, then tasted.
    Foxy whispered, ‘Hey, have you forgotten everything I taught you? That stuff could contain anything – strychnine, for starters.’
    Jo mouthed a silent whistle. She didn’t have to worry about rat poison. The cocaine was uncut. This place was higher up the food chain than first impressions had suggested.
    She registered the background sound that had been putting her on edge. Bluebottles had only ever meant one thing in her experience. We’re too late , she thought.
    She turned right and took the first door. It opened into the bathroom and it was empty. There were towels on the floor. She reached down. Bone dry.
    She tried the second door: a single room with different outfits laid out on the unmade bed. A nurse’s outfit; a leather jumpsuit and whip; a school uniform. It looks like a prostitution racket being operated from a vacated flat, she thought. All tastes catered for . . .
Backing out, she crossed the main living space to the third and last door, on the opposite wall, stalling briefly before flinging it open. The new and strongest smell hit her like she’d just walked into a butcher’s shop.
    ‘Foxy, in here, now,’ she commanded. Shaking her head, she rooted around her bag for her small black hard-bound notebook. There was so much crap in the way – lip gloss, tampons, loose change, bloody nappy-rash cream. Her hand was shaking when she finally plucked the pad free and snapped the elastic off. She