A brief glimpse of the lake from an outcrop of bare rock. He couldn't see the car, its headlights had vanished beneath the water' No he heard himself shouting. It was an elongated, unending noise that seemed to want to empty his lungs as he ran. His body was difficult to hold upright, propelled only by the arms he waved violently, futilely.
He tripped, collapsing exhausted, rolling down the slope, the Calico bruising him, the rifle lost… Too late The surface of the blacktop was hard, jolting him into stillness, numbing one arm, knocking the breath from his body. The highway, he realised he had reached the highway, and forced himself to his knees. He looked round him desperately. The surface of the lake shimmered with moonlight, undistressed, peaceful. There was no sign of the car, or of where it had entered the water… He lurched to his feet and staggered to the shore. Treadmarks in the moonlight, on the narrow grass verge, indentations across the brief, pebbly shore… Calm water had closed over the roof of the car, drowning it.
Nothing disturbed the tranquillity-until he plunged into the water, wading out into the chill of the lake. The water passed his thighs, stomach, chest. He shivered as it robbed him of the heat of his exertions. Swallowing air, he ducked beneath the surface into sudden, icy darkness. Swam blindly, praying… The moonlight was a faint, ghostly light above him. His chest began to tighten, his throat bulge with the effort of holding his breath. A yard to right or left and he would never see the car… The headlights would have shorted by now, the engine would have stopped. It was here, somewhere, just feet away, somewhere… His chest ached, his arms flailed wildly as if he was still running rather than trying to swim-touched something. Right hand. Something hard… He gripped it, straining to make it out. Driver's mirror… he ducked into the ragged gap where the windscreen had been. The driver Mclntyre was dead.
Passenger? He thrust his head further into the car, his lungs bursting. A white, bloated face moved feebly. Gant reached in and unbuckled the seatbelt that was trapping Strickland. The man was still now, as if he had finally blacked out. Gant pulled — his breath expelled itself involuntarily with the effort and he began swallowing water and Strickland came free like some octopoid creature that had been anchored to the car. Gant had hold of his shirt as he felt the bonnet of the car beneath his feet. He thrust away from it with his remaining strength, pulling Strickland after him up towards the ghostly shimmer of the moonlight.
His head broke the surface of the water like that of an otter and he gasped down air, coughed water. Fought the air into his aching lungs, even as he clutched Strickland against him. Gulped air again and again, as if it would be snatched from him.
He swam awkwardly, pulling the lifeless body with him, the dozen or twenty yards until he could stand upright and haul himself and the inert Strickland across the pebbled floor of the lake. Then he flung the body down on the shore, pouncing on it as if he wished it further harm. The shirt, pants, flesh seemed unstained with blood. He pumped the man's arms grotesquely, angrily. Strickland had cheated him… He had blown it, trying to stop the car. Mclntyre was dead, Strickland was drowned-turned him over. The night air was cold, Gant felt his own body shivering and the lifelessness of the body beneath his own as he straddled it, pummelling at the man's back, squeezing his lungs, pumping in the silence… Strickland coughed. Water dribbled from his gaping mouth. An eyelid fluttered, then Strickland's lungs began pumping of their own volition as he choked air into his body. Retched, choked again, continued breathing, lying on his stomach, face twisted to one side.
Gant rolled away from him, exhausted. Satisfied. Heard his own heartbeat become calmer, quieter. As his night vision improved, he saw or believed he saw the black pinpoint of an otter head breaking the calm stillness of the lake's silvered surface.
He sat watching the unmoving otter. Perhaps it was similarly watching him.
The sound of Strickland's raucous, regular breathing and his quiet groaning were the noises of success. They seeped into his weariness, strong as liquor, warming him.
POSTLUDE
Directors, dealers through holding companies,
Deacons in churches, owning slum properties,
Alias usurers in excel sis the quintessential essence of usurers,
The purveyors of employment, whining over the 20 p.c. and the hard times…
And the general uncertainty of all investment…
The Special Branch officers were downstairs, being served cups of tea by David's housekeeper. There were two anonymous saloon cars parked outside in the morning sunshine of Eaton Square. He and David Winterborne confronted one another, Aubrey taking a certain, tangible pleasure from David's discomfiture. The Home Office official, Baird, remained in his selected corner of the large drawing room, just beyond a stream of sunlight from one of the tall windows, as if he possessed no interest in either of them.
This is, as I said, all very unofficial, David. For the moment, at least."
Winterborne, unwarned of their early arrival, was already dressed and breakfasted.
The scent of coffee lingered in the room, even though the housekeeper had removed the tray. Aubrey's own breakfast had been meagre, a failure of appetite.
The cramp of agitation that had kept him awake for most of the night remained knotted in his stomach.
"Why? Why you? As you say, you are unofficial, almost a non-person as far as these matters go." He glanced across at the man from the Home Office, perched on a narrow Louis Quinze chair, studiously analysing the intricate pattern of the Persian carpet near his feet.
"You have absolutely no authority, Kenneth. Why should anyone in their right mind have let you come?"
"A favour of a kind."
Aubrey had remained standing throughout their brief encounter, leaning heavily but firmly on his walking stick.
"A chance to gloat, then?"
The Home Office type had informed David of the reasons why he must accompany them, what allegations had been made. Customs & Excise were raiding his offices, those of Complete Security, other companies under the Winterborne Holdings umbrella. David was being taken into custody pending consideration of a State Department request for his extradition to face serious criminal charges. Aubrey had hovered at the man's tall shoulder like an ancient Nemesis. He had persuaded old acquaintances in the Branch, the DS and Customs to seize the opportunity to begin the surgical dissection of David's finances.
"Not to gloat to ask," he snapped, his temper suddenly heating him.
Winterborne faced him, his back to the window, making Aubrey squint into the sunlight. To ask why? And to ask, how did you dare?"
His anger was difficult to restrain; his reserves of hauteur seemed to have boiled away like steam. Marian was safely ensconced and comfortably recuperating in a Sussex nursing home. Giles and he were constant visitors. As was David's father, Clive. Giles' anger had died away, as if it was measured in a U-shaped thermometer; as Marian's health rose, his rage subsided. But not his own.
Especially not now, confronting David.
"You mean dear Marian, of course," Winterborne replied arrogantly.
"Of course, Marian! How could you try to have her killed?" Aubrey hissed. The rest of it I can see. The deaths of strangers for a clear advantage nothing more than items on the television news. But Marian…?"
"Marian placed herself in the path of the train," he replied evenly. It seemed a remark often rehearsed, something he had coached himself to believe.
"She was the last, the only obstacle…" His dark eyes blazed and his nostrils flared.