He snapped out of his reverie as a pair of dazzling headlights drew even closer in the reflection of the rearview mirror. He muttered about the lack of consideration shown by some motorists and signalled for the driver to pass. The headlights remained fixed on the back of the Golf, forcing him to tilt the rearview mirror towards the passenger seat. He opened his window and made a sweep with his arm to beckon the driver on. He even gave way, moving precariously close to the verge so that the driver could see the road ahead for himself. The headlights swung out from behind the Golf and he caught a brief glimpse of the red bonnet braided with strips of chrome. A Range Rover. It drew abreast of the Golf but Whitlock was unable to see the driver.
‘Go on, go on,’ he shouted and waved the driver forward.
The Range Rover swerved inwards, striking the Golf broadside.
‘Damn maniac,’ Whitlock yelled as he swung the wheel violently to prevent the Golf from veering off the road.
The gently sloping thirty-feet grass embankment to his left ended abruptly in an area of dense woodland which could easily rupture a car’s fuel tank on impact.
The Range Rover struck the side of the Golf a second time and he instinctively trod sharply on the brakes, knowing he could lose control of the wheel and plummet down the embankment. He knew, though, that the Range Rover was infinitely more powerful and it would be only a matter of time before it forced the Golf off the road. The back wheels slewed sideways, away from the verge, and the Golf ended up straddled across the road. The Range Rover stopped, then executed a careful U-turn to face the stalled Golf. He reached over and unfastened the glove compartment, feeling around inside it for the Browning. As his fingers curled around the butt the Range Rover hit the Golf a glancing blow, disintegrating the right headlight in a shower of broken glass. The Golf spun round a hundred and eighty degrees, the momentum of the turn snapping Whitlock’s head against the steering wheel. He struggled to sit up, his head pounding from the force of the blow. When he gingerly touched the gash across his eyebrow he could feel blood oozing on to his fingertips.
The Range Rover had turned to make another run. The Golf was immobile only a few feet from the edge of the road and the next buffet would almost certainly cartwheel it down the embankment. Whitlock tried unsuccessfully to start the engine then reached for the Browning lying on the passenger seat. The Range Rover came directly towards the Golf, aiming to strike it on the driver’s door to get the exact angle to spin it round so it would roll sideways down the embankment. He waited until the Range Rover was twenty feet away before gripping the Browning in both hands and extending it through the open window. He picked an imaginary spot in the centre of the darkened windscreen and fired twice. Both bullets pierced the glass, inches apart, and a myriad of threadlike cracks branched out from the resulting dimpled holes.
The Range Rover sheered off course, narrowly missing the back of the Golf, then continued down the road and disappeared around the first bend.
Then he saw the motorbike parked further up the road. It was a black Suzuki 1000cc. Its rider, dressed in white leather, kick-started the machine and streaked past the Golf.
He managed to restart the Golf and as he slipped it into gear he began to think more carefully about the Range Rover. Had he seen it somewhere before? Had Karen mentioned it to him? The more he thought about it the more he was sure someone had referred to it in passing. He had met over a dozen different workers at the plant the previous day but he couldn’t place anyone who might have told him about it.
He snapped his fingers. ‘Leitzig,’ he said out loud.
Leitzig had a Range Rover that he used to go on fishing trips.
Whitlock’s head was throbbing by the time he found a public telephone. His suspicions about Leitzig grew stronger when he found out from the plant’s switchboard that he was not due at work until the afternoon shift. He found Leitzig’s home address in the directory, tore out the relevant page, and hurried back to the battered Golf. He would assess the damage later and use his credit card to settle up with Hertz. UNACO would refund him once he returned to New York. Kolchinsky wouldn’t be pleased
Leitzig lived in a run-down double-storey on Quintinstrasse overlooking the Old University campus on the eastern side of the Rhine. Whitlock parked the Golf at the end of the street, pocketed the Browning, then ran through the driving rain to the garage at the side of the house. He cupped his hands on either side of his face and peered through the cracked window. Although a piece of sacking had been erected as a makeshift curtain he could still see the red Range Rover inside. The paintwork was damaged on the passenger door. He couldn’t see the windscreen but he had all the proof he needed to confront Leitzig.
Next he turned his attention to getting into the house. He scaled a rickety six-foot wooden fence behind the garage and landed nimbly in the overgrown back yard where he remained on his haunches, Browning drawn, assessing the dangers. A veranda to his right, presumably leading into the kitchen. He made his way towards it through the knee-high grass, each squelching step soaking his feet more. A Christian Dior shirt stained with blood, a Richard James bottle-green suit saturated, and an expensive pair of Pierre Cardin slip-ons drenched. If they were ruined UNACO would pay for a replacement pair, whether Kolchinsky liked it or not.
He reached the veranda and tried the door. It opened.
An Alsatian was blocking his way, but instead of leaping up at him in defence of its territory it merely wagged its tail then returned to its basket to sleep. He decided against patting it, on the basis that he had already tempted fate too far. He slipped into the kitchen and closed the door securely behind him then reached down and removed his shoes.
Leitzig was sitting beside a small heater in the lounge, his back to the doorway. Whitlock paused and looked around the room in amazement. It was a shrine to one woman, with pictures of her from youth through to her middle years. Dozens of enlarged photographs, each mounted and framed, covered the walls, the ornamental mantelpiece and the chipped sideboard opposite the doorway.
All his pent-up anger seemed to dissipate and his voice sounded hollow when he finally spoke. ‘Dr Leitzig?’
Leitzig sprang to his feet and swung around to face him. There was a fury in his eyes. ‘Get out! Get out!’
Whitlock instinctively stepped back into the hallway, the Browning hanging limply by his side.
Leitzig was breathing heavily. ‘This is her room and I am the only other person allowed to share it with her. Nobody else!’
‘Then we’ll talk somewhere else. How about the kitchen?’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Surprisingly, Leitzig was hesitant.
‘Whitlock. You tried to kill me half an hour ago, remember?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my house or I will call the police.’
‘Please do, but don’t forget to mention your Range Rover in the garage. They might be interested in matching up its damaged paintwork with the paintwork on my Golf. I’m sure they’d come to some interesting conclusions. I do not think you would want the police here any more than I would.’
Whitlock was at the end of his patience, his equanimity finally deserting him. He grabbed Leitzig by the collar and slammed him against the wall. His voice was low and threatening. ‘I’m tired of playing games with you. I want some answers and I promise you I’ll get them.’