The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

her heart thumping. It could only be David. She stood uncertainly for a moment, then decided to let it ring out. Finally, she took a hammer and chisel from the toolbox under the sink and carried them up to the attic. Balancing the torch on a nearby box, she directed the beam on to the padlock and set about trying to break the lock. She quickly realized that wasn’t going to work, and turned to the clasp on the trunk itself, gouging with the chisel at the wood behind it. It took ten minutes of hacking and splintering before finally it broke free. Then she paused, breathless, almost afraid now to open it. With trembling hands she took the torch and lifted the lid on the past she thought had been buried with her mother.

A couple of layers of dry brown paper covered the contents. She tore them away, revealing again those things she had seen as a child. The pile of old photo albums, the jewellery box, an old rusted deed box, a shoebox filled with loose photographs – her mother as a child on holiday with her parents somewhere. A beach, an old-fashioned guest house, faces Lisa had never seen. Faces of people long dead. A fox terrier being cuddled lovingly by a small girl with hair tied back in ribbons. She put the box down, and lifted out a bundle of old, faded newspapers, which she laid aside without a second glance.

Then she took out the first of the albums, her mouth dry as she opened it. A confusion of more strange faces looked back at her. People standing in awkward groups grinning at the camera. Men in ill-fitting morning suits hired for the day. Her mother in white, smiling, almost beautiful. Lisa hardly dared look at the face of the man standing proudly beside her. A young, shy face, smiling nervously. A tall man with short dark hair, leaning slightly to one side, awkwardly holding the hand of his bride. Lisa’s father.

She suffered a feeling of anticlimax. And, yet, what had she expected? He was in army dress uniform, a very ordinary-looking man. She noticed several more uniforms among the guests as she flicked through the pages. Bride and groom cutting the cake. Then a full-sized close-up of the happy couple, arms linked, each with a glass of champagne. She examined her father more closely. He looked no more than twenty or twenty-one. There was something, she thought now, familiar about the face. Something about the eyes. Piercing, looking straight into hers. Then, quite suddenly, she felt every hair on the back of her neck stand up, her scalp tightening, the shock of it bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. Staring back at her, in the yellow light of the torch, was the face of the man she’d seen standing under the trees in the churchyard. A tear splashed on to the page. Her whisper filled the dark. ‘He’s alive!’

*

Four hundred miles away in a small, darkened room on the top floor of a building off the Falls Road in Belfast, Elliot’s face was drawn from a large beige envelope. The face was older than in the wedding photographs, and had by now acquired its distinctive scar. The photograph was placed in the centre of a bare wooden table. There were three men seated around it. The man who had taken the print from the envelope turned it through ninety degrees in order that the others could see it clearly.

‘John Alexander Elliot.’ He spoke with a thick Belfast brogue. ‘Ex-British army. Now freelancing. He killed McAlliskey. And O’Neil.’ He paused. ‘We want him dead.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Elliot pulled up his collar against the cold London night and turned into Dean Street. He found the Korean restaurant halfway up on the right. A pretty oriental girl in a long black skirt approached as he entered. ‘A table for one?’

‘I’m meeting someone. Mr Ang Yuon. He booked the table.’

‘Thank you very much. He is waiting for you.’ She took his coat. ‘You follow me, please.’ She led him through the bamboo and ricepaper partitions to a black, lacquered table in a discreet corner at the rear of the restaurant.

Ang Yuon rose to greet him. He was a small dapper man, black hair streaked with grey. His face was pale, cheeks peppered by ugly pockmarks, but remarkably unlined. Elliot thought him about forty, though he looked younger. Fine slender hands. Manicured nails. He smiled, but only with his mouth. The eyes remained dark and impenetrable. Elliot thought he detected in them a deep sadness. ‘Mistah Elliot. I am happy you could come.’ The trace of an American accent. His handshake was clammy.

Elliot nodded. ‘Mr Yuon.’

‘No.’ He smiled again. ‘Mistah Ang. In Cambodia first name is last, last name is first. Please sit.’ Elliot felt uncomfortable about this encounter. The call had come from his usual contact, but the circumstances of the meeting were unusual.

‘You know Korean food?’ Elliot shook his head. ‘Shall I order?’

‘Sure.’

Ang waved the waitress over and ordered something called boolkogi with steamed rice, and yachi bokum. Then he smiled again at Elliot. ‘You are very ruthless man, Mistah Elliot.’

Elliot remained impassive. ‘Is that so?’

‘Oh, I know all about you. Shall I tell you?’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Ang shrugged. ‘You know nothing of me.’

Elliot clasped his hands under his chin. ‘You’re a wealthy Cambodian, Mr Ang – politician or businessman. Probably corrupt. You’re about forty, and you’ve never done a day’s physical labour in your life.’

Ang raised an eyebrow. ‘And how would you know that?’

‘That you’ve never worked the paddy fields? Your hands, Mr Ang. Hands tell you a lot about a man.’

Ang glanced at his hands then looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Corrupt?’

‘Nobody ever got wealthy in Cambodia without being corrupt. And I’d say you probably did well out of the Americans.’

Ang’s expression hardened. ‘There are worse things than corruption – or Americans.’

Elliot said evenly, ‘The Khmer Rouge would never have taken