Double or Die Page 10

  ‘We should both go,’ said Wolfgang. ‘What if he’s got away? What if he’s hiding? What if we have to give chase?’

  Ludwig passed a baleful eye over the flat, open countryside. ‘Where would he hide?’ he said.

  ‘I’m going to look,’ said Wolfgang. ‘And you’re coming with me, Ludwig. Otherwise I shall tell the boss that you couldn’t be bothered, because you were scared of getting mud on your best shoes.’

  ‘You would tell him, as well, wouldn’t you, you little sneak?’ said Ludwig. ‘You always were a sneak. Why’s it so important I come with you?’

  ‘Because if I’m going to get muddy, so are you,’ said Wolfgang. ‘You always make me do the dirty work.’

  ‘That’s because you’re the youngest,’ said Ludwig, his skull face splitting into a nasty grin.

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s not fair that I should get muddy,’ said Ludwig. ‘It’s not fair that I should get rained on. It’s not fair that I should be out on a dog of a night like this looking for some little brat. Life isn’t fair, little brother. Get used to it.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Wolfgang. ‘If you don’t come with me, I shall tell the boss.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ sighed Ludwig and they set off across the bridge. ‘You’re just scared, aren’t you?’ he said, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. ‘You want me to hold your hand.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Wolfgang and they trudged into the field. ‘You’re giving me a right pain in the gut.’

  They followed the long furrow that the car had dug, but couldn’t get very close to the burning vehicle, as the heat was so intense.

  ‘We need to hurry,’ said Ludwig. ‘This fire will attract people from miles around.’

  ‘We can’t go before we’ve properly checked.’

  ‘Nobody could survive that,’ said Ludwig, waving a hand at the inferno. ‘If the fall didn’t kill him the explosion would have, for sure.’

  ‘Look for footprints,’ said Wolfgang. ‘If he walked away from the car we’ll see some evidence.’

  They circled the burning wreck, scouring the wet earth for any signs of disturbance. They searched as far as the riverbank, but there was nothing to show that anybody had survived.

  ‘I think we’ve done our duty,’ said Ludwig. ‘Now, let’s get out of here before someone turns up.’

  ‘Let’s take one more look at the car,’ said Wolfgang. ‘See if there’s a body in there.’

  ‘You look,’ said Ludwig. ‘I’m going back to the Daimler.’

  Wolfgang cursed under his breath and walked back over to the fire, shielding his face from the heat. He tried to make out any recognisable shapes, but what the crash hadn’t buckled and ripped and twisted the fire had finished off.

  He spat, hearing his spittle hiss as it boiled away, and, at almost the same moment, the heat inside the engine caused a cylinder to rupture, burst open by the expanding gas inside it. With a noise like a gunshot, the sparking plug in the end was blasted out, and it tore through the heat-crazed air like a bullet.

  Wolfgang saw it coming and instinctively jerked his head to one side but he heard a crunching sound by his right ear, and he felt a blow, almost as if he had been slapped.

  He felt a stinging in the side of his head, but when he put his hand up to feel if his ear was all right, he found that it was gone.

  The spark plug had vaporised it.

  Under the bridge, James heard a long agonised howl and then Wolfgang started calling for his brother. Presently there were hurrying footsteps above him on the road and then there was the groan of an engine starting and the Daimler swished away into the distance so that all that remained was the sound of the rain and the gurgling of the river.

  The shock of hitting the cold water had woken him and he had found himself entangled in the frame of an abandoned bicycle under the bridge, where the river had washed him.

  He had hauled himself out on to the bank and sat huddled and shivering in the darkness, listening to the two men bickering above him and then watching as they searched the field.

  Now his thoughts were not so very different from theirs. He wanted to get away from here. Soon people would be arriving and they would be asking questions. Whose car was it? Who had been driving it? Maybe they would believe his story of being chased by two killers, but he doubted it. He would be taken to a police station and it could be days before the whole mess was untangled, and by then anything could have happened to Fairburn.

  What had Fairburn said in the letter?

  That he was leaving the country, that this week’s crossword would be his last, and he would be gone before he could send his next one in.

  His puzzle appeared in The Times every Tuesday. When would he send it in? On the Monday? The Sunday? Saturday?

  There was so little time. He had to hurry.

  Hurry…

  Don’t think about crosswords now. Just get away.

  He crawled out from his hiding place and set off across the fields running as fast as he could. Which was not very fast at all. He was dazed and confused. There was blood pouring down his face from a cut on his forehead where he had hit the steering wheel. The world seemed to spin around him and he had no clear idea of where he was going. The clouded sky showed no moon or stars and he fell over repeatedly in the darkness. He had lost his coat and his watch in the river and had no idea what time it was, but he forced himself to keep plodding on.

  Every now and then, he would close his eyes and stumble forward, more asleep than awake, his head heavy as a boulder. He was cold and wet and exhausted. There was a tingling up his arms and legs, like pins and needles, and as he walked he started to lose the feeling in his hands and feet.

  Time seemed to jump about, skipping backwards and forward, so that one moment he was in a field, surrounded by black-and-white cows, and the next he was walking along the middle of a road. Then he was fighting his way out of a hedge. Then he was among trees. One moment it was sleeting and the next it had stopped. Then he was lying face first in the mud with one of the cows staring curiously down at him.

  He closed his eyes and felt the comforting blanket of sleep wrap itself around him. He dreamt he was walking again. He dreamt of a road. And voices came to him, but he couldn’t understand them.

  His whole body was numb now. He had lost all feeling. He felt calm and peaceful. He wondered if this was how it felt to die. And then the numbness spread to his brain and he sensed it shutting down, bit by bit, like doors closing in a house and the rooms falling silent.

  Part Two: SATURDAY

  10

  The Big Smoke

  James opened his eyes. He was warm. He was dry. And he appeared to be lying in a bed. He raised himself up and looked around, his head throbbing.

  Pale-green walls. A row of iron beds. A clock ticking.

  A word came to him but wouldn’t form. A word that would make sense of all this. He fought to remember what it was, but his brain wasn’t working properly.

  There was a bandage around his head and he was wearing someone else’s pyjamas. There was a strong smell of disinfectant.

  What was the word?

  He lay back down and closed his eyes.

  Hospital.

  That was it.

  He felt a glow of satisfaction and triumph. His brain was working fine.

  Hospital. He was in a hospital.

  Soon he was asleep again.

  After some time voices came to him. He stayed still and listened. His eyes closed.

  ‘What time was he brought in?’ This was a man’s voice. Used to giving orders, bossy and cold.

  ‘Just before midnight.’ This was a woman’s voice. Irish. A young woman. Kinder than the man. ‘A travelling salesman found him wandering in the road and drove him here.’

  ‘Do we know anything about him?’

  ‘Not a thing. He had no identification on him. He must have been in an accident of some sort. We’ll find out more wh
en he wakes.’

  ‘Has he been out like this since he arrived?’

  ‘He was just conscious when he was brought in, but delirious. We couldn’t understand anything he said. We cleaned him, dressed the wound, gave him an analgesic, and he’s been sleeping since.’

  ‘Have you notified the police?’

  ‘Yes. They’re coming first thing in the morning to talk to him.’

  ‘No clues at all?’

  ‘Nothing. We searched all his clothes. All he had on him was a few coins.’

  ‘Where are his clothes now?’

  ‘They’re being dried.’

  ‘Hang on to them. The police will want to see them.’

  ‘Yes, doctor, of course.’

  Footsteps receding. Voices murmuring quietly. A rustle and a moan from one of the other beds. Then silence.

  James opened one eye a crack. At the far end of the ward he could see the nurse and the doctor standing by another bed. They stayed there for a while, talking, then walked out of view.

  James shifted his head a fraction until he could see the clock. It was nearly five.

  They’d brought him in just before twelve. That meant he’d been here five hours. Five hours’ sleep. That was enough. He certainly felt wide awake now. Talk of the police had focused his mind magnificently. He wasn’t going to wait around here until the morning, of that he was sure. The last place he wanted to be these next few days was in a police station.

  Carefully, squinting through his eyelashes, he made a sweep of the area. Once he was certain there was nobody else around – at least nobody else who was awake – he rolled out of bed.

  He would need some clothes.

  As he straightened up, a wave of nausea and dizziness passed over him, but he rode it out until his head cleared, and then checked the small cabinet by his bed. All he found were his damp shoes. Someone had stuffed them with newspaper to help them dry.

  He padded along the row of beds, looking in all the other cabinets. A few of them were as empty as his, but a couple contained piles of neatly folded clothes. When he came to a man who was about his own size – a little old fellow of about fifty, with a wheezing chest – he opened his cabinet and found a pair of dark suit trousers sitting neatly on top of a folded jacket.

  He pulled the suit on over his pyjamas. He didn’t have time for socks and his pyjama top would have to stand in for a shirt.

  He went back to his own bed, took the newspaper out of his shoes and slipped them on. He was about to leave when he heard voices and jumped under his covers, pulling them up to his chin.

  Through slitted eyes he watched the nurse come back along the ward with a sister. They stopped by one of the other beds, exchanged a few words, and then carried on.

  He let out his breath in a long sigh and waited a few minutes before getting out of bed again. It was a real struggle this time. The bed felt warm and cosy and safe, a little voice in the back of his mind was telling him to stay, to go back to sleep, to let someone else sort out his problems.

  No.

  He shoved his pillows under his sheets in the rough shape of a sleeping body, crept down to the end of the ward and peeped around the corner. There was a lighted nurses’ station where the young Irish girl sat drinking a cup of tea and reading a magazine. Beyond was another ward.

  The sister reappeared and James flattened himself against the wall. He realised he was next to a coat stand with a couple of coats and hats on it and he tried to lose himself among the folds of heavy material.

  He needn’t have bothered, neither the nurse nor the sister looked his way and after a while the sister walked briskly off again.

  James carefully removed one of the coats and slipped it on. Then he grabbed a hat and pulled it down over the bandage on his head.

  He backed into the ward and looked around for another way out. There was no chance of getting past the Irish nurse.

  In one wall was a large casement window, opened slightly to let in fresh air for the patients. He tiptoed over to it, forced it up and looked out. He was three floors above the street, but there was a narrow ledge running around the building towards an iron fire escape. He slithered out and crawled on to the ledge. It was just wide enough for him to fit, and, holding on to the window for support, he carefully eased himself upright until he was standing with his back pressed against the rain-slick wall.

  A fine drizzle filled the misty air and it was still dark, but he could see enough from up here to tell that he was in a city. There were large buildings all around and the streets below were well lit and had traffic, even at this time of night. The most likely conclusion was that he was in London – the Big Smoke. Though exactly whereabouts in London he had no idea.

  And if he was in London, then he could get to Perry’s house. Whether or not Perry would be there was not something James wanted to think about right now.

  He took one step and his shoe slipped. He just managed to keep his balance but told himself to go steady. Some fifty feet below was a wall with a set of lethal-looking spiked iron railings along the top of it. It wouldn’t do to fall.

  He crabbed slowly along the ledge, feeling his way with his feet, until he reached the safety of the fire escape and climbed gratefully on to it.

  Getting down the fire escape was easy and he was soon at the bottom in a dingy side alley that was packed with stinking dustbins.

  A large mouse scurried from behind a bin and was pounced on by a mangy old black cat with one ear. The cat pinned the mouse down with one paw and looked up at James with a blank expression.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said James and he was just about to walk on when he realised that there was somebody staring at him with wide, shining, eyes.

  It was a tramp, crouched among the bins, wearing a tattered coat. He had sunken cheeks and only one tooth, and pinned to his chest was a row of medals from the war.

  James backed away as the tramp struggled to get up, reaching out a shaking hand towards him. James had nothing to give the man and shook his head. The tramp hopped out of the shadows and James saw that he was missing a leg.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ James repeated and walked quickly to the end of the alley.

  He turned right when he reached the main road, away from the hospital, and kept walking, his collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled down.

  Once again he had got away safely. He’d had a series of lucky escapes in the last few hours, and he hoped that his luck would hold out.

  He laughed.

  What was he thinking of?

  Here he was in the middle of God knows where, a bandage round his head, no money in his pockets, trudging along in the rain with no socks on, wearing a stolen suit.

  What was lucky about that?

  What was lucky about finding a dead body, being chased by two killers, crashing his car and watching it burn?

  It was how you looked at it, he supposed.

  At least he was better off than the one-legged war veteran, sharing his alley with a mangy cat.

  If you looked at it another way it looked better.

  He had escaped from the killers and survived a car crash.

  Why, it almost made you want to whistle a happy tune.

  He passed a well-dressed drunk in black tie and tails, who swerved out of his way and swore at him for no reason.

  ‘And a very good morning to you, too,’ said James, and he started to laugh, slightly hysterically.

  A little further along he came to a group of four hungry-looking men who were standing in a shop doorway for shelter, smoking cigarettes. They were unshaven and lifeless, their suits shabby, their boots worn. They all stared at James with the same expression as the cat – blank and slightly hostile.

  James felt a little like the mouse and hurried past.

  He had no idea there were so many people out and about at this time of the night. He supposed that things were different in London. If, indeed, that was where he was.

  He looked around for any signs but coul
d see no landmarks, and the street names meant nothing to him. All he knew for sure was that he was in a poor and run-down part of town. And then he saw a workshop with big gold letters over the window of its shop front: THE LONDON BOX COMPANY.

  His guess was right, then. He supposed that if the travelling salesman who had picked him up had come in on the Cambridge road and stopped at the first hospital he came to, then this must be somewhere in the north-east of London.

  Perry’s house was in Regent’s Park. James knew the name of the road and the number but had no idea how to get there.

  The wet shoes were cutting into his bare feet and as his senses returned he realised he was sore and aching all over. He wondered whether to take shelter somewhere, like the group of men, and wait until daybreak, when perhaps he could take a bus. And then he remembered that he had no money. He searched the pockets of his stolen suit but they were empty.

  He was in the same position as the tramp. Penniless on the streets of London. Maybe he’d have to start begging.

  He stopped walking and leant against a lamppost, watching the drops of rain as they caught the light.

  Which way was his luck going to run now?

  He looked back the way he had come and saw the four men from the doorway, advancing slowly down the street with their hands in their pockets, staring at him from beneath the brims of their caps.

  James swore softly, but viciously.

  The night wasn’t over yet.

  The men walked slowly towards him. It was impossible to tell what they wanted. Their faces, when the streetlights caught them, were blank. The only thing that James knew for sure was that at this time of night any civilised person was safely tucked up in his bed. Normally, he would have just turned and walked briskly away, but he was tired. Dog tired. Tired of running. Tired of danger. Tired of being scared. And, besides, where would he go?

  The man in front took his cigarette from his mouth, tossed it to the ground and stamped the life out of it, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on James. James heard an engine sound and looked down the street. There, chugging along through the rain, was a taxi. Without thinking, he jumped into the road, waved both of his arms in the air and yelled, ‘Taxi!’