Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘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.

‘You better stay here, Clive.’ He surveyed the chaos. ‘Try to clear this up with the police when they arrive.’ Then he nodded in Hepton’s direction. ‘I’ll take these two back with me in the car.’

The other man nodded slowly, not looking at all happy with his allotted task, but unable or unwilling to protest.

‘Where are we going?’ Hepton asked as he and Jilly walked to the car. His grip on the knife relaxed.

‘I’m getting you out of this,’ Sanders said, indicating the scene around them. He was shaking too, obviously not used to car chases and crashes. ‘I would have thought that was reason enough for you to be grateful.’

‘It is,’ said Jilly. Even her lips had gone white with shock.

‘How did you find us?’ Hepton asked.

Sanders shrugged. ‘I used a bit of initiative. Besides, what other leads did I have? All I knew about you, Mr Hepton, was that you had a friend in London called Jilly Watson who worked on the Herald . It wasn’t too difficult to find out where Miss Watson lived. Then when I saw you racing away from the scene like that...’

‘Someone tried to kill me back there,’ commented Hepton, seeking a reaction. Sanders raised an eyebrow, nothing more. Hepton decided to try another tack. ‘I lost your first tail, though, didn’t I?’

‘First tail?’ Sanders seemed genuinely puzzled. Hepton beamed. He’d been right: Villiers was using the department for his own ends, without everyone knowing about it. Sanders, for one, didn’t seem to be aware of the tail. He would bear that in mind.

‘I’d still like to know where we’re going,’ he persisted.

‘There’s an old friend who wants to speak to you,’ Sanders answered, his irritation showing.

‘Who? Villiers?’

‘Mr Villiers, yes. Indirectly. But someone else.’

‘Who?’ Jilly asked, wondering herself now; the mention of Villiers bringing with it a renewed sense of menace.

‘A Major Michael Dreyfuss,’ said Sanders, sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘Now come on...’

George Villiers was frowning when they arrived at his office. One hand rested on the telephone in a manner suggesting his frown had something to do with a recent call. He looked up as Hepton and Jilly entered. Sanders stayed outside, closing the door on them. The evening light was a deepening orange, casting long shadows in the room and creating a nimbus around Villiers’ head.

‘You really have caused us a great deal of trouble,’ he stated. ‘God knows whether we can keep it out of tomorrow’s papers.’

‘Blame your henchmen,’ said Jilly, sitting down without being asked. She had regained her composure during the drive to Whitehall. Indeed, having realised that she was about to get away with breaking every traffic regulation in the book, she was on something of a high. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. ‘They were like maniacs,’ she explained, studying Villiers. ‘Martin’s life is in danger, and then they came racing after us. What were we supposed to do?’

Villiers’ face showed no emotion. He turned to Hepton, who was about to sit down.

‘ Is your life in danger, Mr Hepton?’

‘Oh yes,’ Hepton said quietly.

Villiers appeared to ponder this, then picked up his telephone and waited.

‘A pot of tea,’ he ordered when the line was picked up. Then he replaced the receiver.

‘What’s this about Mickey?’ Jilly asked.

‘Mickey?’

‘Major Dreyfuss,’ Hepton explained.

‘Ah.’ Villiers paused. ‘Sanders told you then.’

‘He wouldn’t say anything other than that.’ Jilly was up on her feet again. She was nervy still; that much was more than obvious. Hepton hoped she could keep in control. It was a kind of madness to have come here, and yet it felt like the right course of action. The questions still needed answering, and who better than Villiers to do it?

‘Right.’ Villiers leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘Well, it’s true enough. After Mr Hepton called here, I was able to contact our embassy in Washington. Major Dreyfuss is there at the moment, though that must remain strictly between us. Ah...’

Sanders pushed open the door and brought in a tray, the cups chinking together as he moved.

‘I hope you’re a better tea-maker than you are a driver,’ Jilly commented, the hint of a sneer on her face.

Sanders paused, but chose to ignore her. He left the tray on the desk in front of Villiers, then exited again. There was something else on the tray beside tea. It was a sheet of paper. Villiers slid it towards himself, glanced at it, then turned it so that the writing was facing away from him. His right hand went to his inside pocket and came out with a fountain pen, the top of which he removed to reveal a gold nib.

‘Miss Watson?’

‘Yes?’ Jilly stopped pacing and came to the desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘Routine, I’m afraid. I know Mr Hepton has already signed, as was required of him when he started work. If you would just...’

Jilly picked up the form and studied it. It was simple and to the point. It was the catch-all.

‘The Official Secrets Act?’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, why not?’ She snatched the pen from him and scratched her name on the paper, then handed back both paper and pen. Villiers looked satisfied, and slid the sheet into the top drawer of his desk. ‘I don’t mind signing something I’m quite willing to break,’ Jilly said with finality. Villiers’ satisfaction took the slightest of jolts. Jilly had picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be mother?’

Villiers accepted his cup with what grace he could muster. He was still playing the senior civil servant.

‘So what’s this about Dreyfuss?’ asked Hepton, growing impatient.