by Mark A Biggs
As we lie, waiting for a safety only time could now deliver, I could see in my mind as clearly as if it were true—Penny, our Penny, dying from a gunshot in the house. I knew then the pain, the agony, Kate’s father would feel when he heard the news. We had killed them as surely as if we had pulled the trigger ourselves and we had been willing to put Penny in danger before embarking on this trip. I prayed for Penny’s safety and then felt guilty for thinking of Penny instead of Edward and Kate.
I reached for Olivia’s hand and the only words I could manage to say in a soft whisper were, ‘I’m sorry.’
Perhaps an hour had passed before we thought it safe to leave our hiding place.
‘Let’s go,’ I whispered to Olivia.
Boom! The night sky lit up with a red and yellow hue as flames leapt out from where the windows had once been. The explosion was deafening and, if we were not still prostrate on the ground, perhaps that too would have been the end of us.
Olivia called into my ringing ears, ‘Gas! They’re covering their tracks.’
We could hear neighbours emerging from their houses shouting in voices of anguish and urgency. I signalled to Olivia and we slowly stood and made our way farther up the garden until the dark of night once again gave concealment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jaguar
Stealing a car took longer than we both hoped. The explosion had woken the slumbering village and it wasn’t until the early hours of Friday morning that we could finally flee to Oxford. We thought it too late to book into a hotel without arousing suspicion, so we looked for a B&B with a car park in which we could hide and sleep until daylight. Driving down Banbury Road, Olivia noticed the Parkland B&B which appeared to have a nice sized car park. After pulling in we settled, the best we could, for the remainder of the night.
Despite being seated, or leaning back in the seats, sleep came easily for both of us. It was about 6.00am when night began to fade.
‘The sun will be up in about thirty minutes,’ said Olivia. ‘What’s our plan for the day?’
Twenty years ago we would have abandoned the car at the B&B and walked into Oxford. Now, with walking any significant distance a challenge, we decided on dumping the car at the railway station, even though there would be CCTV.
To minimize the risk of being recognised, we had resolved to split up for the day. I left Olivia at the Oxford Railway Station, she having decided to take the 7.09am train to Manchester and a return train in the afternoon. Her idea was quite clever, to catch up on sleep where she would be totally inconspicuous, sitting and dozing on a warm intercity train. Her day would pass in relative comfort, I surmised.
My plan was that, having bought the Jaguar, I would pick Olivia up from in front of the Eagle and Child hotel, at about 3.00pm. From there, we would drive toward Exeter in Devon and the post office drop box, staying overnight en-route. With that in mind, I walked what was for me a considerable distance, from the station and up the high street, resting along the way, until I came across a quaint café, the Queen’s Lane Coffee House. Both the name and the building facade were appealing but I think it was the sign that claimed that they were the longest established coffee house in Europe that won me. Undoubtedly they were proud of their age, which I interpreted as a good hint that they appreciated older things and, with me being old, I thought I would be welcome inside. Casting one final critical eye over the premises, looking for what I don’t know, I entered intent on breakfast, a hot coffee and reading the newspaper, my normal morning ritual restored.
The Queen’s Lane Coffee House would be my hideout for the next few hours, or until the library opened. That is where I planned to conceal myself for the rest of the day until catching a taxi to purchase the car.
I ordered from the menu the scrambled eggs on toast but looked, in envy, at the Full English Breakfast, ‘eggs on toast, sausages, bacon, baked beans, tomato and mushrooms’. The gentlemen seated opposite had ordered it. The smell was mouth-watering but, unfortunately, two bits of toast is a big breakfast for me nowadays, and I had to be content in indulging my senses by savouring the aroma.
The waitress, probably a student at one of the colleges nearby, brought the newspaper with my coffee and I settled in for a quiet read while breakfast was cooking. The radio played a local station in the background and, as with many morning programs, was more talking than music. Glancing at my watch, I saw it had just turned 8.00am and with it the morning news came on.
‘This is the Heart of Oxfordshire News. Leading our bulletin this morning, police are investigating a house explosion late yesterday evening at Horton-cum-Studley, a small village east of Oxford. Two people are reported as missing. Police are not saying if they are treating the explosion as suspicious. The names of the missing people have not been released.’
Remembering Kate and Edward sent the radio broadcast drifting from my consciousness until being snapped back into the present with the mention our names.
‘Olivia and Max, our Bonnie and Clyde nursing home escapees from Australia, narrowly avoided capture by police yesterday. Eye witness accounts say Max and Olivia, who entered Britain on false passports, avoided police by leaving through the kitchen of the Renaissance Hotel as authorities were coming through the front entrance. A spokesperson for the police say there are concerns for the health of Max and Olivia as they fled in such a hurry that all of their medications were left behind. It is believed that they are heading to Oxford. Police are seeking the assistance of the public for any information.
‘Listeners may remember Olivia and Max, who became famous following a motorbike and sidecar accident back in 2008, while riding across Britain and Europe at the young age of eighty-five. The major papers have reported that, tomorrow, they will be running editorials on Olivia and Max, along with speculations as to why they have returned to Britain.
‘If you see Max or Olivia, you are asked to contact your local police station.’
Our photographs had already appeared on TV but, once we made the major newspapers, anonymity would become increasingly difficult. Things would become even more complicated if we were linked to Edward and Kate and the house explosion. The current casual police interest could quickly turn into a serious investigation, making evasion far more difficult.
I looked up, feeling the eyes of all the customers within the café staring at me, only to find that nobody was paying any attention to me at all. I must have then drifted off and become deep within my own thoughts, being brought back to the present by the sound of the waitress’s voice.
‘Are you all right? Sir, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes I’m fine. Thank you,’ I replied.
The waitress smiled and, indicating with her eyes, drew my attention to my hands, where I had inadvertently allowed the coffee cup to slip in my fingers thus dispensing what was left in the cup over the table and newspaper.
‘Let me clean that up for you sir,’ she said.
Using paper napkins, she methodically worked around the table soaking up the spilt coffee. When she had finished, she removed the sodden newspaper and returned a minute or two later with a new unsodden version.
‘Can I get you another coffee?’ she asked in a kindly tone, as if nothing had happened.
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ I said, secretly grateful that I had not been dribbling.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon passed uneventfully. I even had a nice snooze, along with some other venerable men at the library. Shortly before 2.00pm, I took a taxi to where the Jaguar was housed. I intended to purchase the car regardless of its condition but, to my great pleasure, it was as described; immaculate. I bought it without moment’s hesitation.
With the cash transaction completed, I slid into the driver’s seat of my new chariot, ever mindful that, aside from yesterday’s dash in the stolen car, I had not driven since the crash in Moonee Ponds. The old custodian watched, perhaps with apprehension, as I put the keys into the ignition of his once beautiful mistress and brought t
he Jaguar to life. A couple of kangaroo hops later and I was on my way to the Eagle and Child, the pickup point for Olivia.
‘Gee some of these laneways are narrow,’ I said to myself, as I swung left into a cobbled road which I hoped would cut across town. I waved back to some pedestrians who were clearly delighted to see a beautiful classic British car prowling the equally elegant streets of Oxford.
The road was empty in front and behind, which was fortunate for I couldn’t see how oncoming traffic could be passed. There must have been a traffic light somewhere up ahead for, all of a sudden, I was facing a stream of traffic with no place to go. Bringing the Jaguar to a halt, I heard a knock on the driver’s window. I wound it down, and a man in his thirties smiled back sympathetically and in a kindly voice said, as only the English could, ‘This is a one way street and, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you are going the wrong way.’
The first of the approaching cars was now stopped just a few feet from my bonnet emblem but not a car horn sounded. Hastily, I tried to make a three, then four, then seven point turn. Each time I ended up with the front wedged across the footpath and the back blocking the road. With great effort, I managed to drive the car back to where I had started, facing the stationary oncoming car.
To my dismay, I noticed what appeared to be a policeman, but could quite easily have been a parking officer, walking slowly up the lane.
‘Shit, police,’ I said loudly enough to be heard through the open window by the man who had alerted me to the one way nature of the street.
‘Would you like me to turn the car around for you?’ the window knocker said.
‘That would be most generous of you. I’ve only just picked her up and find that I’m struggling a little without the aid of power steering!’
Having finished the sentence, which was obviously a lie, I alighted from the car faster than I had moved in the last two years and was in the passenger seat before he knew what was happening.
‘If you could turn her around and put her out of sight,’ I said, speaking in a mocking tone, as if giving instructions to a chauffeur, to which he laughed aloud before asking, ‘Are you on the run?’
He didn’t wait or seem to expect an answer but manoeuvred and turned the car around with three sweeping motions, before driving it back to the main road and away from my chaos.
‘You’re not from Oxford?’
‘No. Does it show?’
He laughed again before saying, ‘Oxford is a maze of one-way streets, so even the locals struggle. If you like, I can drive you to where you want to go in Oxford. By the way, I am Zarheer,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Without thinking I automatically replied ‘Max,’ and while regretting my lapse, I reached across to shake his hand.
‘Where to Max?’
‘The Eagle and Child.’
‘Good choice. Did you know Tolkien and C.S. Lewis used to meet there?’
We made our way across Oxford and didn’t speak again until pulling up outside the Eagle and Child.
‘Thank you Zarheer.’
‘I hope you don’t scare Olivia too much with your driving skills. You take care Max and good luck.’
‘Are we that obvious?’ I said to Zarheer, as he left the car, and handed me the keys.
His only reply was a warm smile accompanied by a departing nod of the head as he strode away from the Jaguar and back from where we had come.
* * *
Inspector Axel
It had been another long week at Interpol and I was looking forward to the weekend and flying to the UK to stay with my daughter and her husband. The sound of the phone ringing brought me back into the now.
‘Inspector Axel, this is Detective Lynda Wells,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone and added, ‘of Scotland Yard.’
‘Good afternoon, Detective Wells, it’s been quite a while. How can I be of assistance to the Yard?’
‘I wish that chatting to you again could have been under better circumstances. I have some difficult news. There’s been an explosion at your daughter Kate’s home in Horton-cum-Studley. I’m afraid that we are really concerned for the safety of Kate and Edward. It’s too early be a hundred percent certain, but there are two bodies at the scene. As you would appreciate with an explosion and fire it will take a little time to make a positive identification.’
Disbelief, grief and panic in a melange of emotions overwhelmed the moment. Tears welled and dripped down my cheeks depositing their salty sorrow upon my lips.
‘Are you still there Inspector?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.
‘I understand that this is difficult.’
Choking back the tears, I asked in a voice that quivered, ‘Do you know what caused the explosion? Is it suspicious?’
Detective Wells outlined what she knew and told of the CCTV footage showing Max and Olivia leaving the Hotel Renaissance with Kate.
Curiosity fused with grief; through our family connection, it was not surprising that Kate would help Max and Olivia if given the opportunity. My immediate thought was whether I should share this link with Detective Wells? I chose to remain silent.
‘Detective Wells, if you remember the last time we spoke, I was investigating Max and Olivia, following their motorbike and sidecar accident in Poland. That must have been sometime back in 2008. Is it possible the bodies are of Max and Olivia and not Kate and Edward?’
‘Possible, although we have received some unconfirmed reports that Max and Olivia have been seen in Oxford. We are still looking into the sightings. As I have said, we don’t know with certainty whose the bodies are.’
‘Do you know, I was convinced back in 2008 that someone was trying to kill those two. I am willing to bet my career that whoever caused that explosion was after those wily old buggers and not my daughter.’
‘Our authorities agree with you; they think there is something else going on here which is why Scotland Yard has been asked to take over the investigation of both the explosion and of finding Max and Olivia, if they are still alive. Because of your previous investigation, I am authorised to invite you to join us in the UK and assist in finding Max and Olivia. For obvious reasons, you can’t be part of the investigation into the explosion; you will have to leave that one to us. As part of our team you will know exactly what’s going on.’
‘Thank you Detective. I was planning a visit to the UK this weekend, to see Kate, so I already have a flight booked for Saturday morning.’
For the second time in a couple of minutes I decided against telling Detective Wells the whole truth. I neglected to say that the real reason for my visit was to unofficially look for Max and Olivia.
‘I will see if I can get an earlier flight and leave tonight instead. I would suggest that we don’t fuel public interest in Max and Olivia. If we can, we should try and keep them out of the media, at least until we know what’s going on.’
Detective Wells agreed.
On hanging up the phone my body felt numb but, when I closed my eyes, I was touched by the certainty that Kate was still alive. A father would know. A father would feel it if she was gone, or am I just kidding myself? As quickly as that sense of knowing came, it was replaced by uncertainty and then the inevitable acceptance of forfeiture. Fatigue overcame me and all of the energy drained from my body. In despair, I sank deeper into the office chair. I had lost my wife and then, during her formative years, through necessity, Kate was raised more by my parents than me. I’ve been a neglectful father. If only I had spent more time with her.
Despite this I recalled a good relationship; she never complained of the hours I worked, the school concerts I missed or the birthdays I forgot. Closing my eyes once more, I could see Kate staring back at me. Her eyes sparkled with love and compassion. When was the last time I told her that I love her? With that thought I let the tide of sorrow and regret take me and I wept silently, alone.
* * *
Max
I found Olivia seated at the back of t
he Eagle and Child drinking a class of white wine. She had given up waiting outside but showed no concern with me arriving thirty minutes late.
‘Did you get it Max?’
‘Yep.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘Gorgeous, absolutely stunning.’
‘Can you drive it?’
‘Nope.’
‘Nothing’s changed then. I picked up a road atlas while I was in Manchester.’
‘Can you read it?’
‘Nope.’
‘Nothing’s changed then.’
‘Touché,’ said Olivia. ‘Are you ready? Let’s do it. Let’s get out of here before it gets dark and you have a real excuse for your bad driving.’
‘You can be cruel sometimes,’ I said in a loving tone, lifting one eyebrow.
I barely negotiated a roundabout the size of a US Aircraft Carrier and with more lanes and exits than the tentacles on an octopus. The beeping and gesturing from our fellow road users were ignored while I randomly changed lanes mid roundabout and we found ourselves on the A40 rather than the A42, our planned route.
‘Whose mistake was that?’ I said to my navigator, Olivia.
‘Whose do you think?’ came a barbed reply.
Checking the map, Olivia concluded that the error didn’t matter as we were travelling generally in the right direction, towards where we wanted to go.
‘I think we should keep off the major M roads,’ said Olivia. ‘At Burford I want you to turn left onto the A361. Our new route is through Swindon and if you want, you can skirt the centre of town. Then I want you to take the A4361 to Devizes, after which you turn right onto the A361 to Frome and then the A359 down to Bruton.’ After pausing for a breath, she continued, ‘Then drive to Yeovil and finally take the A30 to Crewkerne to join the A35 for the run into Honiton. Once there, I expect you will remember the way to the Five Bells Inn where we are planning to have dinner. Did you get all that?’