It was. Ludo could sympathize, but he also thought that his boss would wrap him up neat, yeah, in a fucking shroud, if he ballsed this up. Nipper might be contented with near enough, that’ll do, but Ludo never was. Not that he thought there was any chance they’d find Belle Barton, not now. Girl was dead in a ditch somewhere, she’d carked it, the poor cow. Pretty soon her body was going to honk and then someone was going to find it. No doubt about that. But he’d keep this up for as long as Harlan wanted him to.

‘Yeah, that’s the truth, boss. I like things wrapped up tight.’

‘Then go to it.’

Harlan slapped the phone down and Ludo hung up. ‘Shit,’ he said.

‘Won’t stop?’ guessed Nipper.

‘Got it in one. Pass me the room service menu, man. I need food. Must be all this fresh air.’

‘They don’t do room service. We have to go down to the bar.’

Ludo rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck me,’ he said in annoyance. ‘Man, one way or another we got to get this thing done. Find a dead body or find the girl still breathing. Either one, I don’t give a shit. Or I am going to have to scout out some better accommodation as a matter of urgency.’

127

Next time Jack went swimming, he paused at the door, towel over his shoulder as usual.

‘Coming?’ he asked her as she sat at the kitchen table, Trix at her feet.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, the offer’s there.’

‘No. Thanks.’

When he’d gone, she mentally kicked herself. She was being a coward, and cowardice just wasn’t in her nature. Or it hadn’t been, before Harlan had thrown her into a tank full of caimans. She’d always been bold Belle, seizing every challenge. But now the thought of getting into water – any water – seriously scared her. Brought back too many awful memories. Made her think of the pain, the scars . . .

Oh Christ the scars.

She was stronger now. Fitter. Jack didn’t have to mock her over the hay bales any more; she could lift them.

Her leg had more or less healed now, though there was a line of crusted tooth marks all up her calf to show for the experience. They reminded her of people who’d suffered shark attacks, who sported forever after a pale crescent moon of tooth marks. But worse, far worse, was her face. She spent long minutes every day staring at her reflection in the reinstated bathroom mirror, or at the dressing table mirrors that Jack had put back up.

She would never be the same again. Now even her name felt like a mockery. Belle meant beautiful, didn’t it. Which she wasn’t. All her previous self-confidence was shot to hell.

She wasn’t Belle, not any more.

Scarface.