Two officers had been installed in each Little Chef since the previous night; cameras with infrared film and the kind of zoom lenses normally used for spying on Royals were trained on both parking lots and entrances. The pairs elected to make delivery sat with the ransom behind them on the rear seat, joking about how they were going to pull a switch themselves, take off for a month to the Caribbean, the Costa del Sol. Intercept vehicles, radio linked, were stationed at intervals along all major routes leading away from the restaurants. Once their quarry showed, he would be followed in an inter-changing pattern until finally he went to ground. All in all, resources from three forces were involved.
Watch and wait: the clock ticked down.
Divine sat on a packing case in the storage area, feet on a carton of oven-ready chips. Four in the afternoon, but he was eating his second Early Starter of the day. In between, he’d tried the gammon steak, the plaice, and a special helping of those hash browns that went with the American Style breakfast, just four with a couple of eggs. All in all, he thought the Early Starter was best.
“Ought to get something down you while you can,” he called across to Naylor, who was over by the small rear window, peering out. “Not every day it comes free.”
“Soon won’t be able to see a thing out here,” Naylor said. “Not a bloody thing.”
“D’you hear what I said?” Divine asked, biting down into a sausage.
“Another half hour and he could come from those trees over there, right across this field, and none of us would see a thing.”
“Jesus!” Divine exclaimed. “Might as well talk to your chuffing self.”
Naylor came over and took a piece of bacon off the plate.
“Get your own!”
Naylor shook his head. “Like my bacon crispier than that.”
“Yeh? I can see Debbie fancying everything well done, eh?”
Naylor gave him a warning look, shut it!
Divine wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “Gloria, though, out there waiting tables, got her eye on you. Play your cards right, you could be away there. Quickie down behind the griddle.”
The storeroom door swung open and Gloria came in, a big woman from King’s Lynn whose white uniform needed extra safety pins to keep it in place. “Feet off there,” she snapped, looking at the oven chips. “People got to eat those.”
“Kevin here was just letting on,” Divine said, “how he could really fancy you.”
“That’s nice,” Gloria said, treating Naylor to a smile. “I always like the quiet type, they’re the ones that take you by surprise. Not like some.” Delicately, her chubby fingers lifted Divine’s remaining sausage from his plate. “All that talk and then they’re about as good for you as this poor thing. Look at it. First cousin to a chipolata.”
Resnick checked his watch; less than five minutes since he’d looked last. All the while sitting there, hoping he wouldn’t be proved right. Susan Rogel over again. Another wild-goose chase, another woman unaccounted for. Cold sleep in a shallow grave. Beside him, Millington unscrewed the top of his second thermos and held it towards him. Resnick nodded and waited while Millington half-filled the plastic cup.
Straitened circumstances, he thought it might taste better than the first time. “Wife not back into dandelion coffee, is she, Graham?”
“Gilding, sir.”
“Come again.”
“Gilding. You know, old furniture and the like. Restoration. Sent off for details of this course, Bury St. Edmunds way. Two hundred quid for the weekend. Eighty-five for the video. Daylight robbery, I told her, but, no, Graham, it’s the cost of all that gold leaf, she says …”
Controlling a grimace, Resnick sipped the coffee and continued to stare through the windscreen, letting his sergeant’s chatter fade inconsequentially into the background. He couldn’t quite rid his mind of the image of Dana, pale faced, listening to the replay of the tape. Nothing … nothing bad has happened to me, so I don’t want you to worry … Dana, listening to her friend’s voice, fears strung along the edges of her imagination. This woman, who to Resnick had been so lively, irrepressible, slumped in the chair with all the life drawn out of her. If he had no longer felt any connection between them, it was because Dana no longer had anything with which to connect. Well, partly that. Ever since that first astonishing, joyful evening, Resnick had been aware of the shutters coming down, drawn by his own hands.
“Look!” Millington said suddenly, interrupting his own conversation.
But Resnick was already looking. The green Orion had passed the Little Chef sign once, reappeared from the opposite direction less than two minutes later, and was now approaching it again.
“He’s slowing right down,” Millington said. “Go on, you bugger, turn in, turn in.”
They watched as the vehicle followed the white arrow painted on the car-park surface, drove forward fifteen feet towards the entrance, stopped, took a left, and slowly reversed into the broad space between a green 2CV and a reconditioned Post Office van.
Through the binoculars, Resnick could see the driver’s face behind the wheel, white, clean-shaven, middle-aged: alone.
“Time, Graham?”
“Four forty-two.”
Having parked the car, the man was making no attempt to move.
“Want me to check out the license plate?” Millington asked.
“Not yet. For all we know he’s got a short-wave radio scanning the police channels. Wait till he’s out of the car. And then alert Divine and Naylor first.”
Millington looked at his watch. “Four forty-four.”
Resnick nodded. “Here comes the delivery car, right on time.”
“This is it, then. What he’s waiting for.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s just tired, taking a nap.”
“With both eyes open?”
The unmarked police car moved across the forecourt and drew to a halt as close to the main door as it could get. Resnick wiped away the first dampening of sweat. Headlights burned low against the field fence and the red tail lights blinked. The detective on the passenger side slid clear, leaned back across the seat, and lifted the black duffel bag clear.
“All right,” Millington said, “pay some bloody attention.”
Detective and duffel bag disappeared from sight.
“What’s he doing?” Millington asked.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, you bastard. Move.”
Four forty-seven and the plain-clothes man reappeared, went briskly around the back of the car, and resumed his seat; without rushing, the car drew away.
“I don’t believe it,” Millington said. “He’s not going to do a thing.”
“Yes, he is.”
Resnick held his breath as the door to the Orion opened and the driver set his feet on the tar-covered surface. “Radio, Graham.”
But Millington was already giving the signal to Mark Divine.
“Right!” Divine said in the storeroom and was on his way. Out in the main body of the restaurant, he took his time, saw the man coming towards him through the double set of glass doors. At the cash desk, he hesitated, picked up a roll of extra strong mints, and placed the money in the cashier’s hand. The man had to break step to get round him, Divine apologizing, stepping into his path by mistake, apologizing again, and heading for the door.
“Smoking or non-smoking, sir?” the cashier asked.
“I’m just off to the Gents’ first,” the man said. “But either’s fine.”
“Orion’s licensed to a Patrick Reverdy,” Millington said in the car, “address in Cheadle.”
“Long way from home,” Resnick said, glasses focused on the restaurant door.
When the man emerged from the toilet, he was still rubbing his hands together after using the dryer. Naylor was now sitting in the smoking section near the door, stirring sugar into his coffee. He watched as the man told the waitress he was expecting a friend and accepted a double seat towards the rear window. While he was waiting, he ordered a toasted tea cake and a cup of tea. Home-going traffic built up steadily on the road outside. Resnick talked briefly to Skelton, keeping him informed; at the other location, Siddons and Cossall were drawing a blank.