“Now that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all night. Introduce me to the gear shift, will you?”
Joe barely needed to make the introduction. His slut of a car uttered a sigh of relief, purred with pleasure at the confident new hands on the wheel and moved up silkily through the gears.
“Started on tractors when I was a boy,” Kingstone explained. “Always had a sympathy with engines.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” said Joe equably. “And what do you run at home?” he thought to ask, feeling it was the manly thing to show an interest. He rather despised a man who judged another by the motorcar he owned but they had an hour’s run out into the country before them and at least, if he was hearing his companion talking engine size and cylinder number he could stave off sleep. Kingstone seemed to be enjoying himself now that he’d resigned himself to being kidnapped and was showing real pleasure in speeding down the A road.
“Oh, one or two. My favourite’s a little eight-cylinder two-seater Auburn Speedster. Dark red. Automatic starter. That one. And for more serious motoring around New York, I’ve got a Lincoln. One twenty horsepower V8 engine. Model K—the police chief’s car, they call them.” He grinned. “In fact it is just that! I got my hands on one of the Police Flyers—touring sedans—they come with four-wheel brakes, bullet-proof windshield, spots, whistles, gun-rack on the roof. I had that removed. A little showy, I thought, and people would keep taking pot shots at it. For going to visit the president I have a stately Hispano Suiza with more cylinders than you could count. Can’t tell you how that handles—my chauffeur won’t let me near the wheel. Say—am I boring you? Stay awake now! I don’t know where the hell we’re going … Surrey, did you say when you bundled me out of the Yard with my head in a bag? Is that near Suffolk? Are you taking me back to call on my ancestors?”
Joe shook himself. “Nowhere near, I’m afraid. It’s south of the Thames and over to the west a bit. I’m taking you to the country for the weekend—doctor’s orders, remember. We’re taking the Brighton road. I’ll tell you when to turn off. So far, so good. No one knows we’ve done a bunk yet, let alone where we’re headed. There’s certainly no one following us.”
“I hadn’t missed all that pulling off the road and do-si-doing about in back alleys! But shouldn’t you have told Armiger? He might start sounding the alarm when I don’t turn up.”
“I made one or two phone calls before we set off. The first was to book us in for our weekend. The second was a rather urgent one to my Special Branch head, the third a message for Bill. I left it with the desk at Claridge’s. He doesn’t know our whereabouts either. I simply told him that if you weren’t back by midnight, he wasn’t to worry.”
“You don’t trust that guy much, do you?”
“No. But then I trust no one. Nor should you, Kingstone. Someone very close to you is going about metaphorically fouling your drinking cups with spiders. Whoever it is has watched your every move since you arrived in London. They have the muscle-power—the hired thugs—to kill and are unconcerned—even happy—that we should find the bodies of two people, two complete innocents, who’ve been murdered on your account. ‘Why should they want to?’ do I hear you ask?”
“You asked me that already. And you heard my answer: gold standard. Manipulation of. There are fortunes at stake.” The reply was terse.
“That’s what you’re still telling us? We’ll accept that for the moment. Just listen while I muse on. And do feel free to correct any misapprehensions, will you? They’ve put your mind in a torture chamber. Your body is at liberty to walk about annoying people, attending meetings, rubbing shoulders with the power brokers of the world. You smile, slap their backs and shake their hands and one of these men who looks you in the eye and calls you by your name is tightening the screws on your emotions. I think you know who he is.”
“I can think of five … no, make that four … men who’d like to see me bite the dust. Sure, we shake each other’s hands. I ask after their wives and daughters. I like their wives and daughters! So would you. But they’re all back home, not here in London. I’m a soldier, Sandilands, like you. I know a soldier’s fears. I don’t deny them. I know how to deal with them. I’ll have no truck with all this spider nonsense.”
Joe was pleased to hear Kingstone had calmed himself sufficiently to disown his recent crisis of the mind. Whatever it was, it had not proved crippling, he was glad to note. He smiled to himself. The feel of a leather-clad steering wheel between the palms, the growl of an engine responding to the pressure of the right foot and an unknown destination below a dark horizon were all having their—not uncalculated—effect. Kingstone was a man who was used to being in charge, instigating action on his own territory and on his own terms. The doctor had seen the need to restore his power and balance and was modern enough in his views to conclude, with Joe, that a simple “Brace up, old chap—worse things happen at sea!” was never going to do the trick.
Joe had decided not to play the game. He’d overturned the board and made off with the king piece in his pocket. A good night’s sleep, a large English breakfast followed by a brisk walk on the Downs with a hound or two running ahead and skylarks spiralling up into the heavens and Joe would be ready to restart the game.
“Stay on the Brighton road for half an hour. After we turn off it gets a bit tricky. It’s all bosky beech woods sighing in the breeze and ancient tracks winding between high earth banks. Mysterious, lovely and hellish driving.”
Kingstone put his foot down and the modest six-cylinder engine did its gallant best to please.
“COD AND SIX-PENNORTH o’ chips and a glass of lemonade! Blimey! You know how to treat a girl.” Julia Ivanova’s voice held a note of flirtatious challenge but her smile was wide as a child’s with delight at the sight of the steaming plate Armitage was putting in front of her. She sniffed. “And how did you know I liked it with vinegar?”
“No choice! When Sam’s at the fryer everyone gets vinegar.”
Julia looked enquiringly at the man directing operations behind the counter in the small fish bar on the corner of Brewer Street. He returned her gaze, his large, sweating, moustached face taking in every detail of her appearance with more than polite scrutiny. Finally, the face broke into a beaming smile of welcome. He winked at her in appreciation. Julia laughed and winked back.
Armitage relaxed. He’d done the right thing after all. He’d wondered about bringing her here. He’d stayed down below in the vestibule at Claridge’s, re-reading Sandiland’s message—which he’d summarised for Julia: “Don’t wait up!”—while she went to change. “To get the smell of death out of my clothes,” she’d said, “and give my hair a good brushing.”
She hadn’t kept him waiting long. She’d emerged from the lift wearing something in dark blue silk that he thought he recognised. It clung flatteringly to her slender shape and reached half way down her calves. He’d last seen it at the front of Natalia’s wardrobe, being held up to Sandiland’s inquisitive nose. Sandilands had even clocked the labeclass="underline" VIONNET or some such. French anyway. Must have cost a bomb. Borrowed without the owner’s say-so? None of his business. Perhaps she had blanket permission to help herself to her boss’s possessions? Girls did things like that. Even shared each other’s lipsticks. At least she didn’t smell of that musky scent her boss used. Before the strong chippy atmosphere of frying fat and vinegar hit them, he’d been aware of something flowery and innocent that took him back to kids’ outings in Epping Forest. Bluebells?