Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘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.’

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.

Graeme Izzard didn’t seem surprised to see Hepton, and greeted him like an old friend. Hepton had ordered Dreyfuss to stop the red Cavalier beside the taxis outside Alfie’s café. Inside, Izzard was tucking into the all-day breakfast.

‘Morning,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘It’s late afternoon, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Dreyfuss commented. Hepton and Izzard shared a conspiratorial smile: for Izzard, it was the start of the day.

‘What can I do for you?’ Izzard asked, his mind more on the tussle he was having with a particularly tough slice of middle bacon.

‘It’s about your little device,’ Hepton began, ‘the one you showed me last night.’

‘Which one? I seem to remember I showed you hundreds.’

‘Yes, but you kept this one in a cupboard. A relic of your hacking days...’

Thirty minutes later, Dreyfuss and Hepton left the industrial estate, Hepton driving and Dreyfuss clutching a small black box topped with an old calculator fascia. An unmarked police car was idling near the entrance to the estate. Five minutes later, the call went through to Parfit.

It was past six o’clock when Hepton drove up to the security barrier of the tracking station. A change of shifts was taking place. A young, unsmiling man — a stranger to Hepton — was being replaced by Bert, who had been at the station as long as anyone. Hepton sounded his horn, but Bert, not recognising the car, came out of the hut to check. Seeing who it was, he broke into a gap-toothed grin.