He ran again, blessing his fitness, putting the yards behind him with every second, pounding at the track with his feet as if he were running on the spot and slow, heavy danger could be moved a tiny bit further away with each impact. Three minutes and half a mile later, he ran out on to a tarmac lane, looked all around for signs of pursuit and turned in the direction that felt as though it should take him away from the house. A mile or so further on, he came to a church, dark against the sky and at first seeming to stand all by itself. When he got to it, he could see ahead, some way further down the road, the loom of a small cluster of houses. There was no sign of life in any of them but next to the church, in a lay-by, stood a telephone box.
Directory Enquiries took an age to answer but when they did, he asked for Tinderley Hall and memorized the number that the robot voice repeated for him. All he had in his pocket was a pound coin so he put it in the slot and dialled.
It rang for a long time before a man’s voice answered and the voice was sleepy. ‘Hello?’
‘Tinderley Hall?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m very sorry. Would you mind getting Heather Weston for me. It’s an emergency.’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘I know she is. I said it’s an emergency.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Just tell her it’s Johnny.’
It took a couple of minutes and she sounded shocked and a little muddled.
‘Johnny? What on earth’s wrong?’
‘Listen. A bunch of guys arrived at the house. Americans. I got out. I’ve been running over the fields and—’
‘OK, OK. Stop. Where are you?’
‘Hang on.’ He peered at the notice on the box. ‘I can hardly see. There’s no light in here. It looks like… Red something? Red Gate?’
‘Red Gill?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you by a church?’
‘That’s it.’
‘OK, I know it. I’ll be a few minutes.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll come in the van, the Hall’s van, OK?’
He stood in the graveyard, out of sight behind the church wall, and waited. It didn’t take her very long at all. It was barely five minutes before he heard the van coming. It drove round the corner and slowed to a stop with its headlights on him and he walked into the dazzle with relief, up to the driver’s door, heard the other door open and realized far too late as his eyes adjusted that this was no van. This was a Mitsubishi Shogun, the same four-wheel-drive that he had last seen plunging into the field in pursuit of him. By that time, though, there was nowhere to go and the men who’d come round from the other side had his arm clamped up behind his back. The driver’s window, close to his face, whirred down and a deep American voice said, ‘Mr Kay. Please. Let us give you a ride.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘You’re a hard man to help, Mr Kay.’
Johnny was in the back, between two large, silent men. The older man with the stubble hair and the deep voice had moved across to the front passenger seat and was leaning back, head turned, to talk to him.
‘Helping seems a funny definition of what you’ve done so far.’
‘You must have the wrong idea about us.’
‘I’ve got a bent Cessna stuck on top of a ship that says your motives weren’t strictly charitable.’
‘You think that was us? Let me tell you ’bout that, seeing as I know the real story. Man called Clapham, Andy Clapham, bought some trick oil-industry containers from a guy named Tracey, down Portsmouth way last week. They call Tracey the Magazine Man.’
The man’s voice was calm, almost amused. Johnny was impressed despite himself. ‘And?’
‘My guess is they put those containers in your tanks, full of water. You want proof then tell your CAA to look for traces of PIB dissolved in the fuel. PIB is Polyisobutylene. Dissolves slowly in petrol. That’s what the containers are made from.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘I’ve been back-tracking,’ said the man coolly, ‘I like to know what goes on.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t do it?’
‘You want to know who paid the bill for that gear?’
‘Who?’
‘Man called Sibley. Ivor Sibley. I guess you know him.’
They were bumping up a track on to open moorland and suddenly Johnny didn’t like that one bit. This was the way he’d been taught to do it. Keep the subject co-operative, docile – until you’re ready for the crunch.
‘How could that be?’
‘You don’t know who your enemies are, do you, Johnny boy?’
The Shogun stopped. The man switched on the interior light. He was gaunt, with leathery-looking skin.
‘Lend me your ears,’ he said, and he pushed a cassette into the tape player.
Voices. Two voices trying to talk at once, then a woman’s dominant voice cutting through.
‘I don’t want bloody excuses. You screwed the whole thing up and that’s the end of it.’
‘He was incredibly lucky. If that ship hadn’t been there, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
‘You’re out of a job. I’m going to ring Calstock. I told you exactly what I wanted. Do you think it’s been an easy decision for me? Do you? I told you I wanted a clean end to them, Michael and… and his son. That’s the only thing you had to do.’
His mother. His mother and Ivor Sibley. No doubt at all. He couldn’t find any words to say.
The man looked almost sympathetic. It was impossible not to believe it. He remembered the look on his stepfather’s face at the inquiry. That explains everything, he thought, even Maggie.
‘You’re not telling me this out of the kindness of your heart,’ he said in a voice that came through an aching throat.
‘You’re quick. I’m not.’
‘What then?’
‘I got something you need and you got something I need. That could add up to a handy situation for both of us.’
‘What have I got?’ he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.
‘Let me tell you first what I’ve got, Johnny. I’ve got the means to spring your girl friend out of court tomorrow, to get her off scot-free.’
‘You can get them to drop the charges?’
‘I can do it.’
Johnny’s heart lifted. ‘And the price?’
The man’s growl dropped even lower. ‘Your eternal soul.’ He laughed. ‘No. Not that, just a little piece of paper.’
‘What piece?’
‘A piece that belongs to us. A piece you guys lifted. Kinda nice of me, don’t you think? I mean I could be getting warrants and I’m offering you trades.’
‘The details of the link to the BT tower.’
‘What link?’ The man laughed. ‘Pure fantasy, Johnny.’
‘BTRS. It said BTRS. British Telecom Raven Stones.’
‘No. By-pass Trunking for Routine Servicing, that’s what it means.’
‘Come on. We flew over your digger on the moor.’
Mackeson’s laugh sounded genuine. ‘Anyone digging a hole on the moor, that’s their business. Nothing down any hole out there belongs to us, that I can promise.’
‘We’ve had an expert look at that plan. We know what it means.’
‘Bullshit. Maybe an engineer was doodling, you know, day-dreaming. We don’t have links like that. The piece of paper’s liable to be misunderstood, I guess. That’s why we want it back.’
‘It’s not mine to give.’
‘It’s not yours to keep.’ The voice had a very harsh edge when the man wanted it to. ‘You take the trade, your girlfriend walks. You say no, there’s a dozen of the MOD’s finest pinning you against a wall with a search warrant soon as you walk back in the house. You telling me it’s not somewhere in your old man’s house? Maybe in that desk of his? And all for a fantasy.’