Ishmael thought of Marilyn’s mother — her swift movements, her grace, her uncanny accuracy with a claw hammer. He thought of Marilyn’s father. He thought of his head making unlovely contact with a rear wing. Suddenly Davey seemed a good man to have in the team.
‘All right,’ Ishmael said. ‘Let’s give it a try. But I’d like you to remember the words of Bob Dylan: ‘Don’t follow leaders ⁄ Watch for parking meters.’
Davey let the words wash over him.
‘It doesn’t rhyme,’ he said.
♦
Colonel Radclyffe sits behind a desk that displays an orderly array of maps, one telephone, in and out trays (both full), and a small potted plant.
Radclyffe, avoiding all ceremony, says to Hirst, ‘Tell me about your work in Brussels, as second-in-command at the tank workshop.’
‘I was works manager, in charge of all forms of repair. I had the standard British military personnel plus three hundred Belgian civilians.’
Radclyffe smiles ruefully. ‘Gallant little Belgium. Hands across the sea. International co-operation. All that sort of rot, eh?’
‘You could put it that way I suppose, Colonel,’ Hirst replies flatly.
♦
In July 1958 Vie Damone was riding high in the British pop charts with ‘On the Street Where You Live’, and the Esso Gas Research Centre published a report stating that ‘Tuning into rock and roll radio stations can cost the motorist money!’ The theory is that the driver is impelled to tap his foot on the accelerator in time to the incessant beat, and so waste petrol.
In that case God alone knew what kind of effect Davey’s ghetto-blaster was having on Ishmael’s fuel consumption. Anything that could make itself heard above the engine and wind noise from Enlightenment had to be worthy of respect, and so it was they made the trip from Cambridgeshire to Kent to the fierce accompaniment of Davey’s collection of ‘road music’ tapes.
They had chart-bound sounds, golden oldies, blasts from the past — the works.
As they tooled down the Mil past Audley End they were born to be wild. As they covered the miles between Ugley Green and Fiddler’s Hamlet they tried to get it on and they thrilled to the line that described how she was built like a car, with a hubcap diamond star halo; then miles and miles of the M25 and a lot, really an awful lot of Bruce Springsteen, endless references to shock absorbers and state troopers, girls in their best dresses and some strapping of hands across engines. The Dartford Tunnel saw Johnny Guitar Watson hitting the highway, and as they neared journey’s end they asked themselves why didn’t they do it in the road.
Sometimes Ishmael had a feeling they were being followed, but he shrugged it off, thinking this was no time to get paranoid.
As and when the music allowed Ishmael explained the nature of his quest to Davey. When he’d finished he said, ‘Davey, I’ve been thinking, I really do abhor violence, you know, but I’ve decided that if that scumbag father of hers doesn’t listen to reason he’s going to have to be punished.’
‘That sounds very reasonable,’ Davey said.
Then he unzipped his jacket to show his tee-shirt. It had big red letters on the front that read ‘LET’S DO IT TO THEM BEFORE THEY DO IT TO US’.
Ishmael realized it had been a good decision to give Davey a lift.
♦
‘And you made a pretty good job of it, Hirst.’
‘I believe so, sir, yes.’
‘Pretty bloody useful experience for when you get back to civvy street, I’d say.’
‘I’m not thinking that far ahead at the moment, sir.’
‘Nor me, Hirst. Tell me, have you heard of K-d-f Stadt?’
‘No sir.’
‘Have you heard of the K-d-f wagen?’
‘The Beetle? Yes, well to the extent that I read an article in Autocar, but I don’t know more than that. Is K-d-f Stadt where they’re made?’
‘Indeed, although the town is now called Wolfsburg. Forgive me if I get a little technical; the US 102nd Infantry took Fallersleben on April 10th, they were just a few miles away from the K-d-f factory but it wasn’t on any of their maps so they had no idea that it was there. In fact, I’m sure they’d have ignored it completely if it hadn’t been for the unpleasantness.’
♦
Marilyn’s parents, and for that matter Marilyn herself, at least for the moment, although it was Ishmael’s plan to change all that, lived at ‘Sorrento’, Hawk’s Lane, ‘Crockenfield.
Crockenfield is built in a valley. There is a meandering river, a very rustic old bridge, an Elizabethan pub with a very big car-park. There is a number of old flint cottages whose doors open right on to the road, and a lot of new houses with double garages set back in long gardens. It’s a nice place. It’s well worth a visit.
Hawk’s Lane runs parallel to the river but is set halfway up the valley. Detached houses are set at intervals along the lane. They have a lot of privacy. They have commanding views.
♦
‘Unpleasantness, sir?’
‘The only way the Nazis could keep the factory running, producing military versions of the K-d-f wagen, Kubelwagens I think they called them, was by using forced labour, prisoners of war. When the SS guards woke up to the fact that they were smack in the middle of the advancing American and Russian forces, they very wisely did a bunk, deserted. The prisoners broke free, smashed everything they could smash, looted the town, ambushed trains and threatened to set fire to the whole town.’
‘Good God.’
♦
‘Sorrento’ was one of the bigger, one of the more detached houses. It was very clean, very white. It had grounds, a croquet lawn, a patio with built-in barbecue, and a small swimming pool.
The gates that met the road were open. They were white and made from two wagon wheels. The drive was steep and uphill. Ishmael drove in as quietly as he could, then turned the car around so it was pointing out of the gates if he needed to make a quick getaway. Davey turned off the music. Ishmael turned off the engine. There was no sign of a Rolls-Royce but there was a brand new Japanese jeep parked by the front door.
Ishmael and Davey remained in the car waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened.
‘Turn the stereo on again,’ Ishmael said.
Ted Nugent’s ‘Motor City Madhouse’ filled the air. Something had to happen.
A woman came from round the side of the house. She might have been a housekeeper or cook. Certainly she had ‘servant’ written all over her.
‘Turn that racket down,’ she said.
It was turned down.
‘What are you selling?’ she asked.
Ishmael laughed a short, ironical laugh.
‘I’m not selling,’ he said.
‘What happened to your car?’ the woman asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
‘I’m here for Marilyn,’ Ishmael said, getting serious.
Clouds of gloom rolled over the woman’s face.
‘Oh dear. You’re not going to cause trouble are you?’
‘No,’ said Ishmael. ‘But I’m ready for it.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I think I’d better talk to Marilyn’s father.’
‘He’s at work, isn’t he?’
Ishmael hadn’t thought about that.
‘It’s four o’clock in the afternoon,’ she went on. ‘Why aren’t you two at work?’
‘There’s three and a half million unemployed,’ Davey snarled. ‘Or hadn’t you heard?’
‘Would you like to see Marilyn’s mother?’
Ishmael hesitated. He didn’t have much faith in his ability to reach out and touch Marilyn’s mother. He hadn’t seen in her that capacity for communication that he’d seen in her husband.
‘Can’t I just see Marilyn?’
♦