‘Take this down, then,’ she said.
He made no move to take out his own notebook.
‘Two people witnessed me gain access to the public right of way. They will testify that I did not damage any locks. I very much doubt that lock is Her Majesty’s property anyway. It’s got a very American look to me and I strongly suspect it’s one you prepared earlier, in which case you—’
The attack was sudden. He lunged forward, got two hands round her neck and jerked her head back so sharply it struck the metalwork between the side windows with a crack. She cried out. His face was close to hers, his mouth working, uncontrolled anger preventing him from framing his words. The front door of the van opened and the pressure on her neck eased as he let go quickly and lurched back.
‘I’ve checked the gate, Sarge,’ said the younger man’s voice as she blinked away tears of pain. He sounded very uncertain, worried. ‘What do you want me to do. Shall I start up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I could make a complaint,’ she said, angry that her wavering voice betrayed her.
‘I told you to be careful, throwing yourself around like that,’ the sergeant said.
They took her through the gate, past the twin flagpoles where the Stars and Stripes flew next to the Union Jack.
‘Does it make you proud,’ she asked, ‘having our very own flag up there just for you. I mean, twelve hundred Americans and twenty five English policemen and they give you a flag just the same size.’
There was a stony silence. A little Renault drew up and parked on the verge of the country road outside.
The sergeant opened the van’s back door, got out and stood there as she followed. ‘That your friend Margo, then?’ he said. ‘Just tell her from me to watch herself. She knows her bail provisions. One foot inside the boundary and I’ll have her, then I can promise you it’ll be straight in the slammer.’
Heather felt fully back in control now and her voice was once again full of sweet reason. ‘Well, perhaps you can tell us, Sergeant Hayter, just what exactly is the boundary?’ She pointed. ‘Is it the grass verge, or the hedge, or the ditch, or the second hedge or the wire fence? No one seems to know.’
He got back in the van, pretending he hadn’t heard. She walked over to the car. ‘What happened to your head?’ said the driver. She was older but very much in Heather’s mould.
‘Hayter,’ said Heather, ‘he lost his cool.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just a headache. They’re digging foundations for another block the other side of the Bannerfish building. I got the site drawings. The foreman left them on the table in the office.’
‘You were chancing it. Suppose they’d searched you? That would have been another theft charge.’
‘Something you of course never did,’ Heather said and laughed. ‘To quote you – what was it? “A woman’s got to do what a man wouldn’t do”? Anyway there were six copies there. I thought they probably wouldn’t miss one. It’s got all the wiring and everything. Should give us a pretty good clue about what they’re going to do in there.’
Johnny punched up the back door into the British Telecom billing computer. Heather Weston had made a lot of calls recently, mostly local. There was no immediate pattern. Tapping the buttons turned the list of numbers into a list of addresses. Ripon, Harrogate, Pateley Bridge, Otley. Initials, names, roads, postcodes. No pattern yet, the odd garage, a cinema, the rest just houses in streets that sounded Victorian, terraced, named while the Empire still stood. He ran down the list and found two, very recent, that were different and seemed linked. Applewick Guesthouse, Malham, and the Morray Arms, Horton in Ribblesdale.
Those place names immediately suggested something. He put a map disk into the CD-ROM and prowled through the index that appeared on his screen. Malham and Horton were both on the same map, the Ordnance Survey Outdoor Leisure map of Upper Wharfedale. As he expected, a dotted green line wound its way between them, north past Malham Tarn, up over Fountains Fell then west in a zigzag via the summit of Pen-y-ghent to Horton. He knew what it was – the Pennine Way, an easy one-day section of the great three-hundred-mile route that boot-slogged up the spine of Britain from the Peak peatbogs of Derbyshire to beyond the Scottish border. He knew most of the route, knew it through the soles of his boots, but not this bit. This section of the Way was in a part of Britain that he’d shunned for years. Even looking at the map induced a sense of guilt. Now though duty called, and duty always came first. He called the Malham number.
An elderly woman with a far from Yorkshire accent said, ‘Applewick Guesthouse?’ in a questioning tremolo. An immigrant from the Home Counties.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you can help me? My sister’s booked in somewhere in the Malham area and she’s asked me to change the booking but I’ve lost the piece of paper.’ He succeeded in sounding dithery, flustered, older and she responded just as he’d hoped.
‘Oh, yes, of course, dear, what name was it?’
‘Thank you so much. Weston.’
‘Oh yes, I remember, she’s been before. Just hold on a sec, dear.’
She came back sounding triumphant. ‘Yes, I thought so. This Friday, her and her friend Miss Cowley. Just for one night. Now what did you want to change because I should warn you I’m already full for Saturday?’
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘thank you. I don’t think that’s her, not with a friend. Is that Mrs Anna Weston?’
‘Oh no dear, it’s Heather Weston. I am sorry. I bet you thought you’d got it first time, didn’t you?’
‘Thanks for trying,’ he said and hung up.
The Morray Arms confirmed the rest of the picture. Two single rooms booked for Miss Weston and Miss Cowley. He left it an hour, called back in a much gruffer, down-to-earth voice and booked himself a room at both places, then he started to think about where he’d last seen his walking boots.
Hayter was on the spot. Chief Inspector Reed was already in the Base Commander’s office when he was summoned but it was the Commander, a thin-lipped, austere man, who did the talking, leaving no doubt where the real power lay in the room.
‘Sergeant Hayter,’ he said, and his voice was Alabama soft, Alabama brutal, though to Hayter it was just another drawl, ‘can you explain how this woman Weston managed to gain access to the command desk of the Saddlebush bunker without your man on the door even noticing?’
‘I believe Hoskin may have had to leave his post for a very short time, sir, and I suspect she may have been waiting for the opportunity.’
‘Hoskin needed to take a leak and you weren’t prepared to spell him. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. What happened was—’
‘Here’s what happened, Sergeant,’ said the commander and he pressed a button. There was a bleep and a crackle from a speaker, then perfect quality, straight off the police radio link, Hoskin’s voice first.
‘I need a jimmy riddle, Sarge. Are you near by?’
‘What’s the matter, Chris? Got a weak bladder or what? That’s the second time today.’
‘Knock it off, Sarge, I’m bursting.’
‘Stiff upper lip son, show the fucking Yanks what a Brit’s made of. I’ve only just started my smoke break.’
Bloody hell, thought Hayter. I didn’t know they were recording us. He made a mental note to put the word round and never, ever to let his guard slip like that again.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.
‘Sorry, Sergeant? Sorry. You’re a sorry joke,’ said the Commander. ‘I’ve gotten used to you not being able to stop foreign nationals walking round our base like it was open day. When they start getting open access to Saddlebush because you’re taking time out for a smoke, I start to get very angry. I’ve been telling the Chief Inspector here that if this carries on we’re going to have to insist on taking a more direct role in base security. This has gotta stop. Am I making myself clear?’ He was looking at both of them, ignoring the conventions of Reed’s position and their differing ranks, and so far, Reed hadn’t said a thing.