‘Christ,’ said Hepton quietly.
‘He was a good soldier, too.’ Jilly slammed her foot on the brake as a red light loomed. She idled the car and turned towards Hepton. ‘They had psychiatrists on him from the minute he landed back home. He seemed normal enough by then, but nobody was taking any chances. Bad for public relations, having a killer in your midst.’
‘So they pensioned him off?’
‘One of the disabled. They even gave him a medal, I forget which. It’s in my notes.’
The car started off again, turning left at the lights.
‘And the government hired him?’
‘Well, yes, in a way. The Foreign Office gave him a job. His actual title is pretty vague, but he knows his stuff: countries, political climate, that sort of thing. God only knows why it had to be him you saw when you visited the FO.’
‘Because,’ said Hepton, ‘he’d been expecting me.’ His voice was level. ‘He’d figured out, you see, that I was curious and that my curiosity would probably lead to Mike Dreyfuss.’
‘But how could he know?’
‘He’s a cunning little bastard. Cunning enough to string us along, because he doesn’t know we know about him. That’s our big card. Meantime, he’ll probably want to know just how much I know.’
‘What about this Harry, though? She just wants you dead, period. Isn’t she working for Villiers then?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Hepton thought it over. ‘No, I’m sure she is working for him. Or, at least, they are both working for the same ultimate employer.’ Harry’s words were coming back to him: my employers, who are, ultimately, your employers. But what did it mean? ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘I think Harry’s become... what was that phrase you used? Kill crazy? Yes, that’s what she is. Kill crazy.’ He examined the cars moving past them. Then he turned to Jilly again. ‘How did you find all this out anyway?’ He was both impressed and curious to know.
‘A guy I met at a party,’ Jilly explained. ‘One of the old guard of Fleet Street hacks. He’s been around a bit, reported from Afghanistan, Belfast, Beirut, that sort of thing. It’s a passion with him, the military. He’s written a couple of books. He was able to tell me some of it off the top of his head. The rest he got by making a few phone calls. That’s what you call a network. Every good journalist needs one.’
Hepton’s mind was still trained on Villiers. ‘Yes,’ he said vacantly. A network... ‘Anything else?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’ Jilly sounded slighted. She was checking in her rear-view mirror.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. Thanks for...’ She was still staring in the mirror. ‘What is it?’ He turned and caught a glance, three cars back, of a dark-coloured Sierra. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, gripping the seat with his hands.
‘Is that her car?’ Jilly asked, her voice level.
‘I think so.’ Hepton looked back again. The dark car was in the process of overtaking one of the vehicles between them. He let out a sigh of relief. ‘No, it’s okay. It’s not a Sierra. It’s a bloody Cavalier.’
Jilly’s shoulders relaxed too. She was nearing another set of lights. ‘I think there’s a shortcut here, unless they’ve blocked it off.’ She signalled left and squeezed the MG into an alleyway. The high buildings either side seemed purpose-built to hem them in. There was a screech of tyres behind them. The Cavalier was following, speeding up. Hepton remembered the night Harry had tried to run him down in an alley almost as narrow as this, and every bit as deserted. Then he recalled that he had seen the red Cavalier before: hurrying towards Jilly’s flat as they were making their getaway.
‘They’re chasing us!’ he called.
Jilly responded to the Cavalier, pushing the MG down a gear and hitting the accelerator. They were running now, careering past parked cars, braking hard to take an almost impossibly tight turning into a two-way street. Hepton held on, teeth clamped together. Jilly was a good driver, but not good enough. They weren’t going to shake the Cavalier. It was mere yards behind them now, and he peered through its black-tinted windscreen. Two men. Definitely men, though he couldn’t have said more than that. Not Harry, then.
The extended blaring of a car horn brought his head round to the view to the front of the MG. It took him a moment to realise that the horn was their own, and that the heel of Jilly’s left hand was hard against it. She had turned the headlights on full-beam, too. The traffic was becoming clogged. She scraped past a bus, paintwork peeling like confetti, but ahead the lights were at red, and the traffic was at a standstill in both directions.
‘Hang on!’ Jilly yelled, throwing the MG to the right, braking hard as she did so and spinning a full one hundred and eighty degrees. On the other side of the road now, the Cavalier roared past them, braking hard itself. There was a squeal as the driver threw his wheel round, bumping onto some central bollards. These stopped him, and he reversed, the traffic cursing angrily all around him. Jilly glanced back to see that the Cavalier had lost a lot of ground, and let out a whoop.
‘Where did you learn a stunt like that?’ Hepton gasped. His heart felt like a bird in a cage too small for it, fluttering against the bars. The breath came from him in short bursts.
‘I didn’t,’ Jilly answered, clearly enjoying every moment of this. ‘Put it down to instinct.’
‘Fine. But every traffic cop in the area’s going to have our description and registration in about five seconds flat.’
‘Five seconds? Don’t talk daft.’
‘Haven’t you heard of car phones?’ Hepton yelled. ‘Half those BMWs you just nearly totalled will be on them right now.’
‘What are you saying, Martin? That we ditch the car and walk?’
‘Just get us away from here,’ he said, looking back again. ‘And fast.’
Jilly looked in her mirror and saw that the Cavalier was not about to give up the chase. In fact, it was gaining at a steady rate.
‘Bastards!’ she yelled. The lights ahead were turning red. She held the horn down again and pulled the car into the middle of the road, passing the waiting line of traffic. There was a no-right-turn sign, so she threw the car to the right just as the other traffic was responding to the green light. Hepton looked out of his side window and saw a motorbike messenger heading straight for him. On Jilly’s side, a white van was already braking, but too late. The front of the van hit Jilly’s door, sending the sports car scudding sideways, where it collided with the bike. The driver was thrown clear, rolling like a pro. Another day in the city. Jilly tried to keep the MG moving, but her front driver-side wheel had buckled. The car protested, growling meanly.
‘Last stop,’ she said, face pale. The Cavalier was manoeuvring slowly, gingerly past the stalled traffic. Drivers were opening their doors to take a look at the mad bastards who had caused the accident.
‘You ought to be fucking well locked up!’ the van driver screeched. The bike courier, however, was casually examining some scuffs to his leathers, uninjured himself. Jilly got out of the car. So did Hepton. The Cavalier stopped beside them. Hepton’s hand went into his pocket and found the knife he had taken from the kitchen.
‘We could run for it,’ Jilly said, but her legs were shaking wildly.
The doors of the Cavalier opened and the two men got out. Hepton recognised one of them. It was Sanders, the man from the Foreign Office. Sanders turned to his partner.