been wearing a suit.
Was she working for the casino?
Marty’s skin prickled, and he fingered the paltry fifty-euro notes in his pocket. Maybe Franco would like to hear about her.
Maybe someone should tell him.
Chapter 7
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Hunter said.
Harry bristled at his tone. She switched the phone to her other ear and yanked the satchel higher on her shoulder.
‘Haven’t you been listening?’ She crossed the street and turned left along the beach promenade. ‘I told them I wouldn’t do it.’
‘Then why are you still talking with them?’
‘They want to give me more details, no strings attached. Look, I’m curious, I admit it. But it doesn’t mean I’ll go along with it.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Would it really be so bad if I did? It’s just an in-and-out job. I find out why they want a hacker, then I leave.’
Harry knew she was being contrary; an instinctive buck against his assumption that he had some kind of say.
‘Who’s in charge over there?’ he said.
‘I’m mostly dealing with a Detective Zubiri, but his boss is a guy called Vasco.’
‘That prick. What the hell does he know about undercover operations?’
Harry blinked. ‘Vasco? You know him?’
‘He phoned a couple of days ago, asked a lot of questions. Sounded like a puffed-up desk-jockey to me.’
Harry recalled Vasco’s slick self-importance, and privately she had to agree. She peeked at her watch, then quickened her pace, her shoes scratching against the grit of sand on the pavement. To her left, the grand façades of apartments and hotels lined the shell-shaped coast. To her right, the waves thwacked in a fizz of foam against the sand.
‘Look, it’s a paying job.’ Harry clutched the lapels of her jacket to stop them flapping in the wind. ‘A consultancy gig with the police. You’re always saying I should work more on the side of the angels.’
She heard him exhale a controlled breath, and pictured him massaging tired, hazel eyes. She chewed her bottom lip, regretting her contrariness. Just once, it’d be nice to have a conversation where they didn’t butt heads.
They’d met a few months earlier when one of Harry’s clients had framed her as a suspect in a murder. Hunter had been the lead detective on the case, and right from the get-go, he’d pegged her as a liar, though eventually she’d cleared her name. Well, more or less.
Afterwards, Hunter had seemed to reassess her. He’d vouched for her with the Garda Tech Bureau in Dublin, who’d since hired her twice as a computer forensics consultant. She’d worked alongside Hunter on one occasion, but in spite of the plug he’d given her, she could tell some of his wariness lingered. They’d met for lunch a couple of times, had even gone to dinner when they’d both been working late. But so far, one thing hadn’t led to another, and Harry had to admit she was probably to blame. Then again, he had complications of his own to sort through.
‘So who are these casino cheaters?’ Hunter’s voice was taut, spiked with the kind of crankiness that comes from lack of sleep.
Harry shrugged. ‘I only know a couple of names. Franco Chavez, he seems to be the ringleader. The hacker was from Belfast with paramilitary connections, a guy called Stephen McArdle.’
‘I’ll check them out, see what I can dig up.’
Harry paused, her pace slackening. ‘There’s no need. Really, I can handle it.’
Silence thickened the airspace between them. She closed her eyes briefly.
Dammit.
The line between interference and support was a fine one, and she’d be the first to admit she had trouble telling the difference. In her defence, she’d learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself. That was the natural fallout when your father was absent and your mother was indifferent all your life. On the upside, it saved on disappointments, but she’d noticed other people found her independence hard to take. She’d yet to decide if that was their problem or hers.
She cleared her throat. ‘Look—’
‘I get it. You don’t need anything. Just let me know how it works out.’
The line went dead. Harry glared at the phone and, for a moment, considered calling him back. Then she sighed and slipped the handset into her pocket. The conversation had already stalled and crashed. Salvaging the wreckage didn’t seem too appealing right now.
She tugged her jacket tighter across her chest. The air was damp and salty, the water a leaden-grey. She’d heard that the Basque country got as much rain as the west of Ireland. Next time, she’d take her cue from the locals and carry an umbrella.
Her phone buzzed against her hip. She whipped it out to check the caller ID: her sister, Amaranta. Mentally, Harry poked a tongue out at herself for hoping it might be Hunter, then debated whether to take the call. Amaranta specialized in big-sister guilt trips, and Harry wasn’t in the mood for one right now. She cursed and put the phone to her ear.
‘Amaranta?’
‘At last. I was about to hang up.’
Harry rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. She pictured her sister: ash-blonde and elegant, just like their mother. Harry was the one who’d inherited the dark Martinez looks, but it was Amaranta who’d got the exotic Spanish name. By the time Harry was born, her mother had tired of all things Spanish and had christened her Henrietta, after her own mother. It was her father who’d rescued her and shortened the name to Harry.
Amaranta huffed into the silence, then quickly got to the point. ‘You know that Mum’s in a complete state because you’re in San Sebastián?’
Harry squinted into the phone. ‘Why would she care where I am? And how does she even know? We haven’t spoken in over a month.’
‘Exactly. Don’t you think you should call her?’
‘No.’
Harry let that one sit. She knew it sounded truculent, but had no intention of being drawn into explanations. Her relationship with her mother was like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Their exchanges usually ended on a sour note, and Harry often broke contact for weeks at a time to give them both a chance to recover. Eventually Harry would go back, peeling off whatever scab had managed to form and exposing herself to another injury. Never once had her mother initiated a reconciliation. Harry suspected she was secretly relieved by her daughter’s occasional absences.
‘You’re being childish,’ Amaranta said eventually.
‘Not really. We both know she doesn’t like me, so why pretend?’
‘That’s putting it way too strongly, and you know it.’
‘Just because she’s different with you doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’
‘You were Dad’s favourite and I never objected.’
‘Well, maybe you should have.’
Harry bit her lip, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Waves crashed like thunder-claps into the silence, and even Amaranta didn’t rush to fill it this time.
Their family had always been split into two teams: Amaranta and their mother versus Harry and their father. It was something she and Amaranta had accepted many years before, and it had brokered a sort of truce between them. Sure, they still bickered, but sibling rivalry was never the cause. The truth was, the family pairings had suited them. For Harry’s part, she’d stopped craving her mother’s affection so badly. Her father had become her safe haven and proved that her mother might