Dick Francis - Crossfire

"Where in Greenham?" I demanded.

"What are you going to do to him?"

"Nothing," I said. "As long as he cooperates."

"Cooperates how?" she asked.

"If he gives me my mother's money back, then I'll let him go."

I'd also take her tax papers.

"And if he doesn't?" she asked.

"Then I'll persuade him," I said, smiling.

"How?" she said. "Will you take photos of him naked too?"

"I doubt that," I said. "But I'll think of something."

Blitzkrieg is a German word that means "lightning war." It was used to describe the attacks on Poland, France and the Low Countries by the Nazis. Unlike the war of attrition that had existed for mile after hundred-mile of trenches in Flanders during World War I, blitzkrieg was the surprise and overwhelming attack on just a few points in the enemy's line. An attack that drove straight through to the heart of political power almost before any of the defenders had had a chance to react.

The blitzkrieg unleashed by the German forces on Poland had started on the first day of September 1939, and within a week, Wehrmacht tanks and troops were in the suburbs of Warsaw, nearly two hundred miles from their starting point. The whole of Poland had capitulated within five weeks at a cost of only ten thousand Germans killed. Compare that to the advance of only six miles gained in four and a half months by British and French troops at the Battle of the Somme, and at a cost of more than six hundred thousand dead and wounded on each side.

So if the past had taught the modern soldier anything, then it was that blitzkrieg-like "shock and awe" was the key to victory in battle, and I had every intention of creating some shock and awe in the life of one Alex Reece.

Bush Close in Greenham was full of those ubiquitous modern little box houses, and number sixteen, Alex Reece's home, was one at the far end of the cul-de-sac.

It was late Saturday afternoon, and I had left Julie Yorke in a state of near collapse. I had merely suggested to her that to have any contact whatsoever with Alex Reece in the next thirty-six hours, in person, by e-mail or by phone, would be reason enough for me to send the explicit photographs to her husband, in addition to posting them on my new Facebook page on the Internet.

She had begged me to delete the pictures from my camera, but as I had pointed out, it was she and Alex who had started this blackmail business, and they really couldn't now complain if they were receiving a bit of their own medicine.

I had parked Ian Norland's car out on Water Lane in Greenham and had walked around the corner into Bush Close. I was carrying a pile of free newspapers that I had picked up at a petrol station, and I walked down the road, pushing one of them through every letter box. The houses were not identical, but they were similar, and number sixteen had the same style of plastic-framed front door as all the others.

"What time does Alex get back?" I had asked Julie.

"His plane lands at Heathrow at six-twenty tomorrow evening."

"And how does he get home to Greenham?"

"I've no idea."

I lingered for a moment outside the front door of number sixteen and adjusted the pile of remaining newspapers. I glanced around, looking for suitable hiding places, but the short driveway was bordered by nothing but grass. I looked to see which of the other houses had a direct line of sight to the front door of number sixteen, set back as it was beside the single garage.

Only number fifteen, opposite, had an unobstructed view.

I walked away from number sixteen and pushed newspapers through the front doors of a few more houses, including the one opposite, before moving off down the road, back towards Ian's car. However, instead of immediately driving away, I walked through a gateway and into the adjacent field. Alex Reece's house, together with all the other even-numbered houses in Bush Close, backed onto farmland, and I spent some time carefully reconnoitering the whole area.

I looked at my watch. It was just after five-thirty, and the light was beginning to fade rapidly.

Alex Reece couldn't possibly be back here the following evening until eight o'clock at the earliest, and it would probably be nearer to nine if he had to collect luggage at the airport. And that was assuming his flight landed on time. By eight o'clock, of course, it would have been fully dark for hours.

Keeping in the shadows of some trees, I skirted around the backs of the gardens in Bush Close until I arrived at number sixteen. There were lights on in the kitchen of number fourteen next door, and I could see a man and a woman in there talking. That was good, I thought. No one can see outside at dusk when they have the lights on inside, due to the reflection in the window glass, and especially when they are busy talking. There was little or no chance that they could see me watching them.

I quickly rolled my body over the low back fence and into Alex Reece's garden. It was mostly simply laid to grass, with no tangly flower beds or thorny rosebushes to worry about.

I moved silently to the back of the garage and looked in. Even in the fast disappearing light I could see the shiny shape of a car in there. So Mr. Reece would probably arrive home by taxi, either direct from the airport or from the railway station in Newbury.

And I'd be waiting for him.

Did we win?" I asked Ian, as I walked in through his door at seven o'clock.

"Win what?" he said, without taking his eyes off the television screen.

"Oregon," I said, "in the race at Haydock."

"Trotted up," he said, still not turning around. "Won by six lengths. Reckon he'll be hard to beat in the Triumph."

"Good," I said to the back of his head. "What are you watching?"

"Just some TV talent show."

"Have you eaten?" I asked.

"Had a pizza for lunch," he said. "From the freezer. One of them you bought yesterday. But I didn't have that until after the race. I was too nervous to eat before."

"So are you hungry?"

"Not really. Not yet. Maybe I'll have Chinese later."

"Great idea," I said. "I'll buy."

He turned around and smiled, and I guessed that was what he was hoping I'd say.

"How long are you staying?" he asked, turning back to the screen.

"I'll find somewhere else if you want," I said. "You know the houseguests and the three-day-smell rule, and my time is up tonight."

"Stay as long as you like," he said. "I'm enjoying the company."

And the free food, I thought, perhaps ungraciously.

"I'll stay another day or two, if that's all right."

"As I said, stay as long as you want, if you don't mind the couch."

I didn't. It was a lot more comfortable than some of the places I'd slept, and warmer too.

"Can I borrow your car again tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sorry, mate. I need it," he said. "I'm going to Sunday lunch with my folks."

"Where do they live?"

"Near Banbury," he said.

"So what time will you be back?" I asked.

"It'll be before five," he said. "Evening stables are at five on Sundays."

"Can I borrow the car after that?"

"Sure," he said. "But it might need more petrol by then."

"OK," I said. "I'll fill it up."

I could tell he was smiling, even though he didn't turn around. Why didn't he just ask me to pay for the use of his car? I suppose it was a little game.

I could have gone to fetch my Jaguar, but it was a very distinctive car, and I wasn't particularly keen to advertise my whereabouts to anyone. Ian's little Corsa was far more anonymous. I just hoped my Jaguar was still sitting in the parking lot in Oxford, awaiting my return.

I spent Sunday morning making my plans and sorting my kit. I had been back into Kauri House on Saturday afternoon after leaving Julie Yorke, and before my excursion to Greenham.