Eleven
He knew that some people did it to lose weight, while for others it was about cardiovascular fitness (even if they didn’t seem quite as bothered about knackering their knee joints).
Some did it just to get out of the house, or because they mistakenly believed they looked good in Lycra, or – as was sadly the case with him – because the person paying their wages wanted company while they were doing it.
Whatever the reason, Google McDougall didn’t believe that anyone actually enjoyed jogging.
Up ahead, Jacqui turned to check he was keeping the ideal distance behind her.
Not close enough to make it obvious that she was jogging with a minder in tow, but not so far away that he couldn’t get to her fast and do what a minder was supposed to do if anyone fancied having a pop – always assuming that he wasn’t too shagged out to catch her up, and could get his breath back quickly enough to administer a good kicking if required so to do.
Google smiled and waved back like he was having the time of his life.
Admittedly, there were bound to be a few who got some kind of buzz out of the pain, of ‘working through it’, but he’d never understood those weirdos either.
Masochists, whatever. Men who liked nothing more than a thorough seeing-to with hot wax or kitchen utensils, who coughed up good money to be spanked or slapped or even – at the ‘are you effing kidding me?’ end of the spectrum – booted in the goolies.
He would never have believed that was even a thing if he hadn’t seen a video.
His hands drifted protectively towards his own tackle just thinking about it.
There were some strange people out there, no question.
Jacqui jogged on and Google followed, along the north side of the golf course, then down past the fishing lake before cutting back towards the village.
Google knew how much Jacqui loved living in the village.
Lady of the Manor sort of thing. So, you could see the Tower from the top floor of the house, but it wasn’t even in Blackpool, not really.
There were roads called The Nook and The Rise, olde-worlde shit like that and a village hall, for heaven’s sake.
There was an actual windmill, like the ones you saw in films, but there was also a Lidl, so it covered all the bases.
Back when the Cutlers had bought the place, Wayne hadn’t been keen to move quite so far out of town, but Jacqui had twisted his arm.
If what her old man thought hadn’t counted for a fat lot back then, it counted for less than bugger all now he was banged up.
Google had somehow managed to avoid getting dragged down with his former boss, and had quietly done whatever was necessary to make himself indispensable to the new one.
He largely enjoyed being Jacqui’s right-hand man, even if there were times – and stopping briefly to cough his guts up, as he did now, was definitely one of them – when he could have done without the hassle.
It had all been a bit less stressful when there weren’t diaries to organise and deliveries to schedule – back when he was just there to hurt people.
He hawked a gobbet of phlegm into a bush, and when he looked up he saw that Jacqui had stopped, too. He quickly moved to see if there was a problem, then slowed when the boss raised a finger and removed her headphones to take a phone call. He stood and watched her.
She was wearing a dusty-pink velour tracksuit, one of half a dozen she’d bought in assorted colours from Asda (opposite the Lidl), with trainers and headphones to match.
He wondered what she’d been listening to.
Maybe the punk-rock playlist he’d put together for her a few months before, after Jacqui told him she’d always liked that stuff, even if she wasn’t quite old enough to remember it properly.
No, it was not what people would expect, but then, so much about his boss was unpredictable.
Google would have liked to listen to a bit of music himself while he was accompanying her on these torturous outings, but headphones were banned for him.
Jacqui insisted that, apart from keeping his eyes peeled, he was there to listen out for the sound of a car suddenly accelerating, or more likely a motorbike these days.
Some toerag on one of those poxy e-scooters, just looking to snatch Jacqui’s bag, if she was lucky. Or waving a gun about if she wasn’t.
Google would take that bullet if he had to.
He hadn’t been able to catch much of what she’d been saying during the call, but from her tone, and the look on her face, he didn’t think there was anything to worry about. He stepped across once she’d put her phone away. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Pretty good news as it goes,’ Jacqui said. ‘They’ve bailed him. The bloke who killed Simmons.’
‘Bailed him? That’s hard to believe.’
‘I’m telling you, Googs.’
‘Who was it this time? The constable with the coke habit or the sergeant trying to pay for his third divorce?’
‘Does it matter? Getting information this way might cost me a few quid, but it’s usually reliable because it’s straight from the horse’s mouth, and it’s a bit less messy than when you go out and get it for me.’
‘Aye, well, whatever works,’ Google said.
Jacqui began walking quickly and Google kept pace with her, past the church and the garden centre, then on to the main road that ran through the village.
‘So, we’ve still got a chance to find out who this bloke’s working for,’ Jacqui said. ‘Who’s making moves. Plus, we can see about getting back the money I’m owed.’
‘Indeed we can.’
‘This bloke’s ex-army, apparently, so you’ll need to go steady.’
‘No bother.’
‘I can trust you with that, right?’
‘I’ll try not to be too messy,’ Google said.
Jacqui grinned and punched him on the arm. ‘I’ll text you the details.’
She took out her phone to do so as they turned on to the small, private road that led to the house.
Google clocked the winking red light on each security camera they passed, then stared beyond the Dutch gable roof of which Jacqui was so proud towards the windmill in the field behind.
The shape of it, silhouetted against a sky the colour of wet cement.
He glanced down at his phone when the text arrived, a name and address back in town.
He would do what Jacqui wanted, because for him it had become more than just a job. He would do whatever she asked of him, or insisted upon or even hinted at; would do it without thinking.
Because whether she knew it or not – and he was content for the time being to believe that she did not – Jacqui Cutler was the love of Malky McDougall’s life.