‘That could take for ever.’
This time he shook his head. ‘I’ve got a friend,’ he said, ‘and he’s got a little box...’
Dreyfuss thought things through. Gain entry to the camp, gain entry to the control room, break into the spoiler satellite... Hepton could work on that, while he, Dreyfuss, could look for Jilly. And for Villiers. A lot of ghosts were crying out for revenge. So were a few of the living.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘If you think it’s worth a try, I say we leave now, this second. Before Parfit and his boss have a chance to hold us back. I get the feeling somebody’s been holding us back all the way along. Like bloody fish on a line. Allow us a bit of play, then reel us back in. Seeing what we know, how far we’ll swim. Hoping we’ll tire, so that we’re easy to land...’
But Hepton wasn’t listening. He was watching a young man who had entered the canteen and was studying one of the snack-vending machines at the far end of the room. He waved a hand, but it wasn’t necessary. He had already been recognised. The man, smiling, approached their table.
‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon.’
Hepton motioned towards the man and turned to Dreyfuss. ‘Let me,’ he said, ‘introduce you to Mr Sanders. Sanders, this is Major Mike Dreyfuss.’
‘How do you do?’ The two men nodded. Dreyfuss was looking to Hepton for guidance.
‘Sanders here,’ Hepton explained, ‘is a marvellous driver. He has a very fine Vauxhall Cavalier.’
Now Dreyfuss saw what he was getting at. His smile when he turned back towards Sanders was rapacious.
‘Is that right?’ he said. ‘A Cavalier?’
‘Yes,’ said Sanders, pleased at their interest but unsure just why they were interested. ‘It’s parked in the garage downstairs.’
34
Later, Sanders was able to reflect that that was the moment, really, when he lost his job. Because he didn’t see what they were getting at. Because he told them about the modified engine, modified for speed. Because when Major Dreyfuss asked to see the car, he didn’t check with Mr Parfit. Because he accompanied them past the security guard and down to the parking bays. Because he turned his back on them to open the door of the Cavalier...
And then woke up with a sore head and the drip of oil on his face. Staring up at the underside of a car and realising he had been knocked unconscious and hidden beneath the vehicle in the bay next to his. His bay, which was by then conspicuously empty.
The walk he took back upstairs — walking because it was slower than taking the lift, and he wished to defer the inevitable — was funereal. Yet necessary. There was no way he could hide what had happened. He had to tell Mr Parfit.
He was breathless when he reached Parfit’s floor, and realised with some surprise that he had just walked up eight flights of stairs. He remembered none of it.
He knocked on Parfit’s door.
‘Yes?’
He turned the handle and entered. Parfit was seated behind his desk, his hand poised on the telephone as though expecting a call.
‘Ah, Sanders,’ he said. ‘Come in. If it’s about your report, I really haven’t had a proper chance to read it yet, but I’m sure it’s...’
He stopped short. There was oil in Sanders’ hair, and the boy looked deathly pale, looked, indeed, beaten about a bit. Then it dawned.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’ve taken the car, sir. The Cavalier.’
‘Get me another car!’ Parfit had already picked up the receiver and was dialling. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Let me speak to Detective Inspector Frazer.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Sanders. ‘We’ve got to find them before they leave London.’ He removed his hand. ‘Hello, Craig? Parfit here. Yes, long time no see. I want a favour. A very important one. Can you get your lads to keep their eyes peeled for a red Vauxhall Cavalier.’ He asked Sanders for the registration, and then repeated it down the line. ‘Thanks, Craig. Goodbye.’ He stared hard at Sanders. ‘I thought I told you to get us a car!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sanders dashed out of the room, holding his neck where the fist had chopped down on it.
When the door was closed, Parfit took a deep breath and stared at his cabinet. It was time. He was about to rise from his chair when the telephone rang. He picked it up without thinking.
‘Parfit?’ said the voice. ‘Blake here.’
‘Blake.’ Parfit’s heartiness was bluff, and nothing but.
‘I’ve had my say, but the PM reckons it’s too amorphous — actual words, “too bloody vague”. We’re to gather a bit more intelligence before we can act.’
‘It may be too late by then.’ Parfit was thinking: it may be too late right now. The cabinet beckoned.
‘Nevertheless, those are the orders from on high.’
‘Since when did that stop us, Blake?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Farquharson said, his tone full of meaning. It was time to tell him.
‘Dreyfuss and Hepton have left us, headed who knows where.’
The silence on the line was as piercing as any scream. There was a cough of static before Farquharson’s too-calm voice said, ‘What will they try to do?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering myself, Blake. I’d say they’re capable of trying anything, and I do mean anything.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘So, PM or no PM, it looks as though there is no alternative. No point in my hanging around here either, so I’m going out into the field.’ Parfit paused. ‘With your permission.’
Blake Farquharson knew what ‘going out into the field’ meant in Parfit’s terms. He thought quickly but hard. But then, as Parfit had said, there was no alternative.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You must do what you think fit.’
‘Thank you, Blake.’
‘But promise me one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Keep it as low-key as possible.’
‘Trust me, Blake.’
‘What if you don’t find them?’
‘Oh, I think I’ll find them. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I know exactly where they’ll be headed.’
He put the receiver down. Then picked it up immediately.
‘Get me Downing Street, please.’ He waited for the connection to be made. ‘Hello? Ah, hello. This is Tony Poulson, assistant to Blake Farquharson. I believe Blake had a meeting with the PM scheduled for this afternoon. I was just wondering—’
‘Haven’t you been told?’ The voice on the other end of the line was curt to the point of rudeness. ‘Your boss took ill.’
‘Took ill?’
‘Had to call off. After the bloody lengths we went to to find ten minutes for him in the PM’s schedule. No one is amused, Mr Poulson. Good day.’ And the line went dead.
Parfit’s smile was part vindication, part acceptance of the betrayal. Farquharson had never intended keeping his appointment. It was a delaying tactic, as had been so much of the game thus far. Parfit had run a check on the lease on Villiers’ apartment. The route to ownership had been circuitous, cleverly so, keeping one name as far away from prying eyes as possible. The name had been Farquharson’s. He owned the flat, as he owned its former occupant.
Well, nothing could be done about that now. He could leave Farquharson for the moment. For now, he had better things to do. He didn’t doubt that Hepton and Dreyfuss would be making for Binbrook, and that if they actually got there, they would inflict at least some damage, perhaps even enough damage. He phoned Frazer again.
‘Craig?’ he said. ‘Cancel that request, will you? If your lads see the car, let me know about it. But don’t apprehend.’
The larger the web had grown, the smaller its circumference had become, almost in defiance of the physical laws. Not that laws meant much any more. Parfit put down the receiver and went to the cabinet. There was, as always, no real alternative.