“Yeah. Major Winterbotham—you know ‘im?”
“This aren’t the way to Norton Down.” Scorn had replaced incredulity.
Benedikt looked at his watch again. The police were due any second.
“Fourth turning, they told me. Down the hill till the road forks, an‘
it’s signposted there, to the right.” There was a pause. “Left goes to Cucklesford St Mary an’ right to Norton Down— bloody stupid names!” Another pause. “But I can’t see any bloody sign!”
“Arr . . . nor you can! Because there ain’t none.” The peasant belittled the townsman. “You took the wrong road— that’s what you don. Cucklesford St Mary an‘ Norton Down’s on t’other side.”
The driver grunted helplessly. “Can I get through from ‘ere?
Where am I?”
“Na ... If I was goin‘ to Norton Down from wherever you come from I wouldn’t start from ’ere. What you want t’do is to turn round an‘ go back where you come from . . . an’ then—”
The fierce headlights of the police car and the sound of its engine arrived almost simultaneously, to cut off these extraordinary directions in mid-flow. They must have coasted down the ridge from the main road to arrive so silently, with the kink in the final approach, and the trees themselves, cutting off the warning of their dummy1
arrival until the final bend.
But now the speaker on the other side of the water, who had been hidden behind his own torch-beam outside the van’s headlights, was suddenly caught in the glare as the police car pulled alongside the van, outside Benedikt’s vision.
He heard a car door slam.
“What’s this, then?” It was strange how the official voice was the same the world over—confidently suspicious and suspiciously confident. “Is that you over there, Blackie Nabb? What are you doing here?”
“Arr . . . Mr Russell?” The voice parried the question. “Is that Mr Russell?”
“You know me, Blackie. Why aren’t you in the Eight Bells?”
“The Eight Bells?”
Now, there was a difference, from the world over, thought Benedikt: there might be suspicion both ways here, between Mr Russell and the man over the water . . . but there was no fear in either of them—and—what was a greater difference—there was no hatred either!
“The Eight Bells, Mr Russell?” False incomprehension filled the question. “But it’s gone closing time—an‘ I’ve been over to my sister’s, at Cassell’s, anyway... So what would I be doin’ at the Bells, then?”
The other police-car door slammed.
“What’s this, Russell?” A senior-officer voice, not so much confident as super-confident, and alien for that reason, cut in.
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“Who is this?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Mr Russell answered his officer evenly, also without fear. “But that’s Mr Nabb over there, who runs the taxi-service in the village.”
“Oh, yes?” The senior officer sounded as though he had heard of
‘Mr Nabb’. “And where’s his taxi?”
No answer came from over the water, and Benedikt began at last to understand the dimensions of the drama to which he was a witness, which Chief Inspector Andrew had enlisted to serve Colonel Butler’s purpose.
“I don’t think he’s on duty tonight, sir. It looks like he’s visiting his sister, Mrs Tanner. . . She’s married to Mr Tanner, who’s manager at Cassell’s Farm, sir.”
“Oh, yes?”
Benedikt’s dislike of the officer voice—the inspector voice—
blossomed with his understanding: it had suited Colonel Butler’s plan that the local police were busy in this part of Dorset, leaning on after-hours drinking in public houses, which was in contravention of Britain’s archaic licensing laws—it had suited him that the Eight Bells in Duntisbury Royal, although not a primary target, had been one of the subsidiary targets to which Chief Inspector Andrew with his special contacts could divert one particular attack at short notice.
What he had not understood until now was that, while the inspector wanted to catch the Eight Bells regulars drinking happily after hours, the local constable— Mr Russell—had no such ambition . . .
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Because Mr Russell, at the very first opportunity, had warned Mr Nabb what he was about, and close to a convenient phone-box.
“Oh, yes?” The Inspector had made some of those same connections, if not all of them, by the sound of his voice. “And who are you, then?”
He had come back to the van-driver, realised Benedikt.
“Eh?” The van-driver sounded not one bit abashed by the question.
“What the fuck is that meant to mean—who am I?”
He had to adjust, thought Benedikt: the Inspector must know what he was doing, and this was all for Mr Nabb’s benefit—‘Blackie’
Nabb’s benefit—if he was on duty at the ford, as they had expected someone to be on duty here, as the first trip-wire in Duntisbury Chase’s defence system.
But the corollary of that was that the Inspector must behave as he would have behaved in real life—so that ‘Blackie’ Nabb should react in the same way, to warn the Chase of the arrival of the police within that same defence system.
But ... in the meantime . . . the van-driver had to react also—and this was England—rural England in the 1980s—and that in itself was educational.
“What are you doing here?”
“Doing?” The van-driver echoed the verb insolently. “I wish to fuck I knew, mate!”
“There’s no need to use that sort of language with me—not if you want to stay out of a cell tonight.” The Inspector remained coolly unmoved by the insolence, he merely pitched his voice so that it dummy1
could be heard on the other side of the water. “I’ve got a warrant-card in my pocket. . . and we’ve had enough burglaries round here for me to inquire what you’re doing in these parts at this hour of the night. So you can argue the toss with me, and I can put the constable here behind the wheel of your vehicle and take you back to the nearest police station—if you like . . . And we can sort you out there.” Pause. “Or you can answer the question. Take your pick.”
Two seconds—five seconds—
“Well?”
One second—
“All right, guv‘!”
“Well?” The repetition was lazy with dominance.
“Worsdale, guv—Jack Worsdale . . . Easy Removals—you can ring my gaffer, Mr Page, if you don’t believe me—straight up!”
This pause, thought Benedikt, covered a pointing finger at the phone-box, to support the surrender. “Takin‘ an upright grand—a grand pianer—to Major Sidebotham— Winterbotham ... at Norton
—Norton Down—The Old Vicarage, Norton Down.”
“At this hour of night?”
“There was an ‘old-up on the M3—on the Alton junction— wiv’ a tail-back . . .”
Pause.
“There was a crash on the M3, sir. Junction 5,” said Constable Russell, almost apologetically. “Early this evening. The road was blocked for nearly two hours.”
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“An‘ I ’ad a blow-out near Stockbridge.” The van-driver achieved a genuine whine. “Took me another hour— and they gave me the wrong direction then—”
“All right!” The Inspector cut short the explanation. “Is the back locked?”
“Locked, guv‘? Naow. There’s only the pianer in there—”
“Russell. Go round the back and have a look inside . . . You stay here, where I can see you . . . and you over there—Mr Nabb, is it?
— you stay where I can see you, too! I have business in Duntisbury Royal when I’ve dealt with this man and his vehicle.”
Benedikt started to move.