Authors: Andrew Puckett
The governor was convinced that the diver would find Fraser’s body underneath the ship, and when he didn’t, went into overdrive to try and make up for the lost time. The police were informed of the escape and prison officers with dogs were sent to block all the main roads, especially the causeway, and to watch the local railway and bus stations. Ilie and Petru were questioned, but only shrugged their shoulders and muttered in Romanian.
Then Andy got to remembering what a miserable bastard Old Man Bailey was, how he’d never waved or made any friendly gesture to any of them before, and after agonising for five minutes, found Kevin and owned up.
*
Fraser was vaguely aware that Weymouth had a harbour and pointed
Omen
at roughly where he thought it would be. He was making about seven knots, although he wasn’t to know that. Gulls cried and circled the boat, hoping for fish. The sun warmed his back and a fine spray from the bow wash found its way into his lungs, and he had to remind himself that this was not the end of his troubles, only another beginning…
Do they know I’ve got the boat yet?
Would they be waiting for him at the harbour, should he ditch
Omen
before he got there?
But if he just left her somewhere, it would look odd, it would be remembered, and he’d still have to walk into town… He kept going.
A few minutes later, he picked out the funnel of the cross-Channel ferry and steered for it, and a little over half an hour after he’d started, he reduced throttle as he entered the River Wey. Without thinking about it, he kept to the left of the channel and couldn’t understand why the boats coming the other way hooted, one salty dog even shaking his fist at him – then someone shouted, ‘You’re on the wrong bloody side, man,’ and he quickly moved over.
He entered a pool where mostly larger boats were moored. The smaller vessels and sailing craft seemed to be beyond a low swing bridge over which ran a road, but he couldn’t see how to get through. He looked round – there was a quay to his left, but all the mooring spaces were taken. Other boats were moored to buoys. Aware that he’d look conspicuous if he hung around for much longer, he steered for the quay and put
Omen
into neutral as he came alongside a large cruiser.
‘Anybody there?’ he called out.
No answer.
He tied the bow to the cruiser, then went below and packed his wash-bag into the toolbox.
Then, as an afterthought, he went to the basin and carefully cleared away all the hair he could find – no need to let them know he’d shaved off his beard.
Though they’ve probably already guessed…
Then he picked up the toolbox (camouflage), pulled shut the door, and with a muttered ‘Thanks,
Omen
,’ climbed on to the cruiser and thence to the quay. He crossed the bridge and headed for town.
Kevin found
Omen
half an hour later.
Fraser was looking for two things: a car-park, and a building site. There were several of the former but none of the latter…
Doesn’t anybody build anything in Weymouth any more?
Then he came across a tall building which was being cleaned. He could see two men working above him on the scaffolding. Loose pieces of tubing lay on the pavement… To ask or to take? Too late, he’d been seen.
‘’Elp you, mate?’
‘Yeah, I’m doing some plumbing round the corner and I need a lever. Can I use one of these a minute?’
The man looked at his mate, who shrugged.
‘Awrigh’. ‘Ow do we find you?’
‘You’ll see my van – Johnson, plumbers.’
‘Awrigh’.’
‘Thanks.’
Fraser picked up a five foot pole and carried it round the corner, then walked quickly to the most promising of the car-parks. The toolbox was dragging at his arm and shoulder now that he couldn’t change hands easily; sweat dribbled into his eyes, and when he saw a public loo, he suddenly realised how thirsty he was, but didn’t stop because it might look odd…
The car-park. Biggish, around two hundred cars. Long stay, Pay and Display… He worked his way through, then spotted the kind of thing he was looking for, a beige Montego around ten years old (before all the clever anti-theft stuff) surrounded by other cars. He made his way over and glanced at the ticket… two hours to go.
Need longer really, but…
No one around, so he put down the toolbox and took out the flat plastic rod with the hook in the end that Petru had made for him. No reason why plastic shouldn’t work as well as metal, he told himself, no reason at all… He slipped it down through the space between the window and the rubber seal and started feeling around…
God’s sake don’t drop it, abort if you can’t – Ah!
The hook went round the mechanism and he gently pulled… and with a dull click, the button on the inside of the door came up. He withdrew the bar and opened the door.
A quick look round inside, then he pulled the bonnet release, went out and opened the bonnet to give him some cover.
Back inside – God, it was hot – he put his hand under the steering column, pulled out a sheaf of wires and cut the plastic tie holding them together.
Oh, shit
… Had they changed the colours?
No, here was the ignition… battery… starter… Should he start her up now?
Yes… He used the pliers to strip the leads, reconnected, touched, and the engine fired, sweet as a little lamb.
Now the awkward bit…
He put the toolbox on the passenger seat and looked round. Someone was coming straight towards him – a copper? Jacket and tie, well dressed, not a screw…
‘Problems?’
‘Yeah. Think I’ve got it sorted now, though,’ Fraser said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the scaffolding pole.
‘Good.’ The man unlocked the next car, got in and, with a wave, drove off.
Fraser swallowed, raised a hand in reply… Anyone else around?
No. He turned the steering wheel until it was against the lock, threaded the pole through the spokes and heaved – and with a crack, the lock gave. He threw the pole in the back, put down the bonnet and drove slowly away.
About five minutes later, trapped in the one-way system, he wound down the window and put on the fan – and that’s when he noticed the fuel gauge, just hovering above the red section…
But the warning light wasn’t on yet… so what did that give him? A couple of gallons, maybe sixty miles…
The lights changed and the traffic moved again. He turned into another road, a larger one that went along the sea-front. A sign… Dorchester, Bournemouth. He saw a space and pulled in.
A uniformed flunkey scurried out from a hotel entrance. ‘Can’t park here, sir.’
He drove on… nothing but hotels, so he turned into a side street. Opened the glove compartment – Ah! An AA handbook. He opened it and found the maps…
The main roads would be blocked by now, but what about the B roads? Have to risk it, the minor ones weren’t marked here and he didn’t have the petrol to spare… Head for Dorchester, then go off at–
No. One place they’d certainly have a block would be between here and Dorchester. He studied the map again… A B road went along the coast to Bridport, then Broadwindsor, Crewkerne, Somerton – could he get that far?
Gotta try…
A few minutes later, as he went over the bridge that divided the harbour, he couldn’t help glancing at the
Omen
.
Crawling with uniforms…
The shock stole his senses away and for a moment he lost all track of what he was doing or where he was going… daren’t stop – then he saw a sign for Abbotsbury.
The suburbs seemed to go on for ever and his head began to ache. Another mile, then he saw a phone box and pulled in beside it. Dialled 100 and asked to make a reverse charge call to Mary Templeton.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Er – her son-in-law, John Fraser.’
After an interminable time (
Bugged…? Can’t be, not yet – can it…?
) Mary’s voice said, ‘Fraser?’
‘Have the police told you yet?’
‘Told me what?’
‘I’ve escaped, I need help—’
‘Oh, Fraser!’ she wailed. ‘You idiot, you’ll make things worse, you must give yourself up—’
‘Mary, listen – it’s the only way I’ll get to see Frances, the only chance I’ll have to prove I didn’t kill Connie. I need clothes and money. And some paracetamol,’ he added, touching his aching head. ‘Please, Mary, you’re the only chance I’ve got.’
‘What kind of clothes?’ she said at last. ‘D’you want me to go to your house?’
‘No – whatever you do, don’t go there. I need everything – socks, pants, shirt, the lot. I’m sorry, you’ll have to buy them… Marks and Spencer – anything.’
‘But I don’t even know your size,’ she said faintly.
‘Shoes nine, thirty-three leg and waist—’
‘Wait a minute, let me write it down…’
He repeated it while she did so.
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
He thought a moment. ‘Yes, a cassette recorder…’ He described exactly what he wanted. ‘And some cord.’
‘Where shall I bring them?’
‘D’you know Glastonbury?’
‘Not really.’
‘Wells?’
‘Only the cathedral.’
‘That’ll do. Meet me there as soon as you can… Leave now before the police get on to you.’
‘But Fraser—’
‘
Please
, Mary, just go.’
As he put the phone down, he realised he was shaking. Could he trust her, would she tell the police? Got no choice… He went back to the car. His head was throbbing wickedly now. Dehydration?
He drove on. In Abbotsbury, he found a public loo and drank from a tap, his body soaking up the water like sand. He set off again, feeling slightly better – then the fuel light winked on.
Make it to Wells? Gotta try…
*
Officers, police and prison, had searched the
Omen
and found nothing.
‘Engine’s still too hot to touch,’ the police sergeant said to Kevin, ‘He’s not long gone. What d’you think he’ll do?’ he asked.
‘He’ll try and get to Avon.’
‘Has he got any money?’
‘I… we don’t know.’
After a pause, the sergeant said, ‘Well, we’ve got the trains and buses covered, but if he can do this’ – he indicated Fraser’s rewiring – ‘he can do a car.’
‘Have you got road blocks up?’
‘Major roads, yes. The minor ones we’re doing now. He won’t get far,’ he said, confidently.
The Montego was reported stolen an hour later.
*
Bridport, Broadwindsor, Crewkerne… Fraser tried to go as easy as he could on the petrol, but the roads he’d chosen were all hills and bends…
Somerton, then Glastonbury. He glanced at his watch, six thirty, a bit over an hour since he’d phoned Mary, then he saw a sign: Wells three miles.
I’m going to make it,
he thought exultantly.
I’m going to make it…
Ah, hubris… The engine coughed, picked up, coughed again and died. He pulled in and stopped.
Three miles…
She’d probably be there by now. Would she wait? Could he walk it? Take at least forty minutes, probably more.
He got out, pulled the bonnet up again and waited. A car approached, he thumbed vigorously, pointing at the open bonnet. The car swerved to avoid him, drove on. As did the next, and the next…
The fourth stopped. ‘Broken down?’
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t want to explain why he couldn’t buy petrol. ‘Can you give me a lift into Wells?’
‘Like me to take a look at it?’
And see my wiring?
He forced a short laugh. ‘I’m a mechanic, an’ if I can’t fix it, no offence, but I doubt you can. Just a lift, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Sure,’ He leaned over, opened the passenger door.
Fraser paused. ‘Have you got any plastic for your seat? My overalls…’
The man laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
Fraser climbed in, aware of his gleaming, sockless ankles…
‘Got far to go?’ The driver didn’t seem to have noticed them.
‘Gloucester.’ May as well embroider… ‘I’ve got AA Relay, so they should get me there all right.’
‘Want a lift back when you’ve phoned them?’
‘Oh, that’s all right…’
Why d’you only meet nice people when you don’t want them?
‘I– er – need to get one or two things in Wells.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
They continued in silence. On the outskirts of Wells, a police car was parked, watching the traffic. Fraser swallowed his heart, tried to stay calm…
Probably nothing to do with me. Probably…
‘Anywhere particular?’