‘What? This?’ he turned it round. He’d been sketching on his pad of paper. He seemed ashamed of it. ‘Gotta do something. The nurse over there got me this. It’s her. See the likeness?’
And I did. I grinned at him. A mistake. I winced.
‘You ain’t too good yourself, Pop,’ he observed, cocking his head to favour his better eye.
‘My continuing existence is not wanted. A bit of a fire, that’s all.’
‘All?’
‘I got out of it.’
‘Sure you did.’
‘I’ll have to buy you a new riding kit. I was wearing it at the time. I’ve borrowed your bike as well. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Help yourself. Hey, I’d like to see this. You’ll kill yourself.’
I raised my fist to give him a friendly punch, then thought better of it. ‘I was riding motorbikes before you were born.’
‘A tip, then. Don’t accelerate on right-hand bends. It pulls. Something to do with the shaft-drive transmission.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
There was another pause. Awkward. Apart from the motorbike, we had little in common.
‘I’m gonna do the Sister next,’ he told me at last, gesturing with the pen.
‘I don’t think they use that word now. It’s sexist.’
‘The boss-lady, then. Don’t see her much, though. Got nice eyes.’
‘I hadn’t noticed. Look, I’ll see you again, Al. I’ve got to get away now. Things to be prepared, sort of.’ I put back the chair. ‘When I see him—any message?’
‘See who?’
‘Paul Mace.’
‘You ain’t goin’ back there!’
‘It isn’t finished.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Can’t you put it off? Give me a couple of days—’
‘No, Al. Thanks, but no. I’ve got to get your mother out of there. I’ll give him your best wishes. That do?’
He looked at me without expression, then away. ‘I can’t wait to try colours,’ he said. ‘Look out for yourself, Pop.’
‘I’ll do that.’ I turned abruptly and went out.
As I’d told Aleric, I’d ridden motorcycles before he was born. But that had been more than twenty years earlier, and 320 miles in a day was now more than I could take. By the time I reached home I was hanging on to the bike rather than controlling it, and my head was swimming from concentration. It was an effort to lift my leg over it and lower it on to its stand, and for a moment I had to steady myself before stumbling round to the back to get into the house. It was only when I had coffee filtering and was cutting a cheese sandwich that I remembered I hadn’t checked for miles about being followed.
It was eight o’clock by the time I was feeling as though I would live. The skin over my shins felt tight and hot. My pipe tasted fine again and didn’t affect my breathing, so I went to the phone in the hall, taking a chair with me. Directory enquiries gave me the number. It rang a long while before it was snatched up. I sensed the snatch from the tone of voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Paul Mace, please.’
‘Speaking. Who the hell—’
‘It’s Tony Hine.’
A pause. I heard him take a deep breath.
Then: ‘Where are you?’
‘Let’s not be funny, eh?’
‘We thought you were ...’ He stopped.
‘Dead? Yes, I’m sure you did. But I’m not.’
‘You’ll wish you were. Don’t waste my time, Hine. We were eating.’
‘Too bad.’
‘D’you know where your damned car finished?’
‘Tell me.’
‘On top of the pub.’
‘Oh dear. Then you’ll have found the photos in the glove compartment?’
‘I’ve got ’em. Now get off the bloody line.’
I gave it five seconds, but he didn’t hang up. I had him. Curiosity, and perhaps fear, held him.
‘I was hoping you had those pictures,’ I told him. In fact, everything depended on it. ‘You’ll realize, of course that they’re photos of the eighty-one I hold.’
‘Copies!’ he snarled.
‘So what I want you to do—’
‘You want!’
‘What Coombe wants you to do, though he doesn’t know it, is sort out the six that match with the ones in the gallery. You’ll remember which those are, I’m sure.’
‘Will you get on with it!’ His voice was cracking with tension. He had sensed my confidence.
‘Plenty of time. Don’t panic.’ I paused again. Let him panic. ‘Now what you’re going to do is take those six to the gallery, and compare them with the six on the wall.’
‘Don’t you give me orders,’ he snapped.
‘You’ll be glad I am. Listen. Are you listening?’
He was breathing hard. He said nothing. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’ It came through like a whiplash. ‘Right. I know you believe my lot are only copies of the ones your boss has. So you’ll take those six and compare them with the others, then you’ll come back and tell me what you’ve seen.’
‘I’ll see you in hell—’
‘No. You’ll come back and sit by the phone, and I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Oh ... one thing. I take it that Coombe has relied on you completely when it comes to authenticity? Yes? Then you’ll sit by that phone, friend, because you’re in for a shock.’
I hung up. I was trembling. I felt great.
Then I went and poured another mug of coffee, took my time over it, and exactly seventeen minutes after I’d hung up I dialled the number again.
He gave it one ring, then I heard him breathing. ‘Well?’ I asked.
‘I see what you mean.’
This was a different Paul Mace, chastened and scared.
‘They’re painted from different view-points—correct?’
‘So ... it seems.’
‘Two people, sitting side by side, sharing a palette between them on a table. Eighty-one were done like that. Eighty-one pairs, Mace. Seven left of one set. Guess which set your boss’s come from!’
‘You can’t pull that one.’ He was trying to sound more forceful. ‘I know a Frederick Ashe when I see one. Ours are his.’
‘Ha!’ I said. ‘I know another expert who thinks the same. But you’re both wrong, and I can prove it. Prove, Mace. Not persuade or argue. Prove. And to back it up, I’m coming there tomorrow, about three, say, to do the proving.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘No. You’ll see. You’ll tell Coombe what I’ve said, and to save any waste of time you’ll tell him to have a certified bank cheque ready, made payable to me to the sum of three hundred thousand pounds—’
‘What!’
‘Which he’ll be willing to part with by the time I’ve finished, pleased to. For my six. Get it?’
More heavy breathing. Then he laughed thinly. ‘By all means come. Welcome! I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Somebody trying to con Renfrew Coombe out of three hundred thousand ...’
‘I’ll see you, then.’
‘You’ll see me.’
‘Good. I didn’t want to miss you. Until tomorrow ...’
I hung up. Though it hurt, I laughed.
Then I went to bed early, resting up for the big day tomorrow, though I didn’t sleep well. Mace had been correct. I couldn’t actually prove anything. It was, after all, going to be a con trick, and by the very nature of it I was unable to rehearse the participants. But I had a good idea of their reactions. On these I had to rely.
In the morning, after a large breakfast and a bath, a tentative one because I wasn’t sure about the legs, I rang the Metropole. I asked for Margaret Dennis, and they paged her. Knowing the Metropole, I guessed it would be a shout from the desk. In a couple of minutes she came on.
‘You were quite correct, Tony,’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘It is a crummy place.’
‘Yes. We’ll have to meet up for lunch.’
‘Not here, I hope.’
‘No. There’s a service station just this side of junction 19 on the motorway ... the M5.’
‘Aren’t we travelling together?’ she cut in.
‘I didn’t think it’d be a good idea. Assuming you still want to be in on it.’
‘You know I do. But I’ve got the Volvo here—’
‘I’ve got a hired Metro, but—’
‘And we could talk about it on the way down.’
There was a pause. We’d been interrupting each other so briskly that we were both out of breath. In the end, it was I who broke the silence.
‘I thought we’d discuss it at the service station. Eat there, then tail each other to Renfrew Coombe’s place.’
‘Well yes, but—’
‘No buts. I’m likely to be followed, and I don’t want you involved if there’s trouble. I’ll start early, and go by minor roads to shake anybody off. Then we meet at this service place ...’
‘I hate eating on motorways.’
‘Yes. It’s a pity. It ought really to be a good meal, if it turns out to be our last.’
‘You’re trying to put me off,’ she said sharply, not at all amused.
‘Exactly. I can manage on my own.’
‘No you can’t, and you know it. You need an expert. You said that.’
‘All right. Shall we say one-thirty at the service station? There’ll still be time to back out.’
‘I have not the slightest intention of backing out,’ she said with chill dignity. ‘Yes, I’ll see you there. Goodbye for now.’
‘Be seeing you. And drive carefully.’ But I didn’t think she heard the last words, the line had gone dead.
I was inside Evelyn’s private little office when the doorbell rang. It set my nerves jangling. Nobody was supposed to know I was there. But that was optimistic, based on the theory of being where I was least likely to be. I peeped round Evelyn’s curtains, from where I could see the front door. It was Detective Sergeant Dolan. Of course, he knew, because of the hired Metro in the drive.
Sighing, I went to open the door.
‘It’s just the wrong time for protective custody,’ I said.
He was dangling from his fingers a set of car keys. ‘You left these in the Metro.’
‘I lost a set of keys once, and it caused me a hell of a lot of trouble. Now, when I’ve only got one set, I leave ’em in the car.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘Toss ’em on the seat as you leave.’
‘You’re using it?’
‘Not today. Keep ’em yourself, if you like, then you’ll know where I am.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a tricky bugger, Hine.’ I noticed he kept them in his hand. ‘I came to see you about that affidavit you mentioned.’
I didn’t turn away because I didn’t want him in the house. ‘I bet you’ve promised something to your Super.’
He shook his head, the hat wobbling, and tossed the keys in his palm. ‘Haven’t mentioned it. This is just you and me ... you said.’
‘So I did. Well, don’t worry, you’ll get it.’
‘When?’
‘Heavens, Sergeant, don’t push. Tomorrow, if I’m still around.’
He grinned. ‘You’d better be. They’re getting a warrant, and tomorrow’s when we’re taking you in.’
I stared into his eyes. They didn’t flicker. He turned away and walked off cockily, tossing the keys through the Metro’s open side window as he passed. It was a gesture that indicated he didn’t care where I went, because he would know.
Having watched him drive away, I went back to Evelyn’s room. I couldn’t find what I wanted in her desk drawers, so had to try her briefcase, which had combination locks on the latches. Before going to the length of breaking it open, I tried an idea. It was a three-digit lock and her birthday was 17 March. I tried that—173—and it worked. It didn’t for the other latch, so I tried mine. 23 May: 235. It worked. I found this strangely moving.
I was wearing slacks and my old tweed jacket, because it had large inside pockets. From the briefcase I took a sheet of her law stationery, folded it in four, and put it in my left-hand inside pocket. I banged her little rubber stamp on its little inked pad, and slipped that into an outside pocket, to pick up fluff. In my outside breast pocket I clipped her Sheaffer fountain pen, and I was ready.
I had the photographs waiting on the kitchen table. There were two sets, six in each, one of the photos of Coombe’s paintings, and one of the matching ones from the loft collection. These I put behind my wallet in the right-hand inside pocket.
The set of six copies, which Terry Bascombe had printed for me, I carefully placed in my left-hand inside pocket, next to the blank sheet of law stationery.
It was vitally important that I didn’t get them mixed up.
I was ready. It was an early start, as I intended to take a meandering cross-country route by way of Bridgnorth and Ludlow, then across to pick up the M50 the other side of Hereford, and thus to the M5 at junction 8.
There was no intention of using the Metro, never had been. I climbed into the motorcycling suit and went out to Aleric’s Yamaha.
The road to Bridgnorth is fast. Along it, I saw no sign of being followed, though the rearview mirrors on the handlebars had a tendency to vibrate and shatter the reflection. Once I’d taken the new by-pass around Bridgnorth, and was on the Ludlow road, the hills and the winding turns gave me little time to watch my tail. I poured the bike into the corners, having mastered the trick of using power to lean me into left-handers, and easing off for right. I was riding as I’d always done, rolling the twistgrip with my right thumb, my fingers resting on the front brake lever.
Ten miles short of Ludlow, I became aware that a car was on my tail. There’d been little traffic, and I wasn’t pushing it, merely trying to hold a steady 50. There had been opportunity to pass me, but it hadn’t been taken. I raised the speed. Fifty-five, then 60. I could still hear it behind me, but the bends were so close together that I had no chance to turn my head. The road surface was poor. The mirror images were jumping all over the place.
As I said, I had heard it, and the implication of this took some time to sink in. Inside a crash-hat, and on a 1000 cc twin, you don’t expect to hear anything. I heard it because its silencer was blown. I saw it as it edged up at my right elbow, along one of the rare straight stretches. It was my hired Metro. The cheek of it; they were using my own car with the intention of pushing me off the road.
Then it was not an intention, but a fact. The car eased across my nose. There is a technique in this. The nearside tail of the car has to touch the bike’s front wheel. No more than the tail, at 60, or the car might itself be ditched. It was during the two seconds when the calculation was being made that I had time for evasion. Fingers already on the front brake, ease it on. Not too hard, it would raise the weight off the rear wheel enough for it to break away if I stood on the brake pedal. I felt the speed drop, rolled the throttle off, and the tail of the car skimmed my front wheel by two inches.
It accelerated away, its broken exhaust blatting back in defiance. I could have chased it, but I didn’t know who was driving it—hadn’t had time for a glance—and pistols might be brought into play. The Metro was doing about 70 when it disappeared around the corner ahead.
I stopped, a little shaken. The ditch that side of the road was deep. I propped the bike up and got off and had a smoke, waiting for my nerves to settle. Clearly, it was optimistic to expect that I’d seen the last of the Metro, unless I could once more get ahead of it. I would have to keep an eye open for side roads, in which it might be lurking.
Getting going again, I settled into a steady 50 but, as these things usually do, the speed crept up to sixty as I gradually relaxed, seeing nothing of the car. There was always a chance I’d already got in front of it. With this thought in mind I began to put on the pressure, forcing the bike round the bends.
>
I had expected it to wait down a side, minor road. In practice, the driver had chosen an open farm gate on the right-hand side of the road, catching me by surprise. It was a nice bit of straight. The speedo was on 70, and suddenly it was pulling out, right across my nose.
The driver was taking a big risk, because over 350 lbs of metal, moving at my speed, would make a nasty hole in the side of a Metro. I was fifty yards short when my reactions snapped in. They were as sharp as they’d ever been. I rolled off the throttle and eased on the front brake, feeling it in, judging by the bite and the dip of the nose. Short, sharp dabs of the footbrake; I didn’t dare to allow either tyre to break away. The over-run on the shaft drive applied its torque, and it wanted to turn right. I let it. The Metro had gone a yard too far, assuming I would try to squeeze through under his nose. I aimed for the tail. It moved forward another six inches. I leaned into the right turn until I was opposite the gap, then I rolled back the throttle and gave it the lot, felt the tail kick, and the torque helped me throw the nose round the Metro’s tail.
I was right over, my left shoulder dipping. I felt the wind-fluttered sleeve of the suit brush a corner of the tailgate, then I hauled the bike upright, stuck my head down, and fed in the power until I was up to eighty and too near the next corner, scrambled round that, and settled down to put miles under the wheels in as short a time as possible.
I didn’t relax until Hereford forced me to, but by that time I was satisfied I’d lost the Metro. I picked up the M50 and drove east, picked up the M5, and settled into the middle lane, heading south.
Because of all this, and in spite of the fact that I’d taken a roundabout route, I was much too early for Margaret. It was barely one o’clock when I rode into the service area. I stripped off the suit and locked it in the panniers, locked Aleric’s crash-hat to the bracket, locked the steering—so many damned keys on his ring—then went to have a coffee. Afterwards, I strolled, placidly smoking, around the car park until Margaret’s Volvo turned in. By that time I was relaxed, and, indeed, more than a little pleased with my performance on the bike.
I opened the door for her. ‘Had a good journey?’
She stood beside me. ‘Very easy. And you?’
‘No difficulties.’
We stood and looked at each other. I grinned, and she threw herself into my arms, her lips at first firm and cool, but then melting. Not, this time, an electric shock, but a warm bath of intimacy.
By Death Possessed Page 18