Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [54]
Bromley miserably counted up the murders: Captain Davenport, the sweep, Philomena Davenport, Betty Close, and that prostitute. How had he ever become drawn into this web of murder and deceit? What if the SAS were sent to Brazil to seize them? They had bribed a fishing boat to take them to France and then journeyed overland by rented car to Lisbon, where they had booked flights to Rio. They had used cloned credit cards to pay for the rented car and their fares.
The thought of escape grew in his mind. At one point, he felt Prosser’s bottle-green eyes fixed on him and threw the man a weak smile. Prosser held the cloned credit cards. If he escaped, he daren’t pay the airfare with cash because that would ring alarm bells. But, he suddenly thought, a travel agent would be glad of the cash.
How to get away?
Charles Prosser said suddenly, “Have you got that photo of Diarmuid whatsisname? I told the waiter to snap it and you kept a print.”
“I think it’s in my case,” said Bromley.
“Go and get it.”
Bromley returned after some time and handed Prosser the photograph. He studied it, then brought out a magnifying glass and peered at it again.
He sat back in his chair, his face turning white with anger. “I think that bastard was that highland constable, Macbeth.”
Sanders let out a nervous laugh. “Come on. That great idiot?”
“He was on television. He’s solved a lot of murders. He was sniffing around Scots Entertainment and then John Dean reported he had called at the Canongate flat asking about Betty Close. I’ll have that bastard.”
“You can’t,” said Sanders gloomily. “We daren’t go back.”
“You can stay here. I’m getting even with that policeman if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You’ll get caught,” said Bromley.
“I won’t. As soon as the new passports arrive, I’m off.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” asked Sandra petulantly.
“Take up knitting. I don’t care.”
I have to get there before him, fretted Bromley. I know Prosser. If he gets caught, he’ll take us all down with him. He may even try to pin the murders on one of us!
“I’m off to get the passports,” said Prosser, getting to his feet.
Now’s my chance, thought Bromley desperately. He waited until Prosser had driven off. Sandra said she was going for a dip in the pool and the others said they would join her. “Coming, Tom?” she asked.
“Not me. I think I’ll have a bit of a siesta.”
Sandra Prosser turned on her road to the pool and watched Bromley walk into the house. Suddenly suspicious, she told the others to go ahead and then waited in the garden behind a stand of palm trees.
Soon she saw Bromley get into the old car he had bought and drive off. She took out the mobile phone her husband had bought her when they had arrived in Rio and spoke to him urgently.
Prosser, who had just collected the new passports, swore under his breath and headed for the airport.
There was a flight for London via Sao Paulo due to leave at seven o’clock that evening. He sat and waited.
Thomas Bromley also waited but in a bar facing Copacabana beach. It was surrounded by a low hedge. Bands played outside and then stretched their hands over the hedge for payment. Little children often sneaked in around the tables, begging for money before being chased off by the waiter. He kept taking out his air ticket and looking at it to make sure it was really there.
The sun beat down. Tall Brazilian girls wearing the minimum of beachwear strolled past on very high heels. He had noticed that some of them even did their shopping in the town wearing only thongs and tiny scraps of material over their firm breasts.
He rose at last and found a taxi to take him to the airport. He had left his car in a back street.
Prosser was wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his face and dark glasses. He had changed his clothes and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and trainers. Bromley did not recognise him. The flight was called. With a beating heart, he boarded the plane and, with a great sigh