Дик Фрэнсис - Bolt

‘Yes, you’ve good reason to be. I’ll come at once. You let me talk to the man in the shop... and don’t worry, I’ll be there in under an hour.’

She said, ‘All right,’ faintly, and in a few seconds an Asian-sounding voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘My young lady,’ I said, ‘needs your help. You keep her warm, give her a hot drink, make her comfortable until I arrive, and I’ll pay you.’

‘Cash,’ he said economically.

‘Yes, cash.’

‘Fifty pounds,’ he said.

‘For that,’ I said, ‘you look after her very well indeed. And now tell me your address. How do I find you?’

He gave me directions and told me earnestly he would look after the lady, I wasn’t to hurry, I would be sure to bring the cash, wouldn’t I, and I assured him again that yes, I would.

I dressed, swept some spare clothes into a bag, locked the house and broke the speed limit to London. After a couple of wrong turns and an enquiry from an unwilling night-walker I found the street and the row of dark shops, with one brightly lit near the end next to the Underground station. I stopped with a jerk on double yellow lines and went inside.

The place was a narrow mini-supermarket with a take-away hot-food glass cabinet near the door, the whole of the rest of the space packed to the ceiling with provisions smelling subtly of spices. Two customers were choosing hot food, a third further down the shop looking at tins, but there was no sign of Danielle.

The Asian man serving, smoothly round of face, plump of body and drugged as to eye, gave me a brief glance as I hurried in, and went back methodically to picking out the customers’ chosen chapatis and samosas with tongs.

‘The young lady,’ I said.

He behaved as if he hadn’t heard, wrapping the purchases, adding up the cost.

‘Where is she?’ I insisted, and might as well as not have spoken. The Asian talked to his customers in a language I’d never heard; took their money, gave them change, waited until they had left.

‘Where is she?’ I said forcefully, growing anxious.

‘Give me the money.’ His eyes spoke eloquently of his need for cash. ‘She is safe.’

‘Where?’

‘At the back of the shop, behind the door. Give me the money.’

I gave him what he’d asked, left him counting it, and fairly sprinted where he’d pointed. I reached a back wall stocked from floor to ceiling like the rest, and began to feel acutely angry before I saw that the door, too, was covered with racks.

In a small space surrounded by packets of coffee I spotted the door knob; grasped it, turned it, pushed the door inwards. It led into a room piled with more stock in brown cardboard boxes, leaving only a small space for a desk, a chair and a single bar electric fire.

Danielle was sitting on the chair, huddled into a big dark masculine overcoat, trying to keep warm by the inadequate heater and staring blindly into space.

‘Hi,’ I said.

The look of unplumbable relief on her face was as good, I supposed, as a passionate kiss, which actually I didn’t get. She stood though, and slid into my arms as if coming home, and I held her tight, not feeling her much through the thick coat, smelling the musky eastern fragrance of the dark material, smoothing Danielle’s hair and breathing deeply with content.

She slowly disengaged herself after a while, though I could have stood there for hours.

‘You must think I’m stupid,’ she said shakily, sniffing and wiping her eyes on her knuckles. ‘A real fool.’

‘Far from it.’

‘I’m so glad to see you.’ It was heartfelt: true.

‘Come on, then,’ I said, much comforted. ‘We’d best be going.’

She slid out of the oversize overcoat and laid it on the chair, shivering a little in her shirt, sweater and trousers. The chill of shock, I thought, because neither the shop nor store-room was actively cold.

‘There’s a rug in my car,’ I said. ‘And then we’ll go and fetch your coat.’

She nodded, and we went up through the shop towards the street door.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the Asian.

‘Did you switch the fire off?’ he demanded.

I shook my head. He looked displeased.

‘Goodnight,’ I said, and Danielle said, ‘Thank you.’

He looked at us with the drugged eyes and didn’t answer, and after a few seconds we left him and crossed the pavement to the car.

‘He wasn’t bad, really,’ Danielle said, as I draped the rug round her shoulders. ‘He gave me some coffee from that hot counter, and offered me some food, but I couldn’t eat it.’

I closed her into the passenger seat, went round and slid behind the wheel, beside her.

‘Where’s your car?’ I said.

She had difficulty in remembering, which wasn’t surprising considering the panic of her flight.

‘I’d gone only two miles, I guess, when I realised I had a flat. I pulled in off the highway. If we go back towards the studio... but I can’t remember...’

‘We’ll find it,’ I said. ‘You can’t have run far.’ And we found it in fact quite easily, its rear pointing towards us down a seedy side-turning as we coasted along.

I left her in my car while I took a look. Her coat and handbag had vanished, also the windscreen wipers and the radio. Remarkable, I thought, that the car itself was still there, despite the two flat tyres, as the keys were still in the ignition. I took them out, locked the doors and went back to Danielle with the bad news and the good.

‘You still have a car,’ I said, ‘but it could be stripped or gone by morning if we don’t get it towed.’

She nodded numbly and stayed in the car again when I found an all-night garage with a tow-truck, and negotiated with the incumbents. Sure, they said lazily, accepting the car’s keys, registration number and whereabouts. Leave it to them, they would fetch it at once, fix the tyres, replace the windscreen wipers, and it would be ready for collection in the morning.

It wasn’t until we were again on our way towards Eaton Square that Danielle said any more about her would-be attacker, and then it was unwillingly.

‘Do you think he was a rapist?’ she said tautly.

‘It seems... well... likely, I’m afraid.’ I tried to picture him. ‘What sort of clothes was he wearing? What sort of hood?’

‘I didn’t notice,’ she began, and then realised that she remembered more than she’d thought. ‘A suit. An ordinary man’s suit. And polished leather shoes. The light shone on them, and I could hear them tapping on the ground... how odd. The hood was... a woollen hat, dark, pulled down, with holes for eyes and mouth.’

‘Horrible,’ I said with sympathy.

‘I think he was waiting for me to leave the studio.’ She shuddered. ‘Do you think he fixed my tyres?’

‘Two flat at once is no coincidence.’

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Tell the police?’ I suggested.

‘No, certainly not. They think any young woman driving alone in the middle of the night is asking for trouble.’

‘All the same...’

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘that a friend of a friend of mine — an American — was driving along in part of London, like I was, doing absolutely nothing wrong, when she was stopped by the police and taken to the police station? They stripped her! Can you believe it? They said they were looking for drugs or bombs... there was a terrorist scare on, and they thought she had a suspicious accent. It took her ages to get people to wake up and say she was truly going home after working late. She’s been a wreck ever since, and gave up her job.’

‘It does seem unbelievable,’ I agreed.

‘It happened,’ she said.

‘They’re not all like that,’ I said mildly.

She decided nevertheless to tell only her colleagues in the studio, saying they should step up security round the parked cars.