A Web of Lives

by David Medlycott

Bernie Mitchell had discovered the benefit of automatic gearboxes; he didn’t have to use his injured arm to change gear. But, on the other hand, he hadn’t been able to fit his seat belt. The power steering was good, too; he was able to swing the big car about with only one hand.

  As soon as he had got outside the backdoor of the café he had given up trying to chase Jimmy. It was obvious that his younger cousin was so much fitter and having collided with the counter Bernie knew the chase was lost. The sharp corner of the bar counter had caught the lower part of his left arm, just above the elbow, and then driven into his lower ribs on the same side; consequently, it was almost impossible to bend his left elbow and raise his lower arm and any sharp or deep breathing sent spasms of pain through his chest.

  Bernie approached the top of the steep mountain road with apprehension. He leaned forward to reduce the reach to the gear lever and locked the transmission into a low gear. The pain and effort involved using his arm caused him to swear out loud and the sharp intake of breath only made matters worse. Tears formed in his eyes and blurred his vision slightly as he glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  Shooting that stupid young policeman had been a serious mistake, he should have had more control over himself, he had panicked. Now all of France would be looking for him.

  Seeing that young couple in the corner as he ran out had been his undoing. Their being there had to be a coincidence, Bernie knew he hadn’t been followed, he had checked regularly as he drove. And, besides, they didn’t know him anyway. The only thing he could think of was that they were on holiday there together. In which case did any of them realise why he was there? Well, they would, now! And Jimmy certainly would.

  He couldn’t really get to grips with the reasoning, his ribs were beginning to hurt a lot and swaying around in the car was becoming very painful, worrying about how or why they were there after what had just happened was pointless. He needed to get away now, as fast as possible and he was starting to feel most unwell. He pulled into the side of the road, away from the terrifying drop off the mountain, and put on his seat belt, painfully reaching across with his right hand.

  The sun had risen high enough to shine on the road and the dark car was becoming hot. He wiped the perspiration from his face and opened the window. But that made him feel cold and he could feel how wet his shirt was. His back was soaked and cold when he rested back against the seat. His mouth was dry and his eyes ached. A series of sleepless nights in the car was taking its toll.

  He pulled out of the little lay-by and continued his descent of the mountain, wandering from side to side, steering with one hand. A car appeared coming up the hill, round a bend, head on. He just managed to regain his side of the road as the other car swerved away before they collided; the occupant’s shocked, white faces, mouths wide open, flashed past as he rolled on down the steep descent. He tried a deep breath to control himself, but it merely made him jump with pain and nearly lose control again.

  He steadied himself and drove a little slower.

  He reasoned that he wouldn’t be chased from the top of the mountain; they would probably wait for him at the bottom. But, did they know who they were waiting for? He had got out of the café and into his car without drawing a lot of attention to himself, he thought; everybody had been running the other way. With a bit of luck they would not know his car number, but they might have a description. That couple, the writer and the girl, must have seen everything and would certainly have told the police he was English, therefore, they would look for an English car. A few hundred yards further down the hill, as he rounded a bend, he got a clear view to the valley bottom and saw blue flashing lights. He pulled into the side again and, with great difficulty, recovered his road atlas from where it had fallen on the car floor. He could just make out a tiny road on the map, marked in white, leading off to the west from the main road. He couldn’t remember passing a turning so it must be further down, toward the blue lights.

  He obviously couldn’t go back so he had to venture forward. He almost missed the turning it was so small; he had stopped so close to it and not seen it that if he had been driving on the ‘normal’ side of the road he would have moved off and missed it all together. He reversed back and turned down it.

  Bernie’s heart was in his mouth, together with his stomach and several other of his organs; he had made a big mistake. The road was carved out of the sheer mountainside and was no wider in many places than his car; the drop on his side was so steep he couldn’t even see the bottom; and for much of the way along there was only a small retaining wall. He passed through a couple of small hamlets where the road looked more like an alley going to the back yards. His good right hand gripped the wheel till his knuckles went white. His left hand gripped the corner of the seat and his speed fell to a crawl. Thankfully he met no one coming the other way.

  As he rounded one particularly sharp, but marginally wider, bend he saw a blue van pulled in at what passed for a lay-by or passing place. The driver obviously was not expecting to meet anyone either, as he stood on the edge of the precipice casually urinating into mid-air. Bernie was not stopping for anyone and rolled slowly on as the man leapt for the safety of his vehicle, barely managing to close his trousers.

  Bernie lost track of the number of hairpin bends he took, he had almost stopped breathing, some people would no doubt call it a breath-taking view, but to Bernie that was too painfully accurate a description. He ventured on. The road narrowed! He almost closed his eyes.

  Bernie’s life had flashed before him several times as he descended from the mountaintop and gratefully passed through the tree line. His right arm had become locked as he gripped the wheel and one final hairpin bend caught him out and he narrowly avoided running into the forest. He made a painful three point turn, from the tyre marks on the road he was glad to see he wasn’t the first, and eventually regained the main road deep down in the valley at yet another hairpin junction.

  He didn’t look back to view his spectacular route; he just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the Alps as he possibly could. He was exhausted and couldn’t remember a time when he felt so bad.

  Tobin studied the chalkboard menu. ‘What’s that?’ He asked Teri. ‘At the bottom.’

  ‘Andouillette?’

  ‘That sounds like it.’

  ‘Andouillette, Monsieur?’ Asked Arnaud in surprise.

  ‘Non! Non.’ Cried Teri. ‘You wouldn’t like it. Even some of the French find it an acquired taste. Just have a crêpe.’ Grudgingly he did.

  They both ate hungrily as Arnaud plied them with more bread and cheese and pastries, still refusing to accept payment.

  The table was just being cleared when they were joined by ‘Monsieur l’agent’, as Teri said to formally address the police officer. He sat down opposite them, produced their passports with a beaming smile, placed them on the table in front of him and folded his hands over them.

  ‘Coffee?’ Offered Tobin.

  He nodded his acknowledgment and Tobin signalled Arnaud who promptly added another cup to the tray and brought it to the table.

  ‘I have been in touch with my superiors and they are looking for the assailant as we speak. It is a very serious offense and the man when he is caught will be in great trouble. In France it is a very bad thing to shoot policemen.’

  ‘As it is in England,’ agreed Tobin. He could tell that this was going to be a long and time consuming lecture, the officer was settling down to stay. ‘We have no interest in what happens to the man.’ He continued.

  ‘What was the young policeman doing here?’ Tobin asked.

  The policeman sat forward, looked Tobin directly in the eyes and thought for a moment. Then he said. ‘I sent him to tell M. Martin that there were people looking for him.’ He thought again for a moment. ‘We are curious because when this man is looking for M. Martin he say is a … relative. If he is a relative then you must know him.
Non?’

  ‘No,’ they said quickly in unison. Tobin added, ‘We don’t know anything about Alan’s past or his family.’

  ‘It is strange to us that this man is English – and M. Martin has … er, English … er … step-daughter? This was not known by anyone here. Arnaud!’ Arnaud had been innocently cleaning a table within earshot behind the policeman’s back thinking he had not been seen.

  ‘Oui, monsieur?’

  There followed a swift interrogation which Tobin could tell Teri was having trouble following. Arnaud was plainly negative in his responses, with much head-shaking and upturned palms in answer to the queries. His eyes rolled heavenwards with a flick of the head as the policeman’s attention returned to Teri and Tobin.

  ‘I am trying to find out for you where M. Martin may have gone, but, I am not getting the help. I think he may go to Paris, he has friends and business there.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you,’ said Teri, unable to hide her surprise.

  ‘Here are your passports.’ He opened each one of them and automatically checked the name and photo as he returned it. ‘Miss Shaw.’ He smiled at her. ‘Monsieur … Foy?’ He queried the pronunciation of the name.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Tobin could feel Teri’s stare from beside him.

  The policeman rose and bid them, ‘Bon journèe.’

  As soon as he was out of sight Teri grabbed the passport from Tobin’s hand and opened it at the photo. ‘Why are you traveling under a false name?’ She demanded in a loud stage whisper.

  ‘I’m not.’ He sighed. ‘If you look at the full name you will see the answer.’

  ‘Foy, Nicholas … John Tobin!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh! Is that for writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Before she could think of any more awkward questions, he said. ‘Right! We must get moving. Where in Paris would Alan go? Back to where we were yesterday?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She was still thinking; watching him.

  ‘Well. Let’s get going and head that way.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She followed him as he again tried to pay for the food and was refused.

  ‘We are going to find Alan.’ He said, slowly and deliberately to Arnaud. Teri stepped in and translated for him. Arnaud looked grim and merely nodded his response.

  Outside Tobin checked the little van that Alan had arrived in. The keys were still in the ignition and an overnight bag lay on the passenger seat. He looked up and found Arnaud watching him from the café window. He gave a wave and climbed into the Ford with Teri.

  ‘Right, Oh wise one! Where are we going?’ She stared straight ahead sitting behind the wheel, engine running, waiting.

  ‘Well, if you have no better ideas, Paris.’

  She ground the gears and moved off with a jolt, bouncing him around in his seat.

  ‘Hey! Gently! You were the one telling me to look after your little car.’

  She did it again grinding into a higher gear as she turned into the main street.

  Five days growth of grey beard did nothing to improve Brian Dale’s appearance. He carried his suit jacket, because of the heat and his tie knot was pulled down to undo his top button, exposing the grimy inside of the collar. His once sharply creased pinstripe trousers were now dusty and baggy and his shoes scuffed and dirty.

  He rose from the table on the hotel terrace where he had sat and watched the excitement at Mick’s bar and signalled the waiter for his bill. The waiter eyed him cautiously; this scruffy Englishman with the wild, staring red eyes had been very sharp with him before, for not bringing the coffee quickly enough. The bill changed hands and was paid with a handsome tip. So handsome that the waiter knew the Englishman didn’t understand the money.

  Dale descended to the road level as he saw the small blue Ford draw away from the side of the café and out into the main street.

  He had been badly shaken when he had seen Bernie on the terrace of the café earlier. They would have met face to face if Bernie had not been ordering something from the waiter. Dale had turned on the bottom step and walked swiftly away, circling the block looking for a vantage point from which to survey the café. He had just taken a seat on the hotel sun terrace when he saw Bernie Mitchell stand up and shoot the young policeman. As he disappeared into the café out of view, Harper had bolted from the side door of the cafe, which was just out of Dale’s view, and disappeared away down the main street like an Olympic sprinter. Moments later he had seen Mitchell appear from the same door, but, by now, obviously hurt. He had paused at the corner and walked hurriedly, but awkwardly, in the opposite direction, below Dale’s terrace and got into an expensive, English registered car. If Bernie had looked up he would have come face to face with the man he had been sent to silence. He didn’t and Dale survived another day.

  Dale couldn’t see much of the street where the shot policeman lay, he could just see a few heads milling about and the blue lights appear. But, when, after ten minutes, John Tobin and Harper’s daughter appeared he began to wonder what was going on.

  Dale had pondered on the turn of events since. Had Mitchell followed him there? Or had he followed Harper there? How else could he have found this place? But, why was he here, anyway? True, he had displayed an interest in Harper before. But, who had he come here hunting – with a gun – Harper or Dale? What was Harper really doing here? Perhaps he wasn’t missing at all, merely on holiday, and his stepdaughter and friend joining him. He did come here regularly, Dale had learnt that. No. The police were looking for him and his wife was dead. Tobin and the girl knew that, too. But, still they were here. Perhaps all three of them were in on something together; the other two just pretending to look for the missing man, but knowing, all along, where he was hiding. Had he been right after all and guessed that they were up to something. It had to be money from the business. He’d swindled the punters in Longalnbury after all!

  Dale dreamt up many plausible scenarios as he sat and watched and drank coffee, and dozed in the warm sunshine. He had seen them go shopping and had followed at a discreet distance, but they had shown no fear of being followed. He had returned to his table in time for lunch and enjoyed the first real food for three days.

  As the blue Ford disappeared into the traffic in the one-way system he strode briskly in the same direction, walking in the road to avoid the crowd.

  ‘Maybe my mother was right all along!’ Teri was still fuming at the discovery of her friend’s duplicity.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘All men are false!’

  ‘Ah! I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you.’ She gave a blast on her horn as she nearly mowed down a family waiting to cross the road.

  ‘It was a nickname I picked up at school. You know, like JR. I was JT. Then there was a character in an American series called John-boy and JT became John Tobin. And it stuck. For other reasons, I’ll try and explain them later, I wanted to stop being Nick Foy and my two middle names came to my rescue. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Nick Foy,’ she repeated, thoughtfully. ‘I know that name. I’ve seen it somewhere.’ She safely negotiated the rest of the town and speeded up as they left the shopping area.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ Tobin suddenly shouted. Her reflexes were commendably sharp and a motorist following close behind just missed them and passed with blaring horns and a lot of shouting. ‘Back into the carpark,’ ordered Tobin. She grudgingly complied until they were in front of a green Vauxhall car with an English registration plate. Tobin opened his door and stood on the sill to look around. He hopped down and inspected the car.

  ‘Empty.’ He said as he got back in.

  ‘There’s lots of English cars around. There’s nothing suspicious about that!’

  ‘Mmm. Not with Northumberland registration plates.’ He sat in thought while she drove down the mountain
. He knew where he had seen that car before. He checked the road behind regularly once they were down into the valley bottom. Teri’s temper had not moderated from earlier. She was still being hard on the car and snorted and huffed every time he turned in his seat to look back. As they passed through le Bourg d’ Oisans once more they topped the car up with petrol and bought another stock of sweets and drinks at the filling station.

  Bernie’s only concern, once he was back to normal roads, apart from driving on the wrong side, was to get back to home shores as quickly as possible, without getting caught and without being discovered when he returned. He was very tired, very hungry and very, very thirsty, but he needed to put as much distance behind him as he could. The petrol tank was half full, he had made sure of that the night before, he just had to stay awake and stay on the road. He wondered if he dared use the motorway system. If anyone was watching for him, surely they would watch the motorways? Maybe the answer was to join the motorway a bit further away. He pressed on, but kept his speed low to avoid drawing attention to himself.

  It wasn’t speeding that attracted attention, rather the opposite. His plan was fine in theory until he missed the turning for the A480 North and drove into Grenoble. Coping with the traffic in a strange city, while driving on the wrong side and reading a road atlas was more than Bernie could manage. He frequently had to pull up to consult the map as he approached direction indicators; the disapproval of local drivers was plain to hear. When a policeman approached him Bernie had just about had enough and was ready to give himself up. But, in perfect English, the young policeman set the desperate, sweating Londoner on the right road and Bernie was away again, feeling more awake than he had done for some time.

  Once clear of the city he was able to navigate slowly across country, but it was too slow for his liking. He was still having trouble with road signs and his tiredness was such that now he even had difficulty remembering names between reading the signs and looking at the atlas. His eyes wouldn’t focus either. He decided to compromise on his plan a little and join the motorway earlier, as, he reasoned, the longer he took the more likely it was that any spreading search net would catch up with him.

  He passed over the A42, but decided against taking it to Lyons as that would have been a backward step. Instead he aimed more north-westward than his previous north to try and regain the A6 that he had come down on. On his map he saw that he could join the A40 which led to the A6 at Macon. He got lost several times on the tiny roads he tried as a short cut, changed his plan again and eventually crossed the A6 motorway on a minor road. His atlas told him he had missed the D933 that he had wanted and the town of Belleville and that he was too far north. He needed to head south again; he must have taken the wrong road out of Chatilon- something-or-other.

  He had stopped again on a small roundabout, when a large truck appeared behind him and sounded its horn. He pulled forward and took the second exit from the roundabout, knowing as he did so, that he had made another mistake. The truck followed him and, with nowhere to pull over, he was forced further and further into the countryside, navigating by an instinct that was letting him down by the minute. He was low on fuel, but, he hoped, getting near to the town. Not wishing to repeat his previous experience of towns he turned right to rid himself of the pressure of the following truck and crossed a main road running parallel with the A6. He decided to head on until he found a small town and buy petrol there.

  The little petrol station was easy to find as it had a huge tanker drawn across the front and was closed for a delivery. In frustration, Bernie furiously gunned the motor past and up the little street abandoning any idea of avoiding attention. Outside the village he hauled the car round a right turn hoping for another right turn that would lead him back to the motorway. He raced down the tiny lane and met a van coming the other way. There was no space to pass each other. The van stopped, but Bernie couldn’t and hit the van and the right-hand bank at the same time. The car shot up the four-foot bank, over the top, bounced end over end once and came to rest the right way up. Steam rose from the crumpled bonnet as dust and dirt inside and outside the car settled in an eerie silence. Bernie’s left ribs and arm had no sense of feeling in them, until he moved to undo his seatbelt. He let out a cry of pain when his ribs tried to move as he twisted to undo the belt.

  He fell from the car almost crying, trying not to breathe too deeply. The car was a write-off, but even if it had not been there was no way to get it out of the field. He stood up as best he could, shaken but thankful to have survived, and staggered off down the field in the direction he had been driving.

  The lane he had been following only led to a ‘T’-junction and then became a track that ended at a railway line. However, he could now see the main road from where he was and beyond that had to be the motorway. He walked wearily on toward it across several more fields and another minor road.

  Sweating and cursing and nursing his ribs he climbed an embankment where a minor road crossed the motorway. The traffic was going the wrong way; the northbound carriageway was on the other side. Further up on that side he could see a service area and decided to head for it. He followed the minor road over the motorway and round toward the service area cutting off across the fields to take the direct route and avoid any passing vehicles. He had made the journey from the crash to here without seeing another person so far and preferred to keep it that way.

  He emerged from the bushes behind the parking area. The picnic site was deserted and he flopped down on a bench, rested his head on his arms and, despite all the aches and pains, was instantly asleep, the bright sun hot on his back.

  Tobin took the driving seat and they began the long journey back to Paris. He left Teri to cool off for an hour and once they were on to the motorway system again he tried to explain, as simply as he could, some of the reasons behind his name change. He didn’t feel he could trust her with the more personal details that he had confided to Hazel and Russell so he confined himself to the basics. The explanation allayed the worst of her suspicions, but Tobin could tell she was not entirely convinced. For the moment, however, it stopped her asking questions.

  Having to concentrate on driving when it was her turn distracted her further. They were both very tired and changed places more frequently. Tobin still insisted on checking behind them every few miles.

  Bernie came to feeling a hard pressure on his chin and his face smothered; it was also a lot cooler. In his deep sleep his body had slumped and his head had slipped off his arm and onto the slatted wooden picnic table. His face had become buried in the crook of his elbow and the cold wet feeling against his left eye was where he had drooled onto his sleeve. He raised himself in disgust and grunted as he felt the tug of his seized up rib cage. He had become set in the hunched position and was unable to move; he lifted his head right back, even that pulled on his ribs, and saw that the sun had sunk below some high trees across the motorway. He began to recall where he was and why he was there.

  He shouldn’t be there!

  He slowly and painfully began to straighten himself up; it felt as if each rib in turn was trying to tear itself free from the others. He inched his body back until he could sit upright, trying not to breathe too heavily. He took a breath, gathered his courage, rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way toward the restaurant block beyond the carpark. His shoes and his trouser bottoms were caked with dried earth and seeds and bits of grass from his trip through the fields; as he looked more closely at himself he realised the mess he was in. An image confirmed when he saw himself in the mirror in the toilets.

  Among the machines on the wall was one that sold a disposable wash kit; Bernie hunted through his pockets for change to operate the machine.

  Shaving, washing and cleaning his teeth had never felt so good. He used his soiled and un-wearable shirt as a towel, threw it away and zipped up his jacket to hide his bare torso.

  While sorting out his
money at the cash desk in the restaurant he realised that he hadn’t only left his clean clothes in his bag in the car, he had also left his passport. The improvement in his morale, brought about by the meal and the wash, was tempered with the thought that he was not only marooned in a foreign country, but that his identity was now known for certain. The search for him could only be a short distance away, as the wreck of the car must have been discovered. And, he suddenly thought, what about the van driver? Bernie had been so keen to get away from the crash that it had never occurred to him to check on the other vehicle.

  He was still hungry and needed to think, he bought a second plate of pasta and returned to the window table. He watched the vehicles coming and going and considered hitching a lift. Would anyone pick up a hitchhiker looking as he did? He doubted it. He could steal a car, but he had lost faith in his driving and he wouldn’t get very far. The one thing he had noticed about the French motorways was the scarcity of junctions; he would be caught before he got to the first one, the way his luck was running at the moment.

  He played with the last of the pasta on his plate as he watched an English registered car drive in and park. An idea began to form in his mind, stowing himself away in the back of a car. If he could get to a ferry terminus without being caught he could loiter around and hopefully climb in to some unsuspecting vehicle. The occupants of the small blue Ford got out and Bernie jumped back in his seat with a cry of pain. It was Alan Harper’s stepdaughter and her friend the writer! They headed for the main door of the service station. Bernie hid himself in the corner by the exit door and watched as they went their separate ways to the lavatories and Bernie hurried outside.

  Avoiding any windows from the public part of the building he took the long way around the back and past the picnic area in order to approach the car from the far side. As he neared the entrance from the motorway another English car pulled in and parked immediately, the driver switched off the engine but remained in the car. That made it awkward for Bernie, as he would now have to pass close to that car with the driver still in it. He stepped back into the bushes to size up the situation. The driver solved the problem by opening the door of the green Vauxhall and getting out to stretch.

  Bernie crept forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun into the flesh behind Brian Dale’s right ear.

  Nine p.m. was showing on the car clock as they pulled up outside the compound at Champ-sur- Marne. Teri got out to speak to the gateman; Tobin followed.

  Teri drew herself to her full height which, with her figure, was quite impressive. The gateman did not look impressed. She demanded something in French and the old man’s bushy eyebrows rose with a look of contempt.

  ‘Bonjour monsieur.’ Tobin greeted him.

  ‘Ah! Bonsoir, monsieur.’ The old man corrected him with a smile.

  ‘Oh. Pardon. Bonsoir, Henri.’

  ‘Bonsoir, m’sieur. You have not … your man found, eh.’ It was a statement not a question. Tobin shook his head, sadly. ‘The police look, also,’ Henri added.

  ‘The police have been here? When?’

  ‘Oh. Err …before me … err … .’ He held up his right hand with all five digits extended.

  ‘Five-o-clock?’ The old man nodded, carefully avoiding eye contact with Teri.

  Tobin took her arm and led her away. ‘Merci, Henri. Bonsoir.’

  At the car she tugged free of him, furious.

  ‘If you speak to people nicely most of them will answer nicely.’ He lectured her, good naturedly. She wasn’t impressed.

  ‘He’s not here then, you’ve cleverly found out! So I shouldn’t think he’s at the house either, if the police are looking for him.’ She collapsed into the driving seat and rested her elbows on the wheel, burying her face in her hands. ‘I’ve had enough! I’m not doing anymore till I’ve slept.’

  ‘Where?’

  She thought for a moment and rummaged around the car for her bag. She found a page in her address book and looked at him triumphantly. ‘Here!’ and she stabbed a finger at the open page. ‘You drive!’ She clambered into the passenger seat. Tobin reluctantly complied.

  It was the worst nightmare of a drive that he could have imagined. Teri directed him to the roundabout on the peripherique at Vincennes and he followed the fast flowing traffic with Teri yelling at him to look for a particular road number. With her and the woman on the GPS Tobin was getting more and more wound up. He wasn’t taking his eyes off the traffic as it sped along frighteningly close together. Suddenly she yelled at him and pointed at a slip road, but it was too late, he was past. As he was negotiating with a fast-moving queue of joining traffic he saw another off slip and took it at speed. It was a very sharp turn off and had the tyres howling and motorists honking as he hauled the little car round. The maps shot from Teri’s grasp as she grabbed at the handle above her head.

  ‘City centre! City centre.’ She yelled as he arrived at a road junction and shot into the main road. Behind him he caught a glimpse of a pair of headlights turning up the slip road at speed. He settled into the flow of traffic trying to keep an eye open for the headlights. Not being able to see the make of car behind the lights he had to give up trying as the traffic began to slow. Teri started barking directions as they passed through Montparnasse. Thankfully, the hotel proved to be fairly close by. The next problem was parking.

  There were moments during the drive when Brian Dale felt not just tired but ill. His head had nodded often as sleep threatened to overcome him, but Bernie Mitchell’s revolver behind his left ear kept him awake. How Mitchell kept awake he didn’t know. He was in obvious pain around the chest area, but said nothing, just prodded with the gun. Dale’s shock at meeting him in the service area had been so great his hands had shaken for half an hour after. But he was in control now.

  The increase in traffic required increased concentration and trying to keep track of the Ford’s rear lights, while staying far enough behind to avoid detection, had his eyes popping from their sockets. He had the drivers of the other cars perplexed with his antics of overtaking and slowing, but he had realised early on that this in itself might be a give-away and so kept back. When close he could see the occupants of the Ford look back regularly and on a couple of occasions pulled right up close to reassure himself that he was following the correct car.

  He saw a car suddenly swerve off the main carriageway up a slip road and just managed to join the stream of cars on his right in time to follow, praying all the time that it was the Ford. He cursed himself for falling in to the trap of having to make last minute copycat manoeuvres.

  He had to wait for a gap in the traffic at the junction where the Ford had forced its way in. The taillights were just in sight as he joined the flow and decided that he might as well close up as much as possible as the Ford driver had obviously seen him. He followed quite openly from there and saw the interior light come on in the small blue car and the agitated arm waving of the passenger. They were obviously nearing their destination.

  Dale realised that they were circling as he passed the Metro station for the third time. After the fifth time he began to wonder if he was being set up. But, the little car suddenly disappeared as Dale tried to drive on nonchalantly. A group of reversing lights came on ahead as several cars prepared to leave and he slowed and let them out.

  The ruse didn’t work. Bernie had realised that he had lost them. The barrel of the revolver caught Dale on the side of the head and Bernie muttered something from the back seat. Dale had had enough; the blow had no force behind it and caused only a dull ache that was just a minor irritation compared to the tiredness that now swept over him. Cursing his captor he rested his head against the side window and instantly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Within seconds Bernie’s head began to loll and a long, uncomfortable and disturbed night began.

  It was a quarter to eleven when they finally lugged their bags into the lobby of the little hotel,
having found a parking space within walking distance on their fifth lap of the area.

  Tobin was ready to lie on the floor and go to sleep, Teri had woken up.

  She banged her hand on the counter bell to attract attention from the office behind. They could here two voices murmuring in the office, a man and a woman. Through the glass partition there was a little movement and then stillness again. Teri hit the bell again. This time there was scraping of furniture and more movement could be seen. A young woman appeared at the office door.

  ‘Oui, Madame?’ She said, wearily. Then with a gasp and her hand to her mouth she exclaimed something which Tobin didn’t catch, but it drew the attention of the other occupant of the office.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est, Barbara?’ Alan appeared at the door. Startled, they stood and stared at each other.

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