by David Carter
Liz said, ‘I have this vision of you setting off on your long walks deep into the forest, and arriving at your destination, and after posting sentries, you all sitting round in an evil coven-like circle, conspiring against the government.’
‘You have a vivid imagination, I’ll give you that.’
‘The truth of the matter is that it wasn’t Martin Reamse who was organising this little gang of clueless idiots, or Mary Goodchild, or even your husband, nor Lady Selina Fortune either, but you, the faintly scatty Jemima Cornelius. It was you all along, wasn’t it?’
LIDA was getting interested again.
Liz did not revere LIDA’s results as Jarvis Smeggan had, but she was looking forward to the in-depth computer generated report that LIDA would cough up and spit out before the hour was through.
‘Prove it,’ said Jemima, unable to keep the insolence from her voice.
‘I shall. We shall, without fail, won’t we, Inspector Hewitt?’
‘We shall that, ma’am.’
‘That brings us neatly on to Adam Goodchild, aka Rexington. Whereabouts is he, Mrs Cornelius?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
LIDA agreed. Hewitt was disappointed.
‘Wasn’t he knocking round with your younger daughter?’
‘No idea. Stuck in here, we don’t exactly get to see the world news.’
Liz hesitated, and turned to Hewitt and said, ‘We have picked up the innocent Eve, I take it?’
Hewitt’s face fell. Liz didn’t need to hear the answer.
‘Why ever not?’
‘No one said to do so, ma’am.’
Liz pulled a face. ‘Inspectors shouldn’t have to be told.’
Jemima was suddenly enjoying herself again.
Liz nodded him to the door, ‘Go and organise it, now!’
‘Yes ma’am,’ he mumbled, making for the door, avoiding eye contact with the prisoner.
Once he’d gone, Jemima said, ‘Can’t get the staff nowadays, can you?’
‘Small point,’ said Liz. ‘She will be in the bag before nightfall.’
Jemima harboured a vision of Eve on the high seas bound for France and Spain and Gibraltar beyond. She will be in the bag before nightfall.
‘I seriously doubt that.’
‘You do realise you will undergo drug induced interrogation?’
Jemima puffed out her cheeks. ‘Some people would pay a lot of money for that.’
‘It isn’t pleasant.’
‘Not the only thing round here.’
Liz forced a tight smile.
‘You have two choices, Jemima. You can deny us the information we require, and face interminable and unpleasant questioning, or you can cooperate, get everything off your chest, and tell us what we need to know. You do that and I shall report to the magistrate that you have been fully cooperative. Your sentence would be hugely reduced.’
‘How many suckers have you promised that deal to?’
‘As you wish, but don’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity. Have you any idea what this Goodchild kid did?’
‘No doubt you are going to tell me.’
‘He stabbed Inspector Smeggan in the eye, forced the knife deep into his brain.’
‘He must have deserved it.’
‘He’s a killer, that boy. You are protecting a killer. Can you imagine the pain our officer endured?’
‘Ditto answer, I guess.’
‘You think an out of control kid like that should be wandering the streets.... in the company of your youngest girl?’
‘Adam is a good boy.’
‘Course he is.... for a murderer.’
‘I only have your word for that, and frankly, I don’t believe anything you say. I’d like to see this contraption on your arm,’ and Jemima scowled down at LIDA’s tentacles that quivered to her every word.
For a moment Liz remembered it being there, on her arm, before a bemused Smeggan. Happy days.
‘Sorry, no can do,’ said Liz. ‘The magistrates are bound to take a dim view of anyone who refuses to supply information that might lead to the capture of a suspect, especially one who has murdered a senior government official.’
‘We seem to be going round in circles,’ said Jemima, stifling a fake yawn.
Hewitt came back and nodded encouragingly.
‘I’ll sign the drug interrogation order as soon as it is drafted,’ said Liz. ‘You can proceed with her this afternoon. There is no hurry. You can have her for as long as you want.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. It shouldn’t take that long.’
Liz turned back to Jemima.
‘In the end, you will tell us every goddamn thing. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You don’t frighten me.’
‘She should do,’ butted in Hewitt. ‘You have no idea what is in store for you.’
‘Sums you lot up,’ said Jemima bravely. ‘It is the very essence as to why we shall oppose everything you do, so long as there is breath in our bodies. You may hack off a limb here and there, but every time you do, ten more will sprout. You have no idea how strong we are; no idea.’
Liz smiled. She admired the woman’s spirit, but ultimately, it was wasted and doomed to failure. She was a stupid woman.
‘You might be right, Jemima, but we will soon know everything that’s inside that tatty head of yours, won’t we, Hewitt?’
‘Yes ma’am, we shall.’
‘No one, and I mean no one, can resist modern drugs.’
That wasn’t quite correct, but Jemima wasn’t to know that.
Liz glanced at Hewitt. ‘Keep me closely informed on all developments.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you.’
TEN MINUTES AFTER THAT, Liz was driving across Bournemouth in her shiny MG. She was on her way to the City Hall for a meeting with county returning officers to discuss procedures prior to any future national election. She turned on the radio and was immediately struck by the special programmes that were being broadcast. Something momentous had occurred, something big. She didn’t have to wait long.
News on the hour every hour! shrieked the lead up commercial.
If you haven’t already heard the stunning news just released, gloated the broadcaster, you are in for a big surprise!
‘Get to the point!’ screamed Liz.
The Prime Minister, Mrs Thelma Bletchington has this morning dissolved parliament with a view to calling a snap general election. We understand that she is at this moment seeking an audience with the King. Informed sources suggest there could be an election as early as the 16th December. There has never been an election in Britain in the second half of December before. A truly historic day. Over now to our political correspondent, Gavin Wade who is in Downing Street.
‘Yes Michael, after this astonishing development I am here waiting for further news from number 10. Mrs Bletchington, we are led to believe, is due back here any moment; and we hope to have an interview, or a statement from her then.’
Thank you Gavin, we shall return to you just as soon as there is any further news.
Liz’s mobile beeped twice.
She smacked the hands free button on the steering wheel. ‘Hello!’
‘Is that Liz?’ said a woman.
‘It is.’
‘It’s Thelma Bletchington.’
Liz pulled the car to a stop, driving on to the pavement, scattering passers-by who were heaving suitcases into one of the uppity hotels.
‘Hello, Prime Minister, I was just thinking about you.’
‘You’ve heard the news?’
‘Just a second ago.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Staggered, would be a better description. I think we all are.’
‘My advisors say this is the best time, the right thing to do. They are confident of a big victory. I wish I could be so sure.’
‘I am certain everything will be fine,’ said Liz.
‘You are a rock,’ said Thelma, sounding uncharacteristically u
nsure of herself.
‘You’ll trounce them, no problem.’
‘Well, that is as maybe, but I might still need some assistance, as we discussed.’
‘I remember, I am ready, you can rely on me.’
‘Sir Robert’s health is a lot worse.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘He’ll be gone before Christmas.’
‘That soon?’
‘’Fraid so. I’d like you to come up to London on Monday. Can you do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come to Number 10 at two o’clock. We’ll have a planning meeting. I’ll introduce you to my Cobra committee. I think you will be impressed.... as will they.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Good, that’s settled. How’s everything getting on down there?’
‘It’s nearly wrapped up. The bloody rambling club was the nerve centre, sitting in the forest in their damp pants and dirty boots with their stewed tea, nattering away like fishwives. It might be funny, if it weren’t so serious. Pathetic really. I’ll fill you in with the details when I see you.’
‘Found those stupid papers yet?’
‘No, not yet, but we will, and soon.’
‘God, you so fill me with confidence, Elizabeth. I wish I’d found you ten years ago.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘Monday. Two in the afternoon. Don’t forget.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Forty-Six
Adam and Eve crossed the Priory churchyard as the clock began chiming ten. ‘Bus or train?’ she said.
‘I’ve got no ID,’
‘Forgot about that.’
‘And we don’t have that much cash. I think we should save as much as we can.’
‘So what then?’
‘Hitch, it’s safer.’
‘OK, agreed.’
They crossed the town and headed for the main road that fed east to west, the busy highway that ran roughly parallel to the coast, and sat on a low wall that bordered the public park, debating their next move. Across the road, the large grey town police station seemed to be watching their every move through the bull’s eye windows.
‘Bit dangerous here, ain’t it?’ she said.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I feel safer out on the streets. I figure they are turning over all my friend’s houses and flats. I don’t suppose they’d expect to find me sitting brazenly in the open, especially not here, right opposite the cop-shop.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
The next moment, he was elbowing her in the ribs.
‘Look at this,’ he said, a hint of excitement in his voice.
She turned to see what he saw.
Approaching them round the bend, delaying the traffic, was a gypsy wagon. An old flat wagon pulled by one large black and white carthorse. Driving the horse was a young man, late twenties, grubby shirt, red neckerchief. Beside him sat a young woman, and on her lap was the fattest baby Eve had ever seen. The child was about six months old, and he stared forward through moonlike eyes, as if they were headlights. As the wagon negotiated the corner, Adam and Eve watched a large oak barrel perched on the rear, slewing across the surface of the timber.
‘It’s going to go,’ said Adam.
The driver still hadn’t noticed it was moving.
‘Look out!’ shouted Adam. Too late. The barrel crashed to the street and flipped over, spewing its contents of green apples every which way.
‘Bloody hell!’ shouted Adam, standing.
‘Oh, God,’ said Eve.
The guy yelled: ‘Whoa!’ and the horse stopped.
Two cars screeched to a halt behind, and one of the drivers leant from his window and levelled an obscenity at the gypsies. The girl pulled tongues back at him, and offered a hand signal. The gypsy jumped down, but Adam was already there, on his hands and knees; collecting apples.
‘You’re all right, kid,’ said the gypsy. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘I’ll help ya,’ said Adam, enthusiastically, placing the apples back in the barrel that the bloke had already set upright. Eve arrived too, collecting her share of the good ones, for some had been crushed and broken.
‘Leave the buggered ones,’ said the guy.
‘I’ll eat ’em,’ said Adam, ever eager to seize a free meal.
‘They are cookers, they are sour.’
‘Don’t bother me,’ said Adam, all bravado, sinking his teeth into the good side of a damaged Bramley. His face contorted.
‘Told you so,’ laughed the gypsy, heaving the full again barrel to the back of the wagon, as if he were lifting a small bag of potatoes.
‘Where are you heading?’ asked Adam.
‘Over the hill,’ said the guy.
‘Over the hill?’ said Adam.
‘You can’t get anywhere without going over the hill, boy.’
Boy. For once Adam would let it pass.
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’
Adam gawped at the delayed traffic that was pulling out to avoid the cart. Some of the drivers smiled at the sight that belonged to another age, at the handsome baby, while others pulled hideous faces, and mouthed wild unkind words from behind the safety of their toughened glass. The gypsy looked at them pitifully, knowing full well that not one of them would have the courage to stop and get out and say anything detrimental to his face.
‘Can we come too?’ said Adam.
He looked at Adam and Eve in turn, sizing them up.
‘You in trouble?’
‘Course not,’ said Adam, a little too quickly.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said, jumping up beside the girl.
‘Can we?’ said Eve, pleadingly.
She had fantastic eyes, he noticed that.
The gypsy gathered the reins.
‘Why did you pick up those apples?’
Adam shrugged. ‘You needed help.’
‘Not many people would have done that. We are gypsy scum, in the eyes of many folks. Most people would stand on the sidelines and laugh. You didn’t laugh, you didn’t hesitate. Straight in there, you were. I liked that.’
‘Can we come then?’ asked Adam.
‘Aye, for a while, hop on up.’
They climbed aboard, Eve sitting next to the girl with Adam on the outside. He thought the girl looked about the same age as Eve, though he kept that pearl of wisdom to himself.
‘Beautiful baby,’ said Eve.
The baby studied the strangers in turn, gurgling.
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had to feed the beggar,’ said the girl. ‘He can be a little bugger sometimes.’
‘What’s his name?’ said Eve.
The girl giggled and smiled at the bloke and muttered, ‘Hawkeye.’
‘Hawkeye!’ said Adam. ‘Tell me you are joking.’
‘Nope,’ said the guy. ‘He is called Hawkeye, aren’t you my little fella,’ and the gypsy reached across and tickled the little boy’s tummy. The baby blinked through massive eyelashes and gurgled again.
‘How come?’ said Eve.
‘Blame the flicks,’ said the guy.
‘Eh?’ said Adam.
The girl nodded. ‘We’d not long had him. My mam was on at me all the time to settle on a name. She suggested we went to see a film,’ (though the girl pronounced it fil-um), ‘for inspiration. The fil-um was that new one called Hawkeye, and afterwards we went out for a few drinks and one thing led to another, and by the time we got back to the camp we had settled on Hawkeye. Mam thought we were joking, thought we were crazy, mad as hatters, she said we were, but it kind of stuck. He’s Hawkeye Petulengro, aren’t you, my little one?’
The baby smiled broadly, knowing full well they were talking about him.
‘Petulengro?’ said Adam, pronouncing each syllable separately, ‘Pet-u-len-gro?’
‘Sounds grander than it is,’ said the gypsy. ‘It means Smith in Romany.’
Adam laughed and said, ‘What’s your first name.’
‘You are a bit nosey, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry, just asking.’
‘My name is Ged, if you must know, that’s Ged, with a hard G, as in Get, rhyming with dead. And she’s Dolores, though I call her Dollars, because she’s worth a million.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Ged,’ said Adam, reaching over and offering the guy his hand. ‘I’m Adam, Adam Rexington.’
The sleeves on the guy’s grubby shirt were rolled up almost to his shoulders revealing weathered biceps. He took Adams puny hand and shook it.
‘And the girl, she’s called?’
‘Eve,’ she said, smiling at the guy and Dollars in turn.
‘Adam and Eve, eh?’ said Dollars, ‘how romantic.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ said Ged. ‘What is it with women? They see romance in the queerest of places.’
‘That’s only because men never see it anywhere at all, even when it’s staring them full in the face.... Ged Petulengro,’ she fired back, and she shared a look with Eve that only females would ever truly understand.
It took more than half an hour to traverse the town. After that they trundled by the big garden centre and began ascending Roeshot Hill. They were heading for the open forest, and that suited them all well enough.
‘Over the hill?’ said Adam.
‘Aye,’ said Ged, grinning, ‘first of many. Over the hill.’
A moment later, Adam detected Eve’s body stiffen. ‘Uh-oh,’ she said.
‘What’s up?’ whispered Adam.
‘Up ahead. Look.’
Adam peered forward, half expecting to see a police checkpoint. There was a young woman standing there on the grass verge attempting to hitch a lift. She was waving a crude sign, black letters scrawled on part of an old cardboard box. LONDON.
‘What?’ said Adam.
‘It’s Joss,’ whispered Eve. ‘That Frank Preston and his family must have given her the bum’s rush. Can’t say as I am totally surprised. Fair-weather friends, if ever I saw them, all that family are the same.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Adam.
‘She’ll see us,’ said Eve.
‘Who cares?’
They were less than thirty yards from her, when a blue sports car flashed past the wagon. The car window was open and the music was blaring. It was the Goosesteppers’ new tune. That song was everywhere.