There was no chance of pulling away from him. The Oxford, though I’d cherished it, was no match for a modern Audi, not in speed, acceleration, or road-holding. But perhaps Beanie was no match as a driver, particularly as he’d be driving with only his left hand, his right being busy waving a gun. That made it a slight advantage to me, though I had to distribute my attention between the road ahead and the wing mirror.
I was up to seventy and he was still there with me, and I was holding the speed till the last second before braking and squealing round corners. The road surface was poor. The wheels were scrabbling for grip, the back end swinging. You can’t get an Oxford into a drift, it just pitches, then you’re fighting the oversteer, and only a heavy foot on the throttle holds it. I was clipping the grass verge on left-handers, the opposite bank on right-handers, and praying no farm wagon was just around there out of sight.
And always, of course, there was the risk of a blow-out if Beanie got lucky. He’d love that, at seventy, watching me pitch off the road, rolling over down the slope on our left, which was gradually becoming steeper and more wooded as the road skirted the flank of a hill.
I felt two more bullets thud into the metal. But the car was driving well. And it’s not easy to fire a gun with your hand out of a side window, not when you’re driving fast. But sometime he’d have to re-load. That wasn’t going to be easy. Or perhaps he had another gun, already loaded. I hoped not. I was counting on a delay when he slowed to fumble cartridges into the chambers of the gun on his lap. Counting on it.
But then the road turned away from the hill in a long, straight slope, with the nearest corner way, way ahead. It was what he’d waited for. I saw the white bonnet nudging closer. He’d got both hands on the wheel; he was close I could see that, that and his teeth as he grimaced in some sort of triumph or concentration. I weaved, one side to the other, fighting him off, but I was on maximum and he’d got a lot in reserve. He didn’t need to do any weaving, just sit and wait and watch, poised. And once you start weaving the tail swings and you’re fighting it, and coming out of each weave flings the tail a bit wider, and the effort to straighten out is just a bit more. Till the tail swings a little too much.
I felt the thump as it caught the right bank, which was near vertical there. We were plunging through trees, and the sun-flicker on the road was confusing. Then I was hanging on to the wheel as the car mounted the grass verge on the other side, and Beanie’s bonnet was up to my shoulder on my right. I tried to force him over, hands crossed on the wheel, but if I hadn’t touched the brakes I knew I’d lose control altogether, and that fractional loss of speed let him through.
He was alongside. The feel was coming back to the wheel. I’d got the road again, firm and hard. I nudged him, and he fired sideways through his opened passenger’s window.
My own window was open, too, the day being so warm. The other side window went in a flare of broken glass, and he fired again. The hot, dry line of the bullet went along behind my neck, and for a moment I didn’t see the road, but I kept my foot down and my right hand urging the car over and over to the right. We touched again, then my eyes were clear and I could hear his tyres screaming as he scraped the bank, and he had to get out of it.
He fell back. I was clear for a moment, but didn’t feel good. So far it was only hot; the pain would come later. I was in full control of all my muscles, and that distant corner was very near.
I mistimed it, went in too fast, had to brake going round and nearly left the road, and a hundred yards ahead a tractor was pulling out. He was coming in from my right, turning away from me. There’d be a few moments when he completely blocked the road, then he’d be clear. But I couldn’t afford any moments at all. The bad corner had brought me down to forty-five, so I notched into third and gave it all the throttle. I slipped under the nose of that tractor with two inches to spare, and I knew Beanie would be stalled. Enough. Long enough, perhaps. There was a left-hander ahead, and I raced for it. As I scrambled round I saw that Beanie was just edging past the tractor. Then, a hundred yards ahead, a right-hander. It was just what I needed, because on the left was that steep slope again, with trees speckled down it, and only a low grass verge between. I slowed, picked my speed, got it down to thirty-ish, and drove straight on.
The car bucked, but took it. I had the door open, the wheel in my left hand. The nose went down and the tail came up as we ploughed through that shallow ditch, then we were through there, and I lifted the gear into neutral as the nose dropped for the slope, throwing myself sideways out of the door.
I rolled to take the impact out of it, and fell on the shoulder he’d creased. I kept on rolling. The car plunged away, hesitated, touched a tree with the near-side wing. Then I found a patch of fern and dived into it as the car rolled over sideways with a crash of metal, and went on and on, bouncing and gaining impetus, then hit suddenly, horribly, into a tree. It burst into flames.
The Audi drew up — I heard it more than saw it — and Beanie ran into view, looking down into the trees at the burning car. Then he raised his gun in a kind of salute and turned away. I heard the car accelerating fast and the chug-chug as the tractor took its place.
Then the chap from the tractor came scrambling down the slope, so I saved him any more anxiety by getting to my feet.
‘It’s all right, mate, I got clear,’ I said, and he stood in front of me, panting.
Beanie definitely hadn’t wanted a chat. I wondered why he’d wanted to kill me. Maybe I was on to something important. If I was, I couldn’t think what it was, and I very much wanted a word with Beanie, in case he knew.
In slightly different circumstances, of course.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The man said: ‘You don’t look too good.’ Then, at a sudden thought: ‘Heh! Were you on your own?’
‘I was on my own. Look, is there a phone I can use?’
‘My place. But take it easy. That’s where he’ll have gone. A phone box.’
‘Who?’
‘The chap in the Audi. Sure to’ve done. Or why’d he go dashin’ off like that?’ He was a fair young man, friendly.
‘Oh sure. That’s what he’ll have done.’
I dragged myself wearily up the slope. He was behind me, glancing back at the burning car with a kind of awed fascination.
‘There’s blood on your jacket,’ he said.
‘Probably.’
We stood beside the puttering tractor.
‘You were asking for it,’ he pointed out encouragingly. ‘Driving like that. Scared hell out of me, you did.’
‘I’m sorry. Look ... the phone.’
‘I’d give you a lift, only ...’ He indicated the single seat on the tractor.
‘I’ll walk. Back along here, is it? Where you were turning out?’
He looked at me critically. ‘Better wait for an ambulance.’
‘I’ve got to get to a phone.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll stay here. Tell ’em when they come that you’re not in there,’ he explained, nodding down towards the Oxford. Bright lad, he was.
‘Thanks.’
I started walking. It had been only a few hectic seconds in the car. On foot, aching by that time and with my shoulder stiffening with pain, it seemed a mile. Then there was the long, rutted drive. The farmhouse seemed deserted, but I pounded on the door and a young woman eventually came, a young woman with flour on her hands, her face hot and shining and impatient.
‘Your husband said I could use the phone,’ I explained. ‘There’s been an accident.’
She eyed me up and down. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It’s in there.’
It was on a table in the sitting-room, a room of polished brasses and hung photos of the family. First I dialled 999 and reported an accident, because if Beanie had been heading anywhere it wouldn’t have been to a call box. Then I moved a wedding group and lifted the phone to extract the directory. There was no clear idea of what I could do, but now, as I was suddenly without transport, Elsa seemed ter
ribly remote, and I wasn’t going to be able to break it up, whatever was going on at his place. So I looked up Martin Vale. There was a whole row of Martin Vales. All garages. Then I saw it, right at the bottom. Morton Foster 217.
Vale answered.
‘It’s Mallin. Is Mrs Forbes there?’
‘No she is not.’ He sounded ruffled. ‘Where are you?’
‘I understood she’d gone there.’
‘Well she’s not here now.’
‘Gave you some trouble, did she?’
‘Go to hell.’
And he hung up. Suddenly the aches had gone. The room was bright with gay sunshine. I supposed it was too much to hope she’d shot off one of his toes. Or something.
I phoned Alwright at HQ. This was going to be more difficult. I’d have to tell him about the attempt on my life, but as I couldn’t yet understand why it’d been made, I would really have preferred to have a word with Beanie myself first. In my present mood I’d be much more effective with Beanie. If I could get hold of him, that was. But the important thing was to tell Alwright I’d the bag and the porcelain fragments, because that was something concrete in favour of Uncle Albert, though of course, last time I’d seen Alwright he’d hardly been in a mental condition to believe me one way or the other. So all I could use to persuade him of my sincerity was the attempt on my life, which would send them out after Beanie, which would mean I couldn’t get to Beanie first. So I wouldn’t know why I’d suddenly become a danger to somebody. It would be a tricky conversation, I realised, as Alwright came on.
‘It’s you,’ he said, which I already knew.
‘I’ve found something.’
‘There’s never been a time when you’re not finding something. What?’
‘It’s a calico bag, and it’s got the dusty bits of the broken vase in it. You remember what I said, about the vase being broken inside something, a bag of some sort, and how it meant that Albert Smallbridge couldn’t have had it in his briefcase.’
He laughed nastily. ‘Oh, I remember it all right. You’re really scraping the bottom now. But why should I believe you?’
‘Now listen ...’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Stuffed behind the seat in my car.’
‘Your car? Oh, that’s rich. Your car! I like that. So you caught up with her, did you? Had time to hide the vase somewhere, and now you’re coming up with this.’
‘I haven’t caught up with her, as you put it.’
‘Only caught up with the car?’
‘If you care to put it like that.’
‘Oh, I do. I do. Where are you?’
‘Will you let me explain?’
‘You can explain back here. Where are you, Mallin?’
‘There’s been a lot happening.’
‘I’m warning you. Tell me where you are. Stay there, and I’ll send a car out.’
‘Are you going to listen?’
‘Not now I’m not. Where are you?’
‘Find out,’ I said, and slammed down the phone.
I wandered out and into the kitchen. She said: ‘I hope you haven’t been calling long distance.’
‘Reasonably local,’ I said, got out a fifty, and pinned it to the table with a wedge of dough.
Then I went out into the dust and heat and plodded back to the wreck. As far as I could see I couldn’t count on too much freedom, and Beanie would be away into the wilds of Birmingham before I’d so much as landed one fist in his face.
And what the hell did I know that I wasn’t aware of?
There was a fire wagon parked behind the tractor, and shouts from down the slope, an ambulance behind the fire wagon, and behind that a red Porsche. I started running. Elsa was halfway down the slope, her hand covering her face from the heat or something, her hair a bit wild. I shouted: ‘Elsa!’ and stumbled down to her, then she was in tears all over my jacket, her arms round me, and I was saying: ‘It’s all right, love. All right.’
She took her hand away and looked at it. ‘But you’re hurt!’
‘It’s nothing. Not the accident. Only a bullet wound.’
‘What d’you mean — a bullet wound?’ she said angrily.
I laughed, holding her away from me and enjoying it, her smeared face, hair in her eyes, that ridiculous mouth trying to be stern. ‘I’m in trouble, Elsa, glorious, bloody trouble, and I’ve got to move fast. Come on.’
‘But where? You can’t just leave ...’
‘You want your Uncle Albert out, don’t you?’
‘Now David, no more ideas.’
‘But look what I found.’ I produced the calico bag and waved it in front of her. ‘You remember?’
She remembered. ‘Then simply phone the superintendent. There’s sure to be a farm ...’
‘I’ve tried that, my sweet. Now we’ve got to try something else.’
I grabbed her hand and pulled her up the slope, opened the passenger door for her. She slid in decorously. I went round to the other side, and got in.
When they’d made that Porsche they’d taken a mould of Dave Mallin, and constructed it from there outwards. It welcomed me. Things fell to my hands, my feet, you know the way they are. Some cars are an extension of one’s senses. I could feel the road surface through the seat of my pants, the tyre treads with the tips of my fingers, the engine through the soles of my shoes. I was home. I started it, and the engine was glad to see me — where have you been all my life? I drove away, and in half a mile I’d fallen in love with it.
‘Do you like it, David?’ she asked meekly.
I just smiled.
‘It’s yours, you know.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Do you?’ She was disturbed, a little disappointed that the surprise was denied her.
‘Where d’you think I picked up the Oxford?’
She thought about that. ‘You were coming after me?’
‘I was trying not to.’
‘But you didn’t come, did you?’
‘I couldn’t Elsa. Not really. You must see that. Not when the Rover wouldn’t start again.’
‘Oh.’ She thought. ‘I don’t quite see that.’
‘I’ll explain some time.’
Theoretically it should have had oversteer, rear engine and all. But they’d tamed that. I threw it at corners, and all you had to do was keep the power on.
‘It’s ridiculous, of course, Elsa. You can’t buy me a car like this.’
‘It’s bought.’
‘You can’t buy me presents.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘There’s no reason to.’
‘That’s not my fault, is it?’ she asked, and when I glanced at her she’d got one of her funny smiles on. ‘You’re very old-fashioned, David.’
‘I try to keep up.’
Then she dropped the subject, which could not have been pursued comfortably in a Porsche at seventy.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘To see a friend.’
Beanie had a half-hour’s start on me, but he’d think I was dead. That gave me a chance, that he hadn’t simply been going home when he’d met me, that in fact he’d been out looking for me. So it was likely he’d still be at The Stag.
‘You said a bullet wound,’ said Elsa.
‘Yes. Part of the reason for the crash.’
‘Who did it?’
‘You’ll see. We’re going to interview him now.’
‘Oh no!’
But we were, because when I parked the Porsche just short of The Stag he’d got his Audi outside. And as they were now open, legally, to the public there was no need to go round the back and give him a chance to get out the front. I knew my way now, and it was simple to ease ourselves through the crush and edge up the stairs.
I said: ‘I’ll have my gun back now, Elsa.’
‘Gun? What gun?’
I’d rather been counting on it, but one glance at her confirmed she was completely baffled. But there was no time to a
rgue about it. Things were going to be that much more difficult, that was all.
I told her I’d need her help. This I was reluctant to do, but I’d already used the phone-call gag on him, and he knew my voice, even if he now thought I was no longer in possession of it.
‘I want you to knock on his door,’ I whispered. ‘He won’t open it; he never does. But he’ll say what is it. Then you say you want to speak to him, and if he still doesn’t open up, say you want to see him about an engraving. That’ll do it.’
‘You won’t get hurt, will you?’
‘I’ll try not to. And Elsa, you keep your eye on that doorknob, and the moment it starts to turn, you step to one side. You understand? I shall be going in fast.’
She nodded. She understood, but she wasn’t happy about it. I braced myself opposite the door, one foot against the skirting board like a sprinter’s starting block. I nodded. She went through the act, and I admired the steadiness of her voice. It worked wonderfully. Beanie opened his door, and I flung myself forward.
The only snag was that he was expecting a woman, and Beanie’s got a way with women, so he swept the door wide open and stepped back in welcome. My sliding tackle met nothing.
I did the length of the room on my back and ended up in a shower of wood chippings that had been a table. When the air cleared I heard the door close and looked up. Elsa was inside the room and Beanie was behind her with a gun in his hand, and I had no doubt at all that he’d found time to re-load it. He didn’t seem surprised that I was alive, only disappointed and glad of the chance to rectify it.
‘I hope you’ll pay for the damage,’ he said.
Beanie had been packing. Two cases on the bed, one for his clothes, one for his hardware, no doubt.
‘Leaving, were you?’ I asked.
‘Nothing to stay for.’
‘You owe me a car.’
‘Claim on your insurance,’ he said negligently. ‘Mr Mallin, I’m getting out of here, and you know what that means.’
The Silence of the Night Page 13