Part 19 (1/2)

Victoria closed her eyes and said quietly, 'I do not belong in this world. My family and friends are all lost in time.'

There seemed to be something there that he understood. His rage subsided. He sounded broken and alone. 'We are both outcast, Victoria.'

'That's why we work together. I built you this place with the money my dear father invested one hundred and thirty years ago. In return, you promised us the Light of Truth.'

There was a burst of hollow laughter. 'There is no Light.'

Again the voice settled, but there was a threat behind it. 'I trust you, Victoria.'

She rose from her place and walked to the window.

Daylight was seeping in from a gap at the edge of the blind.

'And I trust you,' she said.

The monitor eye was suddenly aware that she had moved.

The terminal began to turn back and forth, searching blindly for her. 'One Locus still binds my... power. The others were dealt with long ago. The last one must, will will, be ready for my return.'

She blanched as the glare swept over and past her. At last, the screen dimmed. Today's conference was at an end.

Victoria clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. Was the Chancellor returning now? How much time did she have?

Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart must know where the Locus was. Everything pointed to him. She had been searching, surely the Chancellor knew that. What else could she do? And Daniel Hinton must be found before he got into serious trouble. It was up to her to find them. Always up to her. She must redouble her efforts. She had a feeling she wanted to scream.

14.

Twickers' Big Day he Brigadier unlocked the drawer and extracted the T Browning from its case. It was the gun he had kept since the old days. It fitted his hand like an old friend. He raised it and checked the chambers for bullets.

The telephone line to London had been diabolical, but he had made all the necessary calls and had a full campaign strategy drawn up in his mind.

He had slept fitfully that night, part through worry, part through not being in the slightest bit tired. In s.n.a.t.c.hed moments of sleep, he knew that there was something outside.

A huge brooding shadow in the dark that lumbered round the house, pus.h.i.+ng at the walls and windows. It scrabbled at the front door, its ma.s.sive silhouette filling the stained-gla.s.s windows. He heard its low growl and saw a pair of eyes like burning coals. Whenever he woke, all he saw was the crack of orange light from the streetlamp that sneered under the curtain.

He had been keeping an eye on the van as well. The poor blighter a.s.signed to keep him under tabs did not seem to have been relieved of duty at all. The Brigadier wondered whether to invite him in for cocoa, a house speciality based on RSM Benton's original recipe.

He had reckoned to leave the house by nine, but was up and ready to go at least an hour earlier. He decided to make a show of normality and went out to bring in the milk that he had forgotten to cancel. There were footprints in the flowerbed, but no sign of the windows being tried. His dark green Range Rover was parked outside as usual. Across the sunny avenue, beyond the wall and line of plane trees that bordered School Field, long glittering arcs of water circled slowly above the cricket pitches, newly prepared for the summer term his last term.

He glanced to the end of the avenue and saw to his surprise what looked like the Twickermobile Twickermobile, Celia's ancient cream Triumph Herald. It was parked further down, beyond his friend in the Gas Board van. For a moment, he thought he saw Celia's head bob up above the dashboard. He was getting a fan club he did not want. He cursed as he hurried back inside.

Getting away without being followed was going to be the problem. He had wondered about putting bullets through the van's tyres, but didn't think the neighbours were ready for a shoot-out in the middle of their avenue. Especially since that blasted interfering woman was involved.

He put on his tweed jacket and cap and picked up his car keys. He was locking the front door when he realized that, of all things, he had not picked up the gun. He fetched it from the drawer and slid it into the holster inside his jacket. It felt uncomfortable there without his proper uniform. Resigned to the makes.h.i.+ft arrangement, he marched back out of the house.

He ignored his own car and turned along the avenue. The van still appeared empty when he pa.s.sed it, but he kept going until he reached the Triumph Herald.

Celia appeared to be busy with a road map. She jumped when he rapped smartly on the windscreen. A pair of ornate opera gla.s.ses sat on her lap.

'Good morning, Celia,' he said. 'If you're going sightseeing, I suggest you try somewhere else.'

She looked quite mortified. 'Brigadier, I've spoken to the Gas Board and they know nothing about that van.'

'Very perceptive,' he said tetchily. Now please go back to the safety of your office. I'll speak to you later.'

'If you're in danger, Brigadier..

'I said ”go”!'

There was no arguing with the command, although she looked incensed. She started the car without another word and drove off up the avenue.

As he pa.s.sed the van on the way back, he slammed his fist against the side and shouted, 'Good morning!' He looked in at the dirty windscreen. There was no tax disc. The seats were old and torn, and were covered in rubbish. From inside, he heard the sound of a baby crying.

The back door slammed. A young woman with a thin, weathered face and greasy hair climbed out. She wore a faded 'Hobbiton Rules' tee-s.h.i.+rt.

'Can't you leave us for five minutes?' she snarled.

This wasn't a surveillance unit. It was travellers or squatters. The Brigadier was about to give the woman a good basting on moral responsibilities, when he heard a car approaching at speed.

A black-windowed Porsche cut straight in at him. He grabbed the woman, pulling them both behind the van, out of its path. It shot past, so close it was a blur.

'b.l.o.o.d.y fascist yuppies!' yelled the woman and hit at the Brigadier too. 'They're the trouble, not us!'

'Get inside and stay there!' he ordered. He ran across the avenue to his Range Rover. He was an idiot thinking that techniques hadn't advanced in the past twenty years. He didn't even know who these people were, or what they wanted.

' Where is the Locus? Where is the Locus? ' said a voice in his mind. A voice he thought he had dreamed. ' said a voice in his mind. A voice he thought he had dreamed.

He turned the ignition. Ahead, further up the leafy road, the Porsche was turning to make a return run. The Brigadier put his foot down and started away.

The Porsche came straight up the middle of the avenue.

Straight at him. He saw the open gate in the school wall and swung the wheel. The Range Rover went straight through the gap out into the wide arena of School Field.

He heard a screech of brakes behind him. A second later, the Porsche shot into view through the opening. It came at him like a homing shark. He did another highspeed turn, which sent a shower of earth up from the pitch. Water sloshed onto his windows as he cut through the range of the sprinklers. He tried to weave back and forth, but the Porsche followed his every move and was cutting down the distance.