FIFTY
During their second stop at motorway services, Chaise knew someone was following them. After coffee, he and Colin strolled back to the car and Chaise, a few paces ahead, stopped without warning. As Colin collided, almost tripped and called Chaise ‘a b****y a*s’, Chaise, amongst a flurry of apologies, chanced a quick sidelong glance towards the silver Seat. He’d spotted it in Beccles and again at the first break. He didn’t say anything to Colin, who appeared oblivious, a strange, dark mood pressing over him, seemingly weighing him down with some sort of inner conflict. Conscience perhaps. Killing never proved easy. Even when the bastards deserved it.
He’d made a phone call at the first stop. Chaise guessed it was a quick report to his superiors, whoever they were. When he came back,
