Authors: Ken McClure
Tally smiled and reached up to touch his face. ‘
Je ne regrette rien
.’
‘Good.’
‘Why so early?’
‘I have to go.’
‘And so, farewell?’ said Tally.
‘You know it’s not like that,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll call you later?’
‘Make it evening. I’ve got a busy day ahead. You’re off to London?’
Steven nodded. ‘You’re not the only one with a busy day ahead,’ he said ruefully.
Steven set off, hoping to miss the worst of the rush hour traffic before he joined the M1 motorway. The street outside Tally’s apartment block seemed quiet enough so he took this as a good sign although, as he looked both ways before crossing, he took in that a dark grey Jaguar saloon was sitting about a hundred yards away with two men in the front. He smiled to himself at his observation and remembered that his wife, Lisa, had always maintained that he was never really off duty. Two men in the front of a parked car were always worth noting and usually keeping tabs on someone. As to whether they were policemen in an unmarked vehicle or privateers noting who was sleeping with whom, it didn’t matter. It couldn’t possibly be him they were interested in. No one knew he was here.
Steven felt a chill when he saw that the Jaguar had taken off from the kerb a few seconds after he pulled away and was keeping station about a hundred metres behind the Porsche. He was sure he hadn’t been followed here. He didn’t even know himself he was coming up to Leicester until he’d phoned Tally from the village where the Nichols had lived and he would have noticed if there had been a car behind him on the quiet country roads leading over to the motorway. It had to be coincidence. At any moment the Jaguar would turn off and he would think of what Lisa would have said to him about seeing baddies round every corner … but it didn’t. It joined the M1, heading south behind him.
Again, Steven tried convincing himself that there was nothing sinister in the situation. The men had probably just come out of a building up the street at the same time as he left Tally’s apartment this morning and were heading down to London just like him. He accelerated to 70mph and held the Porsche on cruise control. He was tempted to go faster but the car was a magnet for police road patrols and he’d rather not get another ticket. The Jaguar remained behind him as the Mondeos and Vectras of the nation’s sales force swept past in the outside lane.
Steven’s argument with himself progressed to considering that the Jaguar was probably just obeying the law as he was and after all, what would be the point of following him all the way from Leicester to London after having followed him all the way up to Leicester? He reinforced this by again concluding that there was no way that anyone could have known where he was staying last night.
A glance in the mirror to check that there was no other vehicle in the gap between him and the Jaguar and Steven took his foot off the accelerator. The Jaguar closed quickly and Steven read its registration plate. He picked up speed again and called it in to Sci-Med. Two miles passed by before he was told, ‘It’s a dark grey Jaguar belonging to a Mr Geoffrey Slessor of Greenhill Avenue, Dover.’
‘Thanks,’ said Steven. He considered reporting that the car was following him but deferred this because he still wasn’t sure that it was. One final test, he thought. He waited until he saw a long gap appear in the road ahead and dropped a gear before sinking his foot to the floor, making the Porsche take off like a scalded cat. His heart sank as he saw the Jag accelerate too. He took his foot off the accelerator, letting his speed drop back to two figures and expecting the Jag to do the same, but instead it maintained speed and came up fast in the outside lane as his own speed dropped to eighty. Steven glanced to the side as it came alongside and saw the Jag’s passenger window opening. His initial fear that a gun was about to appear in it was dispelled as the Jag continued to pass and pull in in front of him. He prepared himself for a sudden braking manoeuvre but, instead and before he had the chance to react, the air was suddenly full of metallic objects flung from the Jag, sunlight reflecting off their sharp points. The fat tyres of the Porsche hit them before Steven could do anything, causing them to burst and shred, sending the car slewing across the hard shoulder and up the banking where it took off in a graceful arc before touching down and somersaulting end over end, finally coming to a halt on its roof in a field.
Steven felt disorientated but was still conscious and the smell of fuel was telling him that he had to get out fast. His immediate problem was to escape the suffocating attention of the airbags in order to release his safety belt. There was a nightmare moment when he thought his left leg might be trapped by the deformed metal of the footwell but he managed to free it by twisting, turning and pulling in a variety of directions although his shoe remained behind. He thanked God for the fact he was wearing loafers with no laces.
There was no possibility of climbing out through the driver’s side because it had taken the brunt of the heavy landing after the last somersault but there was a gap on the passenger side through which he could see green grass. The smell of petrol grew ever stronger, adding panic to his efforts as he fought to manoeuvre his large frame into a position where he could squeeze into the gap and pull himself out head first. He found the body-hugging seats that were so good in high-speed cornering an absolute nightmare to get out of in his current situation. Sweat was pouring down his face and mingling with the blood from superficial cuts by the time he managed to turn himself round and get his head into the gap to take a big breath of fresh air. Another bad moment was to come when he thought his shoulders weren’t going to go through the gap but a superhuman effort, which ripped the shoulder padding off his jacket, won the day and he finally dragged his legs out to corkscrew round and lie face down on the ground.
Fear of an imminent explosion made him roll away from the car and scramble over a small rise to lie there, looking back. The seconds passed and Steven saw that two men were running over the field from the motorway. He assumed at first that they were people who had seen the accident occur and were coming to help but he also had to consider that these might be the two from the Jag. He stayed where he was, pushing himself even closer to the ground behind the small rise, finding a clump of grass to hide behind as he watched.
One of the men was carrying a plastic container. Both seemed unwilling to get too close. Steven wasn’t near enough to hear what they were saying to each other. He watched as one dropped to his knees, trying to establish if he was still inside the car. The man shrugged at his accomplice as if to signify that he couldn’t be sure and followed up by making a large balloon shape with his hands. The deployed air balloon was obscuring his vision through the gap.
The man got to his feet and joined his companion. The two looked around at the countryside as Steven pressed his face to the earth, bringing back memories of how many other times he’d had to do this in his life.
When he thought it was safe again, Steven raised his head for another look and saw the man with the container open it and return to the car to splash the contents into the small gap. He was clearly nervous and moved as if he were standing on hot coals. He retreated quickly as soon as the container was empty and joined his accomplice in crouching down about twenty metres back from the car, forearms held up against their faces in anticipation of the explosion to come.
The seconds ticked by in silence with nothing but contracting metal noises coming from the Porsche as a slight pall of blue smoke drifted up from the wreckage. The faint sound of sirens in the distance was making the men even more edgy as it became clear to them that one of them might have to go back and ignite the car.
Steven, feeling a moderate breeze against his cheek, appreciated their dilemma. The wind was dispersing the highly explosive air/petrol mix before it could reach critical levels. He watched as the two men approached the car together, preparing to set fire to the petrol-soaked wreckage themselves, under the impression that they were about to immolate Steven Dunbar. They were only about three metres from the wreckage when Steven felt the wind drop to a flat calm, making his eyes open wide in anticipation. The men obviously didn’t realise the significance of the wind in the equation. Steven just had time to start considering the poetic justice of what was about to happen when the Porsche exploded, sending a sheet of yellow flame high into the air and enveloping his two would-be murderers in burning fuel as they were blown off their feet to land about fifteen metres from where he lay. Neither man moved as the flames consumed them, making Steven think that the blast alone had probably killed them. The air was filled with the smell of roasting flesh, which only added to the heavy cocktail of fuel and smouldering grass.
FOURTEEN
Steven could see activity on the banking where he’d come off the motorway and figured that the emergency services had arrived. It only took a second to decide that he did not want to be part of any police investigation at that particular moment. What he needed was time and space to work out what was going on, not get bogged down in police routine. He rolled back down the rise he had been hiding behind and into a ditch that ran along the length of the field. He maintained a crouching, scrambling run until he reckoned he was far enough away from the scene of the accident to stand up and take his bearings. There was a farm house about a quarter of a mile away and, between him and it, what looked like a minor road. He made for the road and a track he could see leading up to the farm, hoping that there might be some sign there. There was. It said, ‘Moorfields Farm’. Steven looked about him, taking in that the land round here was hilly but there was a relatively flat field about half a mile south of the farm house. He brought out his mobile phone and called Sci-Med. This was going to test Condition Red to the limit.
‘I need a helicopter to pick me up as fast as possible. I’ll be in a field about half a mile south of Moorfields Farm house to the east of the M1, travelling south from Leicester.’
‘Taking you to where?’ asked the calm voice of the duty officer.
‘London.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A car to meet me at the other end to bring me to the Home Office. I also need you to alert Sir John, please.’
‘Will do. I’ll call you back with an ETA for the ’copter.’
Steven closed his phone. Not for the first occasion in his time with Sci-Med he had cause to give thanks for the way Macmillan had set up the organisation. When it came to support for investigators in the field, everything ran like clockwork. Sci-Med’s administrative brief was to provide support for front-line people, not, as in the case of so many other government organisations, treat them as a source and supply of information for them to make reports and fill in forms of their own making.
Macmillan recruited the best for his investigators. He trusted their judgement implicitly and what they asked for they got. In the case of ‘Condition Red’ people, the rider ‘without question’ was applied. Recriminations, should there be any, would come later, not in the middle of an investigation.
Steven left the road and hid himself in a copse of trees at the southernmost edge of the field to wait. He used the time to reflect on what had happened and inspect his body for cuts and bruises. He had been remarkably lucky, he concluded – not even a sprained ankle from an incident he felt sure he would revisit in bad dreams throughout his life to come. He managed a wry smile when he thought it would have to take its turn among all the rest but the smile turned to feelings of bitterness when he started wondering who exactly his enemies were on this occasion. He’d been in similar circumstances before, waiting for pick-up from either a jungle or a desert rendezvous, when he’d known exactly who the enemy were but he’d never found himself doing it in the heart of the English countryside.
His phone rang and he flipped it open.
‘Air sea rescue helicopter flying in from Hunstanton; estimated ETA, thirty-five minutes.’
‘Roger that,’ said Steven.
‘Sir John will await your arrival.’
Steven whiled away the time, lying on his back watching the clouds pass over. He thought of Tally and Jenny, separately and together … together and separately … pleasant daydreams of family life, outings, picnics, Christmas time, holidays in the sun … Christ! thought Steven, suddenly fully alert and rolling over on to his stomach, Tally could be in danger. He steeled himself to think logically. The two hit men in the Jag had known he was staying in Leicester last night and where … but they were now both dead. The chances were that they had been following him and had no interest at all in Tally but a nagging doubt persisted. If the opposition, whoever they were, suspected that he had told Tally anything that might concern them … she could be at risk. He would have to arrange protection for her until he’d worked out what was going on. The sound of rotor blades broke his train of thought and he ran out into the open to signal as he saw the helicopter appear.
‘I’m grateful to you,’ said Steven as he was pulled on board.
‘Our pleasure, Doctor,’ said the winchman, closing the door. ‘Makes a pleasant change from waiting for some clown to set to sea in a plastic dinghy.’ The man looked at the state of Steven and opened his medical kit. ‘Maybe we can do something about cleaning you up,’ he said.
With his cuts and bruises cleaned and dressed where necessary and with a rescue service anorak taking the place of his torn jacket, Steven jumped down from the helicopter, crouching from the downdraught, and running somewhat unsteadily in service boots a size too large for him, which the winchman had also come up with, to the waiting car. He turned and waved an acknowledgement to the helicopter crew who waved back before lifting off and leaning heavily over to port as they climbed away.
Macmillan’s first words when Steven appeared in his office were, ‘This had better be good.’