“That’s what they think,” said Hobhouse. “Now as your mum said, there’s no reason to suppose they’re anywhere near here, but…”
He was interrupted by the ringing of the wall-mounted phone. Denzil made a move for it but his mother snatched it up, listened for a moment, and then replaced the receiver. At the same moment the baby started to cry.
“Traffic backed up for a mile because of roadblocks,” she announced despairingly over the baby’s wails. “Thinks he’s going to be at least an hour late back. And I’ve got his bloody parents arriving at any minute. Which reminds me, we’re going to need some wine and some more tonic water… My God, Denzil, is that them?”
“I’ll, er… I’ll leave these,” murmured Hobhouse, handing Denzil two photocopied A4 sheets and replacing his cap, “and be on my way. Any worries, don’t hesitate. And obviously, if you spot anyone…”
Denzil took the sheets, gave the officer a distracted thumbs-up, and glanced out of the window. Judging by the five-year-old Jaguar and the intolerant bearing of the couple stepping out of it, it was indeed “them.”
“Mum, you’ve got sick on your back.” He took a deep breath, thought briefly but longingly of the serenity that the afternoon had held, and made the supreme sacrifice. “Give me Jessica. Go upstairs and change. I’ll hold the fort.”
55
Faraj watched dispassionately as Jean, kneeling naked to the waist on the flagstoned towpath beneath the bridge, bent forward to rinse her hair in the river. Beyond the arches of the bridge lay a grey, baleful dawn. It was 9 a.m., and very cold. Jean’s fingers scrabbled methodically at her scalp, a thin soapy cloud drifted downstream, and finally she raised her head and wrung out the dark rope of her hair. Still crouched over the water, she took a plastic comb from the unzipped washbag, and dragged it repeatedly forwards from the nape of her neck until her hair was no longer dripping. Then she shook it out, and pulled her dirty T-shirt back on. Her hands were shaking now after their immersion in the river, her head ached with the cold, and hunger was knotting her guts. It was essential, though, that she be presentable.
It was the day.
Pressing her flattened hands into her armpits to warm them for a moment, she searched in the washbag, found a pair of steel hairdressing scissors, and handed these and the comb to Faraj. Events had taken on a strange clarity. “My turn for a haircut,” she said, a little self-consciously.
He nodded. Frowned as he took the scissors. Flickered them experimentally.
“It’s simple,” she said. “You work from the back to the front, cutting so that every strand”-she held up her index finger-“is this long.”
The frown still in place, Faraj seated himself behind her. Taking the comb and scissors he began to cut, carefully dropping the severed locks into the river as he went. Fifteen minutes later he laid down the scissors.
“Done.”
“How does it look?” she asked. “Do I look different?”
A word of tenderness. A single word would do.
“You look different,” he said brusquely. “Are you ready?”
“I just want to take a last look at the map,” she said, glancing sideways at him. He was not yet thirty, but the stubble on his chin was silver. His face was blank. Reaching for the book, squinting in the dim light, she re-examined the topography of the area. As the crow flew, they were just three miles from the target.
“I’m still worried about the helicopters,” she confessed. “If we go across country and they spot us, we’re finished.”
“It’s less risky than taking another car,” he said. “And if they’re as clever as you say they are, they won’t be searching round here anyway. They’ll be concentrating on the approaches to the US bases.”
“We’re probably fifteen miles from Marwell here,” she admitted. “Maybe sixteen.”
But fifteen or sixteen miles still didn’t seem very far. It was the infrared cameras that she really feared. Their heat signatures on a screen, two pulsing dots of light growing larger and larger as the beating of the rotors grew louder and louder, roaring now, blotting out all sound and thought…
“I think we should walk to West Ford along the towpath,” she said, levelling her voice with a conscious effort. “That way, if we hear any helicopters, we’ve… we’ve got a chance of hiding under the next bridge.”
He looked expressionlessly down at her hands, which had begun to shake again. “All right,” he said. “The path, then. Pack the bags.”
56
In the Swanley Heath mess hall, Liz sat in front of an untouched slice of buttered toast and a cup of black coffee. So far, Investigations had turned up nothing of interest concerning any of the names on the Garth House school list. Several of the pupils lived in Norfolk or Suffolk, or had done so at some point in the past, but while most remembered Jean D’Aubigny, none had any significant connection with her. A loner, had been the universal judgement. Someone who was happiest by herself.
And at a school like Garth House, where most of the children would have had problems of one sort or another, the desire for solitude was something you respected, Liz guessed. Children knew when to leave each other alone in a way that adults often didn’t. Mark had rung her the night before but she had left her voice mail to field the call. She would not be returning it.
Investigations had also informed her that the D’Aubigny parents were still refusing to talk, or indeed to assist the police in any way. Reading between the lines, Liz suspected that this was the lawyer’s doing, and that if any pressure was put on the parents-if they were charged with the wilful obstruction of justice, for example-Julian Ledward would use the case as an opportunity for civil rights grandstanding.
And despite an extensive search operation involving several units of the Moroccan police, MI6 had still not located Price-Lascelles. The latest theory, based on the fact that the Garth House headmaster had loaded several spare containers of diesel into his jeep before leaving Azemmour, was that he had not gone to Casablanca, as reported by the house-boy, but had driven up to the Atlas mountains. The search area, Judith Spratt had reported glumly, had expanded to approximately a thousand square miles.
Liz looked around the room. The police and firearms officers were in one group, the Army officers in another, the SAS team in a third. Bruno Mackay, she saw, was standing with the SAS team, and at that moment laughing uproariously at something that Jamie Kersley had just said.
Liz had taken a seat next to PC Wendy Clissold, who had spent much of the meal giggling on her phone. At the table’s far end, a tactful distance away, sat half a dozen excruciatingly polite young Army Air Corps helicopter pilots.
“They reckon today’s the day, then,” said Clissold, “that they’re going to have a bash at that Yank base.”
“That’s what they reckon,” said Liz.
“It’s not what I reckon,” said a familiar voice at her shoulder.
Liz looked round. It was Don Whitten, and he had clearly had a bad night. His eyes were bloodshot and the bags beneath them purplish-grey. The tips of his moustache, by contrast, were yellowed with nicotine.
“Remind me never to join the Army, Clissold. The beds don’t suit me. You’re not allowed to smoke in them, for a kick-off.”
“Isn’t that a violation of your civil rights, Guv’nor?”
“You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?” said Whitten mournfully. He turned to Liz. “How did you do? Accommodation satisfactory?”
“Quite satisfactory, thanks. Our hut was very comfortable. Are you going to have some breakfast?”
Whitten patted his pockets for his cigarettes and peered at the serving counter. “I’m not sure whether all this fried food is appropriate for a fitness guru like myself. I may confine myself to a Filter King and a cup of tea.”