Part 37 (2/2)

'I don't know.'

'Maybe he didn't either. But he does now.' Zoe turned and spat over the side of the boat. 's.h.i.+t, I wish they'd built a b.l.o.o.d.y bridge. Sarah? Maybe they shot at him first.'

'He had a gun, didn't he?'

'That creep? Yeah, he had a gun.'

'And so have you.'

'And so have I . . . '

'Would you have done it? Shot him, I mean?'

Zoe gave her a look. 'We'll never know, will we?'

They heard a buzzing overhead, a giant mosquito whine, and looked up to see light glinting off the fishbowl windscreen of the helicopter as it flashed past, heading towards the island. Sarah caught the impression of a man in helmet, goggles, leather gear. Already he was into the distance.

'That'll be his lift,' Zoe said.

'Do you think this boat goes any faster?'

'Now would be a good time to find out.'

He had retreated from the harbour wall, and watched the boat dock from the doorway of a waterfront shop, where, for amus.e.m.e.nt as much as protective colouring, he'd been writing a postcard: Enjoying Retirement! Will Catch Up With You Later! This, he'd send to Howard's boss.

The sky was grey; the sea was grey. Only the car, parked thirty yards down the road, was blue.

Amos Crane turned his attention to the scene unfolding by the water's edge; two women disembarking; one of them Sarah Trafford handing a piece of paper to Jed. The other wore a red top, and as he focused on her face not using binoculars, not here on the street he felt the dizzying sensation he'd had before when he noticed disparate events falling together in a tidy heap. It was the woman from the train. The one who'd stolen into his dream.

He didn't know who she was, but then she didn't know him either . . . You could look on that as level ground.

He also noticed something else funny; that Sarah Trafford was carrying the bear. Bet that'll please Howard, he thought; quite pleased himself. He had, after all, brought it here. Looked like Howard would be reaping the benefit, though.

Amos pulled his wallet from his pocket; pulled a stamp from his wallet. Dabbed it on his tongue, and attached it to the postcard. It was nearly time to go. Either these women would lead him to Downey, or they would not. Either way, they couldn't remain on the board much longer. This had turned out to be one of those games where you burned your pieces as they fell . . .

Nutted. Scorched. Splatted.

He popped the postcard in the waiting box. When he looked up, the women had gone.

'Ladies,' Jed said.

'It's been your pleasure,' Sarah a.s.sured him, handing back the cheque Zoe had signed an hour before.

Zoe said, 'And Jed? We were never here.'

'Never where?'

'Good point.'

'I don't trust him,' Sarah said, once they were fifteen yards away.

'Well, that's pretty shrewd, Sarah. Seeing as we already know he takes bribes.'

Sarah hoisted the teddy bear under her arm. She couldn't keep lugging this toy around; on the other hand, she couldn't just dump it in a bin. At least she could, but it wouldn't feel right, somehow.

Zoe caught her by the arm. 'What now?'

'I don't know.'

'Try having a think.'

'I just want to put as much s.p.a.ce between us and that place as possible.'

'Now you're talking. Any special direction? Are you still checked in anywhere?'

She was, but suddenly that didn't seem important . . . She could leave, they could leave; she could settle her bill later. Send them a cheque. She owed Zoe money, too. Better get her life in order.

'We should head for a city. Head for Glasgow if we can. Get a train back south.'

'You need to talk to someone,' Zoe said.

'I know.'

'Press. Someone big.'

'Who'd believe me?'

'Believe us.'

'. . . Thanks, Zoe.'

'Bus stop. We need a bus stop.'

Sarah hadn't said all she wanted to say. Thanks was not enough. But Zoe was already on her way, as if the bus stop wasn't going to hang around if they didn't get a move on. She swapped the bear from one arm to the other, and took off after her friend.

The 'copter put Howard down right where it had picked him up: the corner of a field just out of sight of the main road: not too far from his car; a bit too close to a herd of cows. Which scattered. All but one, who held her ground, lowered her head; watched the crazy machine through huge brown eyes as it tilted up and pulled away. With her right front hoof she prodded a lump of gra.s.s, which until recently had commanded her full attention.

Howard dropped his briefcase. Picked it up. Looked at the cow. He was certain it was a cow: bulls have horns, cows have t.i.ts, and that was a rule of nature. But there was no point hanging round, so tucking the briefcase under one arm, he half-marched half-trotted across to the nearest gate, scrambled over it without damaging anything important, then kept on at the same ungainly pace until he reached his car, a hundred yards down the track. The cow had forgotten him by then; was deeply involved in her gra.s.s.

Behind the wheel, Howard luxuriated for a moment in motionless comfort. Then, hey-ho, back to work. From his briefcase he took a laptop; this he opened, and tipped a switch. A blue screen flickered into life. He adjusted its radius until it was operating within a two-mile area, which still left both major points in view, A being the laptop itself, dead centre, and B being the bear. Unfortunately, the area was laid out on a grid Howard couldn't actually drive along; without a map, it was worse than useless he had a map; he unfolded it, spread it over the pa.s.senger seat. All he had to do now was work out where he was, superimpose his position onscreen mentally and, theoretically, he'd be able to follow the bear.

What he really needed now, he decided, as point B began to move, was someone who'd operated one of these d.a.m.n things before.

The bus stop had the air of long-ago abandonment. It was just a metal upright with, chest-height to Sarah, what had once been a timetable hooped round it, but was now a mating diary for the local blades: Daz loves Peanut. Dish 4 Traj. What h.e.l.lish name abbreviated to Traj? Or Daz, come to that. s.h.i.+t. Her mind, which had slowed to the point of stopping the inertia born of emergency was now all fizz and pop: none of it, though, any use at all.

Zoe said, 'Maybe we'll get lucky.'

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