IT WAS CLEAR that Killian – Bernie had found out his name from Michael Forsythe – was not going to call the police over the incident at the farmhouse. It wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest to get Mr Coulter mixed up in that, so clearly they were going to let the cops believe it was a robbery gone wrong or some such thing.In a way he should be thankful to Killian for that.He also should be thankful for the fact that his plays were so obvious.Bush league stuff from twenty years ago.His scheme had failed almost from the outset.Markov had checked out of his hotel and gone to his car at six-thirty in the morning. He’d known as soon as he turned the key in the ignition that it had been sabotaged. He’d checked the exhaust pipe for obstructions and after an engine inspection he’d found the cut spark plugs in about twenty seconds.What was more the skinny red-haired kid who was hanging around the parking lot and looking at him was transparently something to do with it.He’d walked over to the kid and pointed the .45 ACP at his forehead and without even asking a question the whole thing had spilled.Markov had tried not to yawn during the kid’s story:Private detective/stolen car/wait for you/spy on you/call him when you left.The kid would have turned even without a financial incentive but Markov gave him two hundred pounds sterling anyway.“Come with me,”
