'Who from, sir? At what time?' She wasn't smiling any more now.
'From the hospital, of course. At eleven-thirty, I know because . . . ' Oh hell, what did it matter why he knew what time the phone had rung.
She was speaking on some kind of intercom. A long agonising wait. Somebody was checking. Everybody here checked, that was all they bloody well ever did: checked and checked wrongly. And people died, but what the hell did it matter because you were only a number, meat in an abattoir. Dispensable because there was a ready market, no shortage of supply.
A faint ting as the internal telephone was hung back on its hook. He stared into her eyes, almost reading the words before she spoke them. Tm sorry, sir, but we've checked out and I can assure you that your wife is not here. Are you sure you've got the right hospital?'
He nodded dumbly. Tm sure. But if she's not here, then she's OK. She hasn't had an accident!' A sudden feeling of euphoria. 'I guess it was a hoax.'
'Then you should report it to the police, sir. The police station's not far from here. Go out of the main gates, turn right and go on up to the traffic lights . . . '
But Peter wasn't listening. Trembling, he walked back through the heavy swing doors and just made it into the Saab before his legs gave out. The dirty fucking bastards, how low could they stoop'?
Just a hoax—or did somebody want him away from Hodre for a few hours so that they could perpetrate yet another obscenity? Jane, Gavin, were they OK?
His strength came back with this host of new fears, and he swung the car round and drove out through the wide gateway. That phone call last night, the one today, must be linked, he reasoned. Just as there was a link between everything that had happened since they had arrived at Hodre.
The youths weren't on the panda crossing now, but the level-crossing barriers were down and a queue of cars had built up. Peter took a deep breath as he sat there with the engine running. There was a tightness across his chest like a constricting metal band, and he told himself that that was how a thrombosis started: stress first, then a deep-seated pain as a floating clot of blood started to block the arteries.
An engine shunted along the empty track, then the road was clear again. He accelerated, noting that the car should have picked up quicker than it did but it was difficult to be sure in a line of traffic. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry and the continual oncoming traffic made overtaking impossible.
At last he was back on the B-road. A dawdling battered Diane in front which the Saab should have left for dead, it struggled to pass, then had to fight its way back in. With a clatter of annoyance, the Citroen's driver established his lead again.
Peter knew that the Saab's engine was going to cut out before long. The power was fading, the cylinders chugging sluggishly. Maybe he should have reversed, gone back into Llanrhayader and found a garage.
Instead he kept going, hoping that whatever was blocked might clear itself. His knowledge of motor mechanics was slight and he feared to pull on to the verge in case he was unable to get going again.
Eight miles or so out of Llanrhayader he had no choice other than to cruise gently on to the side as with a final splutter the engine cut out. He glanced at the temperature gauge; the needle was touching the red sector. For fuck's sake, he'd only had the car serviced a week ago!
He got out, lifted the bonnet and stared uncomprehend-ingly into the well of wires and plugs and things beyond his ken. Maybe it had just over-heated and when everything had cooled down it would have got over the trouble and stan first time.
He knew it wouldn't, though. The phone call had been a hoax to scare the hell out of him. But now he sensed that somewhere something was very wrong. Fate had suddenly decided to join forces with the unknown enemy that lurked in the mists of Hodre. And they had succeeded in getting him out of the way.
10
'If you'll take my advice you'll get this car serviced.' The tall, balding AA man had an expression of mystique on his angular features, like a doctor who had ummed and aahed all over your body until he came up with his final diagnosis, which he had probably known right from the beginning.
'It's just been bloody well serviced!' Peter snapped. 'About a week ago.'
'Well, in that case I'd try another garage next time.' The mechanic began dropping spanners back into a metal toolbox. 'The points hadn't been greased, so they weren't opening properly, and the air-filter hadn't been changed—which meant that the engine was over-heating. Oh, and the fan-belt was loose as well.'He had a kind of aren't—I—clever smirk. 'Thank you.' Peter got back behind the wheel, determined to check that the trouble really had been solved before the uniformed mechanic pulled away.
The engine fired and ticked over smoothly. Then the car moved off, picking up speed with its usual feeling of power. Peter glanced at his watch: three-thirty. He wouldn't be back in Woodside before four-fifteen at the earliest, Gavin would be getting worried, and he just hoped that the boy would have the sense to wait in the playground until he arrived. Damn it, there were no phone boxes on this stretch of road, no chance of getting a message to the school. He just had to drive hard and fast and pray that he would not break down again. Or crash. Hell, his nerves were frayed.
It was already dusk when the Saab's headlights illuminated the scattered farm cottages on the outskirts of Woodside. With an urgency, almost panic, Peter drew to a halt outside the school. The light from the end classroom showed up in the square of concrete bordered by railings which was the playground. It had an air of desertion about it, as though everybody had left and wouldn't come back.
Peter jumped out of the car and almost ran into the enclosure. He had to restrain himself from yelling, Gavin. Where are you? He stopped and looked around. There was nobody in sight. Oh God! Yet the school would not have been shut up with a light burning. There must be somebody around: there had to be.
'Can I help you, Mr Fogg?'
Peter whirled and tensed. He hadn't heard the soft footfalls of Malcolm Hughes approaching from behind. The schoolmaster must have been standing in the shadows by the buildings, waiting and watching. For what? Why was he so bloody secretive?
'Where's Gavin?' Peter's voice was terse, almost accusing. 'What have you done with my son?'
'He left about a quarter of an hour after school finished.' Hughes' supercilious smirk had Peter wanting to smash his fist into that florid face and shout: You've no business letting him leave. You're responsible for him until I come to collect him.
'Left?' Peter managed an incredulous croak. 'But—'
'Don't worry.' Hughes took his time, as though he was enjoying keeping the other in suspense. 'He hasn't gone off on his own. He was fortunate enough to be offered a lift up to Hodre.'
A lift! Jesus, hardly anybody went right up there into the hills. Maybe Janie had come back early from her parents. Then why the hell didn't this stupid sod say so?
'He's had a lift with Mr Ruskin in his Land Rover.'
Rushkin! Peter stiffened as a wave of cold fear passed over him and seemed to centre around his heart. The Land Rover which he had seen leaving the scene of the fire last night . . . The sheer malevolence in the landowner's eyes when they had met earlier that day . . . And now for some inexplicable reason Tim Ruskin had offered Gavin a lift home—or somewhere.
'Why? For God's sake, why's Ruskin taken my boy?'
'I never for one moment thought you would have any objection to one of your neighbours giving your son a lift home.' The headmaster's thick eyebrows rose and twitched. 'Mr Ruskin is a governor of the school and well-respected locally. He called to discuss a small matter with me after school, and as he left, Gavin was still hanging around outside waiting for you. In fact, I suggested that Mr Ruskin should make a slight detour and drop him off at your place. Surely there's nothing wrong in that, is there?'