What would two good old boys make of that? They would think he was insane.

“This and that,” he said instead.

“So why’d you stop in Victoria?”

“I’ve never been to Texas before,” he said. “And it was on my way.”

“So you want to explain what happened in Bill’s?”

“You were there, officer. You saw what happened.”

“Why don’t you tell me your side of things.” He tapped a finger against the tape machine, spooling quietly on the side of the table. “For the record.”

Milton sighed with frustration. “I went to the bar for something to eat and to watch the game on ESPN. It’s a nice bar, reasonably busy. I was sitting at the counter, right next to you. You tried to start a conversation about the chicken wings I was eating. The sauce, I think. You said it was good. I agreed. You tried to start a conversation but I wasn’t interested in talking to you and, eventually, you got the picture and shut up. I concentrated on the game and my food again. Then two men came into the bar. Big guys. Both drunk and looking for trouble. They went over to a table where three girls were sitting down having a drink and made a nuisance of themselves. They made inappropriate advances. The girls asked them to leave and they didn’t. I went over and asked them to stop. I was polite but I don’t think they took too kindly to it. One of them tried to stab me with a broken glass. I banged his face against the table. The other man swung a pool cue at me. I broke his nose. You arrested me. How does that sound, officer? About right?”

“Have you ever met either of the men you attacked before?”

“Never. Have you?”

Bennington shuffled a little in his chair.

“You arrested them, too?”

Bennington shuffled a little uncomfortably. “No.”

“Who are they?”

“Cliff Manziel and Johnny Robinson.”

Milton frowned. He remembered a sign on the wall as they were booking him last night. “Manziel — that’s the Sheriff’s name, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“And let me guess — Cliff is his son?”

Milton closed his eyes and smiled. Just his dumb luck: out of all the drunken bullies he could’ve gotten into a brawl with, he had to pick them. He had no idea the guy was the son of a cop. He just looked like some idiot in a bar. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference, but he might have handled it differently. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so inconvenient.

“Did you have any other questions?” he asked the detectives.

“Not now.”

“So what’s next?”

“We arrange a bail hearing for you.”

“And until then?”

“You’ll be transferred to the county lockup. It’ll be a couple of days before we can get you in front of a judge.”

Milton sighed. He’d beaten the son of the local sheriff. That couldn’t possibly be good. If daddy was upset, and he would be upset, he was going to want to get some revenge. That spelt trouble. He could imagine what it might mean for him in the short-term: a few good ole boys in an empty cell back at the lock-up, a fight where he would be badly outnumbered and retaliating would just make things worse for him. He would have to suck it up and take it. And what then, assuming they didn’t put him in the hospital? The judge would undoubtedly be a friend of the sheriff. The jury, if it was to be a jury trial, would look at him as an outsider who thought it was acceptable to start bar brawls with the sons of local dignitaries. Texas was an insular kind of place. That kind of thing was probably a big deal. All kinds of witnesses would turn up to say that the attack was unprovoked. He would end up convicted and in the penitentiary, just like that. He would end up with a long stint in some dismal establishment.

Although, of course, it would never get to that.

He doubted whether he would even get to the bail hearing. Control would find him before two days were up. His prints and personal details had been taken when they booked him last night. They would have been transferred by now, passed between servers, an electronic handshake that would trigger an alarm somewhere. The Group had located him easily enough when he was in Ciudad Juárez and that had been a pit. How much simpler would it be to find him in Texas?

Options? He looked around the room. It was secure — bars across the window, a double-locked door — no obvious way for him to get out. Bennington and Kenney were armed but he would have been able to disable them both without much difficulty, but where would that get him? What would he do then? He was inside a locked room in a police station. Even if he managed to escape, how far would he be able to get? Victoria was a town he didn’t know. He had no means of transport. He had looked out of the window as they brought him to the interview room. It was mid-morning and the sun was already burning bright, heatwaves radiating off the scorched ground. Not the kind of weather to be hiking across open country. He figured he’d have five minutes to find a ride before the locals had enough time to raise a posse and come after him. Five minutes, maybe ten if he was lucky.

And then what?

It was pointless. Hopeless. He was going to have to let things play out. He started to prepare himself for the inevitable: a beating and then, much worse, whatever would happen to him when the Group finally found him. Forced rendition back to London if he was lucky; a bribed guard to press a shiv into his heart in the penitentiary showers if he wasn’t.

It turned out he was wrong about that; he was wrong about all of it. It turned out that he was wrong about a lot of things, and his day was about to take an unexpected turn.

Chapter Ten

It was early evening when he heard footsteps approaching down the corridor. He had been lying on the squalid cot, staring up at the ceiling. The bugs had come out of the cracks and were marching across the ceiling two by two. He lay there, his fingers laced beneath his head, watching them with vague disinterest, when he heard the cage door at the end of the corridor open and swing closed. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, bracing himself. Here they come.

The key turned in the lock and the door swung open.

It was Bennington.

He was alone.

“What is it?”

“Up you get, partner.”

“What for?”

“You’re free to go. The charges have been dropped. Come with me, please.”

Milton hid his surprise. He followed Bennington out of the cell, along the corridor and out into the office beyond. There was a desk, two chairs and a couch pushed up against the wall. A woman was sitting on the couch. Medium height, slender build, long legs, lots of red hair. Milton had never seen her before.

Bennington touched his hand to a cardboard box on the desk. “Here are your things,” he said. Milton looked inside: his wallet, cigarette lighter, leather jacket and shoelaces. “Sign for them, please.”

Milton signed the form and took his belongings.

The woman stood. “Mr. Smith?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Frances Delaney. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“How can I help you?”

She paused and turned to Bennington. “Is that all, detective?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s free to go.”

“Thank you. Mr. Smith, will you come with me, please?

Milton was confused; he had anticipated several possible outcomes and this was certainly not one of them. Delaney stepped across the office, through the public waiting room beyond and then into the hot night outside. Milton looked around: he had been driven to the station in the back of a patrol car and it had been daylight. It looked different at night. Neon displays glowed above the entrance to bars and clubs. Youngsters hung out of car windows as they cruised down Main Street.

A Lexus with blacked out windows was parked against the curb.