The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [221]
When they reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say “Goodbye, sir,” before Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the forecourt and headed back toward his home. Donald got in next to Jenny and pulled the passenger door closed.
“I’m afraid he won’t lead us to Alexander,” the Don said with a sigh. “Danvers-Smith is the genuine article—misses his wife, doesn’t see his children enough, and feels a bit lonely. Even asked if I’d like to drop in for a bite of lunch.”
“Why didn’t you accept?” I asked.
Donald paused. “I would have, but when I mentioned that I was from Leeds, he told me he’d only been there once in his life, to watch a test match. No, that man has never heard of Rosemary Cooper or Jeremy Alexander—I’d bet my pension on it. So, now it’s the turn of the professor. Let’s head back toward Cambridge, Jenny. And drive slowly. I don’t want to catch up with the wing commander, or we’ll all end up having to join him for lunch.”
Jenny swung the car across the road and into the far lane, then headed back toward the city. After a couple of miles Donald told her to pull into the side of the road just past a sign announcing the Shelford Rugby Club.
“The professor and his wife live behind that hedge,” Donald said, pointing across the road. “Settle back, Mr. Cooper. This might take some time.”
At 12:30 Jenny went off to get some fish and chips from the village. I devoured them hungrily. By 3:00 I was bored stiff again, and was beginning to wonder just how long Donald would hang around before we were allowed to return to the hotel. I remembered Happy Days would be on at 6:30.
“We’ll sit here all night, if necessary,” Donald said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Forty-nine hours is my record without sleep. What’s yours, Jenny?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the house.
“Thirty-one, sir,” she replied.
“Then this may be your chance to break that record,” he said. A moment later, a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. She paused, looked both ways, then turned across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed us, I caught a glimpse of a blond with a pretty face.
“I’ve seen her before,” I blurted out.
“Follow her, Jenny,” Donald said sharply. “But keep your distance.” He turned around to face me.
“Where have you seen her?” he asked, passing over the binoculars.
“I can’t remember,” I said, trying to focus on the back of a mop of fair, curly hair.
“Think, man. Think. It’s our best chance yet,” said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was cross-examining an old jailbird.
I knew I had come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any woman I recognized, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank.
“Keep on thinking,” said the Don, “while I try to find out something a little more simple. And Jenny—don’t get too close to her. Never forget she’s got a rearview mirror. Mr. Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him.”
Donald picked up the car phone and jabbed in ten numbers. “Let’s pray he doesn’t realize I’ve retired,” he mumbled.
“DVLA Swansea. How can I help you?”
“Sergeant Crann, please,” said Donald.
“I’ll put you through.”
“Dave Crann.”
“Donald Hackett.”
“Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. How can I help you?”
“White BMW—K273 SCE,” said Donald, staring at the car in front of him.
“Hold on please, sir, I won’t be a moment.”
Donald kept his eye fixed on the BMW while he waited. It was about thirty yards ahead of us, and heading toward a green light. Jenny accelerated to make sure she wouldn’t get trapped if the lights changed, and as she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line.
“We’ve identified the car, sir,” he said. “Registered owner Mrs. Susan Balcescu, the Kendalls, High Street, Great Shelford,