She turned into the yard and scraped to a halt by the outbuildings. ‘I was trying to shut you up, Honeysett, you’ve done nothing but moan from one end to the other. I come all the way to pick you up and you’re trying to bore me rigid in return. What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Sorry, let me make it up to you,’ I suggested suggestively.
‘Mm. . okay then. Get into the kitchen and fix me a decent lunch. I’ll be in the studio.’
Chapter Three
‘Yes, you look utterly ridiculous,’ Annis answered lazily, the duvet drawn up under her chin against the chill of the morning. Her hair was spread invitingly across the pillow and I suddenly felt like taking all this gear off again and getting back in beside her, but duty called.
‘What? Ridiculous? Not. . cool? Stylish? Dashing?’
‘Yes, dashing, that’s it,’ she cackled. ‘You look like you’re about to dash off somewhere. Like the Western Front, in one of those biplanes held together with string.’
‘Well, that’s all the biker gear there is.’
‘I know. But perhaps you should dispense with the goggles. I think Lane might remember you like that: black open-face helmet, long hair, goggles, tatty black leather jacket, gauntlets, jeans and clumpy boots.’
‘Well, I don’t have a choice. I either use your Norton or follow him on roller blades. You can’t follow a man on the same minibus more than once unless he’s blind.’
‘I know. Just make sure you don’t drop the machine, now that it’s been repaired.’
A few months back Annis had crashed her 1950s Norton after someone had sabotaged the brakes, landing her in hospital. Both Annis and Norton had been beautifully restored, the bike with the help of the Norton Owners Club, but Annis’s enthusiasm for riding the thing had somewhat diminished. In fact, she hadn’t ridden it since.
I wasn’t exactly overexcited myself. A fine rain was falling when I wheeled the Norton into the yard, and the air had turned noticeably colder. I had to work the kick-starter only five or six times before the engine fired, which wasn’t at all bad for a fifty-year-old bike that didn’t get used much. The people who restored it had fitted a pair of working exhaust pipes, a not unimportant detail since before the accident it used to sound like a Sherman tank. Even so it was noisy enough.
I hadn’t ridden a bike for ages but by the time I reached the other end of the valley I had got used to the gear change and the lack of a CD player and could concentrate on other things. How much time was I going to devote to the limping Lane? Several shortcuts to finding out how disabled he really was came instantly to mind but none of them were exactly ethical and at least one of them contravened the Dangerous Wild Animals Act of 1976.
I cut the engine just before I reached the Oriel Hall car park, coasted in and chained the bike up out of sight of Lane’s house. All this faffing about had made me quite late this morning and no sooner had I found a relatively sheltered spot than Lane left the house, dressed entirely the same as before and carrying his blue shoulder bag. I walked to the street corner and peered round. He had hobbled to the bus stop again and the bloke with the raincoat, who seemed to be a regular himself, made room for him on the bench.
I got the bike, sat with the engine idling at the exit to the car park until the number 7 bus rattled past, waited a couple of minutes, then followed.
The bus really did go round in circles, cranking up Claremont Road and taking the less than scenic route through the estates of Fairfield before revisiting Claremont and grinding on into town. I hung well back and stopped several times to allow for the excruciatingly slow speed of the thing.
Lane got off in Walcot Street. I quickly parked the bike opposite the Pig and Fiddle and followed on foot. I didn’t have to walk far. He disappeared into the Podium, an understated little shopping centre, and soon I was gliding up behind him on the escalator to the upper floor that housed, among some cafés and restaurants, the central library. Naturally I hoped that Lane had a secret job as a limbo dancer at the Indian restaurant but of course he went into the library, returned a couple of books, then disappeared between the shelves. The place was full of school kids sitting on the floor, working at some kind of project. I followed Lane into the history section, kept my eyes on the books until I picked him up in my peripheral vision, then casually looked him over. He was checking the shelves against some notes on a scrap of paper. His walking stick hung over his left forearm. He moved sideways along the shelf but there it was, that awkward jerk of the torso, as though the right leg refused to move by itself. The man had a limp. Either that or he was a very good actor indeed; it’s difficult to dissemble while concentrating on something else entirely. I’d come quite close to him so I picked up a book at random: Britain at War, Unseen Archives. I got so engrossed in the black and white photography that when I looked up again Lane was gone. In a panic I scooted round the shelves and eventually spotted him at the issue desk. I ditched my book and walked closely past him while he was busy exchanging pleasantries with the young librarian who was issuing his books and I managed to read a couple of the titles: Witchcraft in the Middle Ages and A History of Sculpture.
Best to wait for him downstairs, I decided, and left the library. I was already on the downward escalator and just calculating whether to tell Haarbottle that Lane was most likely a genuine case when I caught sight of two ugly blokes blocking the exit at the bottom. They had just let through a woman with shopping bags and now plugged the gap again looking up at me with expressionless faces. Both were quite tall, both had short hair, wore dark rainproof jackets and gave me the creeps. The escalator carried me inexorably towards their waiting, unwelcoming arms. One of the men I’d never seen before, the other was Detective Inspector Deeks. Sod this for a laugh. I turned around and started running up the downward escalator, not making much headway but at least I wasn’t going any further towards the goons. Fortunately I was the only one on the thing at that moment. I looked over my shoulder. The other guy had started running up after me and was making headway just as slowly but being halfway to the top already gave me a sure advantage over him. Once I hit terra firma I could leg it down the back stairs and disappear into the underground car park before he had a chance to catch up. Suddenly the escalator stopped. My frantic running motion tipped me forward and I landed painfully on my front. The next second it started going down again and by the time I was once more on my feet it had deposited me and the running bloke, who had also fallen, in front of Deeks who still had his finger on the emergency button.
‘Just as well one of us has brains, isn’t it?’ he said with a theatrical sigh and stuck his warrant card into my face. I had to lean back to read it. It didn’t tell me anything new. I looked at him with little interest and much loathing. Deeks had been Superintendent Needham’s preferred sidekick for years, something I’d always found hard to fathom. For a start he was not a thing you wanted to have to clap eyes on every working day of your life. Especially first thing in the morning. He was one of those blokes who probably wanted to look like his dad when he was twelve and by the time he was sixteen had succeeded. There was no way of telling how old he was. Forty? Sixty? His face was long and jowly, his eyes dark and narrow and his scar-puckered nose nearly hid his ungenerous, thin-lipped mouth. His bad breath alone was enough to make me want to go on the run. His attitude to civilians in general and PIs in particular was one of profound contempt. He brought his cadaverous face close to mine and wafted his halitosis up my nostrils. ‘A word.’ Several came effortlessly to mind. He grabbed me by the arm so he could lead me aside to the window of a silversmith’s shop. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Sorbie,’ he introduced the other officer, who was peeling chewing gum off his trouser knee. The DS looked equally unpleasant with an unhealthy pallor, an inept shave and tired, bloodshot eyes which seemed to have problems fastening on to anything in particular. ‘You’ve been traipsing after James Lane, sitting outside his house in your car, even following him to the pub,’ Deeks continued accusingly.