by Carola Dunn
She could call Ken on the two-way. He was probably within range. He didn’t know the area, though. He’d have trouble finding the isolated house. And he had the girl with him.…
A sudden stray breeze wafted the scent of gorse to her nostrils. The gull took advantage of the gust to sail away with a mournful cry. The jackdaws had given up and flapped off a minute or two earlier.
The breeze dropped as suddenly as it had started, leaving an ominous stillness in the air. Overhead, the low pall of grey cloud crept slowly inland, extinguishing the last vestiges of blue sky to the east. Calling it the “pathetic fallacy” didn’t prevent brooding nature’s increasing Megan’s uneasiness. What should she do?
* * *
The squawk of the radio made Eleanor jump. “CaRaDoC L6, come in, please.”
Tariro pointed to a small metal plate on the radio console: “L6, that’s us!”
“Hello, L6, are you receiving me? Come in, please.”
They exchanged a look. Gingerly, Eleanor picked up the thing that looked like a telephone receiver. “Hello?” She listened. “Hello, this is L6.” No response.
“I think you have to push something, one of those buttons.”
“L6, Pencarrow, are you receiving me?”
“On the dashboard? Which one?”
She pressed a button. The Launceston operator was cut off in mid-word. Hastily Tariro climbed over into the driver’s seat and took a closer look at the radio panel. “This one—”
“—lo, L6, come in, please.”
“Hello?” said Eleanor.
“CaRaDoC L6, are you receiving me?”
“I bet it’s the one on the transmitter. The thing you’re holding. Here.” He pressed a button on the gadget Eleanor held out to him.
“Hello?” she said into it yet again. “This is L6. CaRaDoC L6, I mean.”
“Hello? Hello?”
“Hello, this is L6, can you hear me now?”
“I am receiving you, L6. Who is speaking?”
“This is Eleanor Trewynn. Megan—DS Pencarrow—went to investigate a van.”
“The van she reported as having left the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me your location, Mrs. Trewynn, and the location of the van?”
Eleanor described how to get to Mrs. Mason’s guest house and the position of the police car. “Megan’s behind the house, concealed behind a rock, watching to see what’s going on. Should I go and fetch her?”
“On no account! The men involved may be dangerous. We have a probable identification for one of them. Stand by a moment, L6.”
“I’ll go and warn Megan,” Tariro whispered.
“No! You’d be more likely to draw their attention to her than to help. And I need you here. I’m bound to get in a muddle with the—”
“L6, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Hello?” She reached for the console.
Grinning, Tariro intercepted her hand and hit the correct button, not the one she’d aimed at.
“Yes, L6 here.”
“I’m authorised to give you the information, Mrs. Trewynn. Please listen carefully so that you can pass it on to Megan. I shall ask you to repeat it to me to make certain you’ve got it correctly. Understood?”
“Yes. I mean, understood.”
“Here goes, then. The man using the name Victor Jones is almost certainly Victor Stone, alias the Sandman because of his expertise with a sandbag. Recently released from Dartmoor after a long stretch—that is, after a prison term—for manslaughter in the course of a robbery. Repeat, please.”
Eleanor repeated, with a little prompting from Tariro. “I’ll tell Megan. She said you’re sending—I can’t remember his name—the Speed Demon, she called him?”
“DC Dawson.” The radio operator’s dry tone came through in spite of the crackling. “Yes, he’s on his way, but even he can’t arrive for twenty minutes at least, more likely half an hour.”
Barring tractors, flocks of sheep, and herds of cattle, Eleanor thought. “Oh dear!”
Luckily, Tariro did not transmit this unconstabulary exclamation.
“I’ll alert PC Yarrow,” the voice continued. “Please continue to listen for further news or instructions. Over.”
Eleanor hesitated for a moment, then replaced the receiver—or transmitter, or whatever it was she’d been speaking into—in its place on the console. “Is that right, d’you think, or should I keep holding it?”
“We heard their original call before you picked it up. I suspect you should have acknowledged what was said before hanging up, but I’m no expert. They know you’re an amateur. No doubt they’ll make allowances.”
“I hope so! I hope they won’t tease Megan about her incompetent aunt.”
“You managed very well, if you ask me. I still think I ought to go and warn Megan. Suppose she tries to tackle this Sandman bloke on her own, not realising how dangerous he is?”
“She wouldn’t do anything so foolhardy.” Eleanor sounded doubtful to her own ears. She knew the pressure Megan felt to keep up with her male colleagues. “No, I’m sure she won’t. The other man is bound to be there too, and she knows it.”
“Oh yes, the operator said ‘men.’ Who are these men? I’ve got only one little piece of the puzzle.”
“I haven’t got much more.” She told him what Megan and Ken had said about them.
“So they haven’t actually done anything illegal here? That we know about, at least. They could be just visiting Mrs. Mason?”
“It’s possible, certainly. From what little I’ve seen of her, she wouldn’t be worth going to all that trouble to rob. Mason,” she reflected, frowning, “Stone. A coincidence. But not much of one. Neither name is particularly uncommon. It does make me wonder, though.…”
“Perhaps they are related, and Mrs. Mason changed her name to prevent discovery of the relationship.”
“It’s a nice theory, isn’t it? I’m sure Megan would say Stone is too common a name for anyone to imagine such a connection. Besides, why choose a name that’s … not similar, exactly, but linked, if you see what I mean?”
“The name suggested itself to her because of the link, and she didn’t realise until after she had established herself as Mrs. Mason? It would not be easy to start again somewhere new.”
“True.” Could it all be true, their tissue of speculation? Was it worth presenting the theory to Megan?
At least it had served to distract Tariro from his intention of joining her niece. Eleanor rather doubted Megan would be pleased had he appeared at her side.
On the other hand, perhaps Megan ought to know the alarming news about Stone. What exactly was a sandbag? It didn’t sound dangerous, but evidently it became a lethal weapon in the hands of an expert. Should Eleanor let Tariro go and warn Megan, at the risk of alerting the villains to her presence?
The question changed suddenly: Could she stop him?
Tariro opened the door and got out, saying, “I’m going to tell her one of them is a killer. For all we know, the second man might be another. She can’t face those odds alone.”
EIGHTEEN
Megan decided it would be just plain stupid to act without further information. She scanned the hillside between her and the house. There was little cover between her sheltering rock and the low wall that kept sheep out of Mrs. Mason’s back garden. A dark line slanting down the slope, brought into focus, turned out to be sedge defining a rill, too low-growing to be useful unless she lay flat behind it.
The streamlet was almost certainly too shallow for her to hide herself by slithering into it. In fact, she’d easily be able to jump over it, if it weren’t that she wanted to remain as invisible as humanly possible.
Off to her left was a small hawthorn tree, leaning away from the onshore winds. The trunk wasn’t anywhere near wide enough to conceal her, but anyone just glancing round could possibly overlook her in her dark green parka.
And the Londoner hadn’t even glanced that
way.
Halfway down, the thorn tree would provide a meagre shelter from which she might be able to see more. It seemed the best bet.
Before making a dash for it, Megan focussed the glasses again on the house and van. For a moment, the scene was just as when she had first seen it. She could almost believe that the terror on Arbuthnot’s face must have been a figment of her imagination, that he was paying a perfectly ordinary visit to Mrs. Mason and had had some innocuous, if obscure, reason for looking down the road.
And then he came out again. For a moment, Megan couldn’t make out what she was seeing, or perhaps refused to believe it. Arbuthnot, stooped and staggering a little, carried a man draped over his shoulders. The slumped body wore hiking boots; legs in dark grey corduroy trousers dangled limply. His ankles were bound together over the trousers with multiple loops of household string, the straw-coloured, hairy kind. A blue pullover and, as Arbuthnot turned towards the van, a sandy head, lolling, came into view. The dangling arms were also tied, a pink stretch bandage binding his wrists.
Arbuthnot momentarily let go of the legs to make an ineffectual grab at the handle of the van’s back doors.
“Moron!” The snarled word came clearly to Megan’s ears. “Why the hell didn’t you open it up before?”
Victor Stone had come out of the house while Megan was concentrating on his mate. His expression was vicious, without a sign of shock or fear. Like the other crook, he had a limp body over his burly shoulders. Megan instantly recognised Nick.
Her heart skipped a beat; her breath caught in her throat; her vision blurred.
The scene came back into focus. Nick, too, was trussed up, which surely must mean he was alive! He appeared to be tied with white gauze at both wrists and ankles.
Megan’s brain began to work again. The two villains had not come with the intention of tying anyone up. When the need arose, they had used whatever came to hand. What had happened to make such an expedient necessary in their eyes? Was Mrs. Mason complicit? Or were they going to carry out her unconscious body next?
Stone let Nick slide to the ground, feet first. Megan winced as he landed, crumpled to his knees, and fell forward. Stone opened the rear of the van, swinging the doors wide. The sole contents seemed to be two suitcases, but it was dark inside, apparently lacking a window to the cab. He shoved the cases to the front.
Arbuthnot turned his back and made a clumsy attempt to unload his burden into the van. With contemptuous ease, Stone took the unconscious man from his shoulders and slung him casually to the corrugated metal floor. Picking up Nick, he dropped him on top of the other and slammed the doors on them.
Megan expected them to go back into the house. They had left the door open. But Stone tramped round the van to the passenger door. Arbuthnot locked the back doors and went round the driver’s side.
It was too late to think of trying to intervene. Megan headed for her car as fast as she could run.
* * *
As Tariro closed the car door, so carefully it made not a sound, Eleanor saw Megan coming up the hill.
“Wait,” she said sharply. “Here she comes.”
Tariro looked over the roof of the car, then hastily opened the driver’s door again. “She’s in a terrific hurry. I wonder what’s happened? Look, the van’s leaving.” He jumped into the backseat. Teazle deserted Eleanor and joined him.
Megan arrived, slightly out of breath, swung in behind the wheel, and turned the key. “Don’t ask,” she snapped. “You’ll hear soon enough. Aunt Nell,” she went on as the car rolled down the track, gathering speed, “you see that van? Keep your eyes on it and watch where it goes, in case I’m distracted. Tariro, I’ve got to use the radio and I need both hands for driving. Can you lean over and get the transmitter, and hold it where I can speak into it?”
“Of course.” He slid over to the middle of the backseat, reached between the front seats, and unhooked the gadget. “Mrs. Trewynn’s been in communication with your HQ.”
“What!”
“They rang up,” said Eleanor, “or whatever you call it. Do you want to hear what they said?”
“In a minute. I must get things moving fast.” She took her left hand from the steering wheel to press the transmit button, but Tariro was there before her. “CaRaDoC L6 calling Launceston. Urgent. Emergency.”
Tariro hit the receive button.
“I am receiving you, L6. Emergency, understood. Details, please.”
Eleanor listened with mounting horror as Megan described what she had observed. “I am following the van, Jenny. Just turned south on B3263. Request assistance with tailing and interception. Dawson knows the lanes. And someone needs to check on Mrs. Mason.”
“Roger, L6,” said the operator. “I’ll notify Dawson and the Tintagel bobby—PC Yarrow, right?—immediately, then clear it with DI Eliot. He’s in charge here. D’you want Mr. Scumble informed, Megan?”
“Yes. Even if he’s— Hold on. The road’s wiggling. And here’s a village.”
“Trewarmett,” said Eleanor, glad to see no one and no traffic in the street.
Megan reported the name.
As the car skidded round a bend and Megan expertly corrected, Tariro exclaimed, “Oh, well done!”
Beyond the hamlet the road straightened, going uphill with quarries on the left. Megan stepped on the accelerator. Nonetheless, the white van was pulling away. “It’s moving fast.”
“Souped-up engine,” Tariro said.
“Jen, he knows we’re after him.”
“L6, I’m switching you to Channel 3. It will remain open for you to keep us informed of your location. Please confirm when you have switched.”
Tariro leaned over farther to peer at the console and Megan told him how to change channels. Eleanor, her gaze on the van, didn’t see what he did, but he said, “I think that’s it.”
“Penbethy,” said Eleanor as they whizzed past a few buildings, followed by stone-walled fields on either side.
“L6 reporting on Channel 3. Are you receiving me, Launceston?”
“Roger, Pencarrow.” It was a male voice. “Wharton here. Jen roped me in temporary-like. Eliot’s sent for Tina.”
“Sarge, we’re coming up to a T-junction. He’s turned right—and right again, and left.”
“Railway bridge ahead,” said Eleanor, “and Camelford Station. There’s a crossroads.”
“Railway bridge, station, and crossroads coming up. He’s charging straight across.” Megan slowed just enough to glance both ways before following. “Shortcut to the A39, Aunt Nell?”
“Yes, via Slaughter Bridge. It’s a narrow, winding lane.” Her wanderings in search of donations were proving useful once again.
“Heading for Slaughter Bridge, Sarge.”
“I heard that. You’ve got your auntie along for the ride, Sarge?”
Megan flushed. Eleanor didn’t listen to her response. The van had disappeared round a bend and she had lost sight of it. “They can’t turn off before Slaughter Bridge,” she said, reassuring herself as well as Megan.
They were passing through yet another tiny hamlet. The police car swept round the curve and there was the van, rocketing down a straight stretch into a wooded valley.
“The River Camel, but it’s just a stream here.”
“Dangerous bend sign,” Tariro commented as the van vanished again, swinging wide round the sharp curve.
“Thank goodness it’s not August!” Eleanor exclaimed. In summer, even these back roads got a fair amount of tourist traffic.
They rounded the corner in time to see the van dash over an ancient humpbacked bridge. It might have taken off if the hump had been a little more pronounced. Immediately on the other side, the lane made an acute-angle turn to the right.
The van slowed, and Megan caught up bumper-to-bumper. “I wish I had a gong and roof light,” she moaned. “I don’t dare try to overtake.”
“I doubt flashing lights would stop them,” said Tariro. “The girl said it’s a convict calle
d Stone.”
“Ken was right, then.”
“The next bend is even sharper,” Eleanor warned. “Left. Or if they go straight ahead, straight but much too narrow to pass.”
Round the tight curve crawled the van, with the police car on its heels. A farm lorry coming the other way, far too close to the centre line, veered back to its own side. A lane leading off to the left had a FARMS ONLY sign. Eleanor usually took that way in her quest for donations for the shop. Now they swept past, the van speeding up into the next curve.
Once past that, the van began to get away from them. High hedge-banks hid even its roof from Eleanor. “No turnoffs except for farm tracks,” she said worriedly, “but the A39 isn’t far, just a mile or so.”
“On the main road they’ll beat us hollow,” Tariro said.
“That doesn’t matter so much,” said Megan, “as long as we manage to see whether they turn south or north. Sarge, I’m approaching the A39.”
“So’s Dawson, in L13, on the A395 a mile east of Davidstow.”
“Tell him to turn south. If they go north, we’ll trap them between us.”
“Hold on. Mr. Scumble’s arrived.”
“Already? He must have driven like a bat out of hell.”
“I heard that, Pencarrow. Do not—repeat—do not tackle these men.”
“I doubt I can catch them, sir. The van looks grotty, but the engine’s better than mine. If Dawson and I together manage to stop them … and I have an able-bodied assistant—”
“Sure thing!” Tariro said with an American accent.
Eleanor started planning how to use Aikido to disarm a large man wielding a sandbag. She wasn’t sure what a sandbag looked like, what length, thickness, weight, flexibility, or how it was swung. At the same time, she kept her eyes on the van.
The road bent slightly to the right before debouching onto the A39. As the van reached the junction, for a moment only its roof was visible. It didn’t pause before swinging left onto the main road.
“North,” said Eleanor.
“They’ve turned north,” Megan reported. “Damn!” She had to stop at the intersection as a lorry thundered by, closely followed by a sports car unable to pass because of traffic coming the other way. “Turning north on the A39, two vehicles between us.”