Downtime - Marc Platt [57]
Victoria clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. Was the Chancellor returning now? How much time did she have?
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart must know where the Locus was. Everything pointed to him. She had been searching, surely the Chancellor knew that. What else could she do? And Daniel Hinton must be found before he got into serious trouble. It was up to her to find them. Always up to her. She must redouble her efforts. She had a feeling she wanted to scream.
14
Twickers’ Big Day
he Brigadier unlocked the drawer and extracted the T Browning from its case. It was the gun he had kept since the old days. It fitted his hand like an old friend. He raised it and checked the chambers for bullets.
The telephone line to London had been diabolical, but he had made all the necessary calls and had a full campaign strategy drawn up in his mind.
He had slept fitfully that night, part through worry, part through not being in the slightest bit tired. In snatched moments of sleep, he knew that there was something outside.
A huge brooding shadow in the dark that lumbered round the house, pushing at the walls and windows. It scrabbled at the front door, its massive silhouette filling the stained-glass windows. He heard its low growl and saw a pair of eyes like burning coals. Whenever he woke, all he saw was the crack of orange light from the streetlamp that sneered under the curtain.
He had been keeping an eye on the van as well. The poor blighter assigned to keep him under tabs did not seem to have been relieved of duty at all. The Brigadier wondered whether to invite him in for cocoa, a house speciality based on RSM
Benton’s original recipe.
He had reckoned to leave the house by nine, but was up and ready to go at least an hour earlier. He decided to make a show of normality and went out to bring in the milk that he had forgotten to cancel. There were footprints in the flowerbed, but no sign of the windows being tried. His dark green Range Rover was parked outside as usual. Across the sunny avenue, beyond the wall and line of plane trees that bordered School Field, long glittering arcs of water circled slowly above the cricket pitches, newly prepared for the summer term – his last term.
He glanced to the end of the avenue and saw to his surprise what looked like the Twickermobile, Celia’s ancient cream Triumph Herald. It was parked further down, beyond his friend in the Gas Board van. For a moment, he thought he saw Celia’s head bob up above the dashboard. He was getting a fan club he did not want. He cursed as he hurried back inside.
Getting away without being followed was going to be the problem. He had wondered about putting bullets through the van’s tyres, but didn’t think the neighbours were ready for a shoot-out in the middle of their avenue. Especially since that blasted interfering woman was involved.
He put on his tweed jacket and cap and picked up his car keys. He was locking the front door when he realized that, of all things, he had not picked up the gun. He fetched it from the drawer and slid it into the holster inside his jacket. It felt uncomfortable there without his proper uniform. Resigned to the makeshift arrangement, he marched back out of the house.
He ignored his own car and turned along the avenue. The van still appeared empty when he passed it, but he kept going until he reached the Triumph Herald.
Celia appeared to be busy with a road map. She jumped when he rapped smartly on the windscreen. A pair of ornate opera glasses sat on her lap.
‘Good morning, Celia,’ he said. ‘If you’re going sightseeing, I suggest you try somewhere else.’
She looked quite mortified. ‘Brigadier, I’ve spoken to the Gas Board and they know nothing about that van.’
‘Very perceptive,’ he said tetchily. Now please go back to the safety of your office. I’ll speak to you later.’
‘If you’re in danger, Brigadier..
‘I said “go”!’
There was no arguing with the command, although she looked incensed. She started the car without another word and drove off up the avenue.