The Mini was shifting, the little tuned-up engine doing its best to roar, although as the Healey drew close they could hear the deeper note of its larger lump.
'Right at the end,' said Tony. 'T-junction.'
Tony's mouth went dry as he watched the turning approach. Roy appeared not to know where the brake was. At the last moment, he stamped on the middle pedal once, changed down, then went back on the gas. Tony hoped nothing was coming. Roy leaned on the Healey slightly and flung the little Mini to the right.
'Disc brakes,' Roy grinned. 'Fuckin' brilliant. Much better than the standard Mini.'
The Healey fell back as it took the bend in a more refined manner. Then Tony watched it grow larger in the mirror once more as Bruce got the power back down.
'Sharp right at Ledburn. You have to go into the village. Watch-'
Roy jerked the Mini out and zipped by a dawdling Triumph Herald, then tucked back in.
'Did I say right?' Tony corrected. 'I meant left.'
'Keep it together, Tone. There're only two choices, after all,' Roy laughed. 'Right or left?'
'Left. My side,' he clarified.
A pair of decent-looking pubs went by in a blur and Roy took the turning. Tony caught sight of startled residents, stepping back from the kerb as the two cars powered recklessly through their hamlet.
'Long straight section to a crossroads.'
'How long?'
'Half a mile.'
'Not enough for him to have us.'
Tony looked up from the map. It was beautiful rolling countryside, the roads lined with hedgerows, guarded with stands of extravagant horse chestnuts.
'How far? This it?'
'No. Be signposted Wing.'
'Hang on.'
A throbbing filled the Mini's cabin. 'Christ, he's right behind us.'
At a particularly splendid horse chestnut, Roy put the Cooper S into a power slide, the snub rear-end poking out, almost touching the Healey's gleaming chrome bumper. Bruce backed off, giving Roy enough space to complete the turn, catch the drift and get the full bhp of the 1071cc engine onto the asphalt.
Tony, his heart thumping away, checked the OS map once more. 'Through Wing, left towards Cublington.'
Another couple of pubs, more outraged country folk and a left turn. The ominous black Healey was behind them again.
'Crap,' said Tony. 'You should have gone left there at the fork.'
He turned and watched the roadster take the correct route and disappear from view.
'No problem.' Roy braked, and Tony shot out an arm to steady himself on the windscreen as the front end of the Cooper dipped viciously. The driver found reverse first time and the gearbox whined as he took the Cooper back and resumed the chase.
'I though the left was the main drag-'
'Doesn't matter now,' Roy said evenly. 'Next?'
'Cublington. Some sharp bends.'
'Good.'
There was no sign of the roadster until they took a narrow bridge – Tony with his eyes closed in case there was anything coming the other way on the other side – and landed with a spine-jarring crack.
'What the fuck was that?' he asked.
'Suspension bottoming,' said Roy. 'Needs better shocks.'
They watched the handsome rear of the Healey diminish in size as it pulled away. Roy darted the Mini forward, sweeping into the bend. Tony felt the body roll and, he swore, two wheels lift.
'Long left curve,' said Tony, 'then a bloody sharp right.'
'Brilliant. He can't do the bends. He'll have us on the straight, but that thing doesn't handle.' He flashed a knowing smile. 'Not for Bruce anyway.'
Tony knew he was a good driver, a very competent roadman. But Roy was something else. His gear changes were sharp, precise. The rev counter never made wild swings, the engine note remained constant, and the speedo stayed well over to the right. He was what they called a 'natural', the kind of driver who had a feel for both the car and the road.
'That right-hander's coming up.'
'Hold on, 'cause I'm not slowing.'
They emerged almost on top of the Healey. Roy let out a whoop. 'He missed a gear, I'll bet.'
With the precision of a slot-car, the Mini pulled out and zipped past the Austin. Tony looked up and caught a glimpse of Bruce's mouth working overtime. He didn't have to be a lipreader to guess what words were coming out. The next section, between Oving and Pitchcott, was twisty enough to thwart Bruce and the Austin Healey. It would come burbling behind, threatening to shoulder the Cooper aside, but Roy brilliantly used the bends and curves to his advantage.
'Railway bridge. Not our railway line, though. Long hill down to Chearsley. It's straight.'
Roy nodded and pushed the engine to the red line. The Healey fought back again, edging closer. 'He's got us. Shit.'
Tony looked over his shoulder. Gordy was jumping up and down in his seat, willing Bruce on. The bigger sports car reeled them in until, like a stately liner, it glided past. Gordy flashed a V-sign.
'Nice,' said Tony.
'Don't panic. Just enjoy the scenery on this stretch. We'll come back at them.'
Tony had to admit that the Chilterns did look lovely, streaked with sunlight, interrupted by the shadows of low cloud. On a nearby hillside to his left, Tony saw a strange observatory, a domed housing for a large telescope, but didn't feel he could distract Roy from his focus on the road.
'He's pulling away. Any bends?'
'Sharp right to Chearsley, coming up. Really sharp.'
'How sharp?'
'Ninety degrees. Then through Chilton, on the B4011 and we're there.'
Roy didn't reply, just grunted as they recovered ground on the right-hander, driving through the narrow lanes as if they were tied to the Healey's rear bumper. Nice big houses, thought Roy. Gardens, horses, conservatories, but such was their speed he had little time to process much more than flash images. Roy suddenly dived into a gap between the Austin and a brick wall that didn't seem to be there. Tony's eyes flicked shut again. When he opened them they were through and in front, into the final twisting lanes that would take them to Leatherslade Farm.
'Fuckin' Land Rovers and lorries my arse,' Roy said. 'You can't beat a quick motor.'
They turned right up the unmarked track that led to Leatherslade, Roy finally allowing the Mini to breathe, dropping to second as he manoeuvred between the ruts and potholes.
'What time?' he asked.
'Eighteen minutes,' said Tony.
They pulled over in front of the house and Bruce drove alongside. He climbed out and leaned on the hardtop of the Healey. 'You were lucky there're so many bends,' he said to Roy. 'It'd eat that little toy otherwise.'
'Tell you what, after you've bought lunch, let's swap cars and do it in reverse. See how you get on then.'
Bruce considered this as he watched Gordy unfold himself from the passenger side. 'What, and ruin my excuse?'
'You change your mind about the Jags?' Roy asked.
Bruce frowned. To him, the race had been a bit of a laugh, not to prove a point.
'No, Roy. I told you, the money will weigh over a ton. We need a lorry. We stick with the plan.'
Gordy looked a little pale after being thrown around by Bruce. 'Yeah. Fuck that. We stick with the lorry and Land Rovers.'
Roy did his best to hide his disappointment, and indicated his acceptance. He just hoped Bruce didn't live to regret it.
Forty
Headley, Surrey, May 1992
Bruce took off his overcoat and sat down at the kitchen table while I put the kettle on. Roy, apparently dazed by his old boss's arrival, stared at him, open-mouthed.
'Nice whistle,' he finally said.
'Thanks.' Bruce looked down at the jacket. 'Mark Powell. He said I should sue Michael Caine for stealing my look.'
There was something in that. Bruce had looked a little like Harry Palmer-period Caine in his youth, and the two had run across each other in the early days at the Establishment, when the actor was out and about with Terry Stamp. But I wasn't worried about where Bruce got his suits made or whether his style had been purloined for The Ipcress File. 'What are you doing here, Bruce?' I asked.