Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

that where Marc’s cash withdrawals went? Into Luke’s bulging pockets?

I brief Rob on Jason Harper and Art Walker. ‘There’s a connection there, I’m sure. He’s known as JJ Harper.’ I tell him about the guy and dubious exchange I witnessed at Art’s gym. ‘We have to find Luke. I saw him getting into a black cab up on Balham High Street earlier. He’s taken his passport. My guess is he’s trying to get out of the country.’

‘Leave it with me. I’m right on it. I’ll give Arthur the heads-up.’

‘We need to tread carefully here. I’ve been doing some snooping.’

‘Gotcha.’

I return inside, unsure of what to do. I don’t want to leave Sasha, but she needs time to absorb the misery the evening’s events have inflicted. I pop my head around the office door. She is sitting at the desk, staring at the wall. ‘I’m in the kitchen if you need me,’ I say, softly. She waves a hand in the air. ‘Go home, Eva. I want to be alone.’

Looking at her, my mind is made up. ‘I can’t leave you like this. We need to talk about what’s going on here.’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. We’re going to pretend we never saw that obscenity.’

Denial. A stage she needs to endure before anger takes the spotlight.

I leave her to it and go to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, I dig out the shreds of florescent green and orange Post-it notes I found in Luke’s bin earlier. Each is torn into tiny pieces. Starting with the green, I line up the top edge, guided by the sticky, straight line, and work from there, slowly piecing them back together. Grease from the crisp packet smears some of the details.

It takes about ten minutes for numbers and three-letter mnemonics to take shape:

104 HIL,113 RAD, 79 REN, 169 SOF 5*

Leaning forward, I stare intently, trying to figure out their meaning. Several minutes pass before I crack the code. Grabbing my phone, I google hotels in close proximity to Gatwick airport but don’t have any luck. I swap Gatwick for Heathrow and scan the page. The price of a room for a night at the Hilton hotel displays at £104. I scroll down to see a price of £113 for the Radisson, and finally see the figure of £169.

I tap Rob’s number, but he doesn’t answer. I leave him a message. ‘Call me ASAP. I think I know where we can find Luke Walker.’

Thirty-Seven

LUKE

I consume the last prawn as the waiter arrives with the rest of my supper. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’

‘Another portion of these. And forget the chilli sauce.’

‘Was it not to your liking?’

‘Far too hot.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says, his neck twitching like a chicken. ‘I’ll bring you some more of the soy.’

I bite a chunk out of the club sandwich, then, placing it back on the plate, I carry on sorting my emails until there is only one remaining which contains my flight details. Clicking it open, I scan through, double-checking I have everything clear in my mind. My plane leaves at six in the morning. I wish I’d booked the direct flight now and taken an internal transfer to Sydney, but a two-night stopover in Singapore seemed a good idea at the time. I always have fancied drinking one of their slings.

I click on the project plan I’ve been slogging away on since Easter.

Marc shouldn’t have been so greedy. I’ll give him his due, it was his idea, and he was the one who came up with the name, Marc O’s Magic Marker, of course. He could have included me with the branding, but there you go. What gets me the most is that I’ve been the brains behind this operation. I sourced the know-how to progress the rough sketches to 3D models. I cracked the code. And I was the one who schemed up the means to finance the next stage while he was wallowing in self-pity. I’ve spent far more time on this than he has. Night after night, I’ve burned the midnight oil until dawn. But I’m a generous kind of guy. I saw it as a team effort. Shame he didn’t share my opinion.

Shame. Shame. Shame.

What has he done since he was made redundant? Jack shit, that’s what, when he could have done so much more. He’s had all the time in the world to accelerate our plans but, instead, he’s left it all up to me. Every time we’ve met up, all he’s done is moan about not being able to find another job. ‘By the time we’ve got this to market, you won’t need another job,’ I kept telling him.

‘I don’t have the finances to fund taking this to market,’ he said. ‘I have a family to feed.’

I kept reminding him there would be plenty of people willing to back a project with such revolutionary potential, but he wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. His spiral down the gloomy hole of depression had spun out of control since he lost his job. He denied it with the fake smile colouring his face every day for the sake of his family. But I know the real Marc. He often opened up to me when we were working on progressing our project. I listened to him for hours and hours. The bloody mood swings started to get to me though, and he really disappointed me. Buying coke from my dad, of all the people. I was still prepared to support him, though.

Until he double-crossed me.

It was a little over three weeks ago. I was telling him to relax. ‘I’ve sourced the funds to move things forward. We need to be patient until the money comes in. It won’t be long.’

‘I’m looking for a buyer,’ he said.

‘Buyer for what?’ I asked, confused. Were Sasha and he thinking of moving?

‘The Marker. I’m broke. If I don’t do something, we’ll have to sell the house, and the kids will have to move schools in the autumn. I’m