With her eyes closed, Abigail said, with a momentary return to that now familiar dreamlike state. “It was to be a surprise. He had so much more money than me, you see. But I had a little. And I wanted to buy something myself – and the cottage, when I saw a picture of it at the estate agents, looked so pretty–”
Her eyes snapped open, and she twisted in her seat and stared at Max with excitement surging up in her. “Max – I’ve rememberd something else, haven’t I?”
“Indeed you have – can you add to it at all? He manoeuvred the car skilfully, pulling out to overtake another lumbering truck doing a rumbling thirty miles-an-hour in front of them. She wrinkled her eyes, trying to catch hold of that momentary picture she had had of herself sitting in an estate agent’s desk and looking at a photograph of the cottage, and then another vision of herself walking up the path, on a sunlit afternoon.
The remembered pictures were superimposed on the reality of the road before them and on the right there was a brightly lit forecourt, in front of a transport café, with cars and trucks parked in tidy ranks. As Max drove past, the memories after which she was groping disappeared as suddenly as they had arisen, because she saw something far more important.
“Max!” she cried, turning in her seat to peer back over her shoulder at the café. “Max – stop!”
Immediately, he stood on the brakes, and the car shrieked to a stand-still on the soft shoulder of the road.
“What’s the matter – what have you remembered?”
She shook her head. “No – it’s not that. It’s what I just saw. The man. I just saw his car at the transport café – I’m sure it was. It had a twisted rear fender, and I recognized it.”
“Then we’d better look,” Max said practically, and put the car into reverse gear.
“No – no we mustn’t – we’ve got to get on – but at least we’ve caught up with him and now we can get ahead of him–”
But Max was turning the car, and driving back the few hundred yards to the café.
“We’ve got to be sure. It won’t take long to make certain. Until we know where he is, we’re in a fool’s paradise.”
He stopped the car short of the brightly lit forecourt, so they could just see the parked vehicles, and see into the café through its big glass windows, blazing with light.
“I’m sure that’s the car,” Abigail whispered. “That one there,” and she pointed. “I only saw it once, but that fender looked so – sort of drunk in my mind’s eye.”
She looked beyond the car, parked quietly beside a big truck, at the window of the café, and then clutched Max’s arm.
“It is – it is! Look! He’s in there – by the window at one of the tables. The man in the pale coloured raincoat. See him?”
Max peered and said, “Where?” but even as he spoke, another truck pulled across the forecourt and stopped in front of the café windows.
“Oh hell!” Abigail said. “Hell, hell, hell! You can’t see him now – but it was him, truly–”
“Sitting eating, you say?”
“Yes – and–”
“That settles it then. I’m going in there.”
“What for? We’ve got to get on now – ahead of him.”
He shook his head and said quickly. “No. Listen. Abigail. It would be better to follow him. He’s the man we think is after Danny. Well, we’ve got a better chance of keeping Danny safe if we keep this bloke right under our eyes, haven’t we? And there’s another point. You need some food – yes,” he put his hand over her mouth as she opened to protest. “Yes, you do. I’m going in there to buy some sandwiches and a drink we can take here in the car. And then when Pale Raincoat leaves, we follow. No arguments,” and he leaned forward and kissed her briefly, and slid out of the car.
Anxiously she watched him go, and then almost leapt out of the car after him. For, just as Max disappeared from her sight behind the truck parked by the entrance, the man in the pale raincoat appeared on the other side, buttoning his coat and pulling up his collar, making purposefully for his car with the twisted fender. It was as pat as a tightly rehearsed scene from a French farce, and she could have screamed with the urgency of the need to call Max back.
But she couldn’t get out of the car, couldn’t call Max back, for if she had, the raincoated man would have seen her, and she knew with every fibre of her being that she would be in danger.
Helplessly she watched him get into his car, heard his engine start, praying wordlessly for Max to come back, now, before the man could get away.
The car with the twisted fender began to move, and almost without thinking of what she was doing, Abigail slid across into the driver’s seat, and turned the iginition key. The car coughed, and settled to a steady purr, and she put it into first gear.
As the other car moved in a wide sweep to leave the forecourt, she twisted hard on the steering wheel, and turned her own vehicle in a tight circle, so that as the man in the raincoat drove past her, she was pointing the bonnet in the same direction.
“Forgive me Max, dear Max – forgive me,” she muttered feverishly, as she peered anxiously through the windscreen. “I need you, and I’m scared, but I can’t let him get away, can I? I’ve got to stop him from getting to Danny – I’ve got to–”
She slid the car into top gear, and settled more firmy into her seat, with her eyes fixed on the red rear lights of the car with the twisted fender, running ahead of her into – what?
CHAPTER SEVEN
She felt like someone in limbo. There was the dim glow from the dashboard of the car, her own healights sweeping and dancing on the dark road in front of her, and the winking red lights of the car ahead. It wasn’t too difficult to keep up with him, for he drove at a steady forty miles an hour, and was an unadventurous driver. Where Abigail would have overtaken, had she been leading instead of following, he drove sedately behind trucks and slow cars. But she wasn’t sorry. Fatigue had entered into her very bones, making her ache horribly, making her knees and thighs tremble, so that when she had to change gear, she did so noisily, so difficult was it to manipulate clutch and accelerator smoothly. And her eyes – her eyes were hot and sandy, red rimmed from exhaustion, she knew, almost as painful as her ankle, which had settled into a deep sick nagging moan of misery.
Her mind wandered too, as the time crept by and they drove on and on. Whilst part of her was occupied with the concentration necessary to keep the car in front in sight but not so close that she would be noticed by the driver, the rest of her buzzed and twisted and shouted and whispered, conjecture, fear, doubt, helpless anger, all battling inside her tired aching head. There was a brief moment when she thought in sudden terror – where am I? where am I going? I don’t know. I’m going to drive right off the edge of the world, soon, and no one, no one at all will ever know what happened, and I’ll never see Max again.
But the thought of Max steadied her. She conjured up a vision of him standing dour and scowling by the notice board at the hotel, all those aeons ago, and wondered how she could ever have been frightened of him. Dear comfortable Max, who seemed to find her as special as she found him.
But the traitorous secret voice that lay lurking there in the deepest recesses of her mind started up again.
Does he? Does he really? In spite of all those doubts he had about your story?
He hasn’t any doubts, she argued back. None at all. If he had, he wouldn’t be helping me this way–
Helping you? No doubts? Come off it. Remember what he said? That he’s wondering whether the note Danny left was genuine? Remember the way he insisted on going into the café. Was that being all that helpful, when what you wanted to do was get to Danny, fast! How helpful was that? Look at you now – on your own, after a dangerous man, and no helpful Max around.
She almost pleaded with herself, in this ding-dong argument between the two parts of her own personality. But why? she asked that teasing suspicious other half why should he latch onto me as he did if it wasn’t that he really want
ed to help?
Because maybe he’s part of the mess himself. Maybe he’s in with the man in the pale raincoat, maybe that’s why he was so anxious to get into the café after him. And what about that note from Danny? Remember? “She can always ask M who likes me I think though like I said I like you better than both of them.” Remember that? Who is M? Couldn’t it be this very Max you’ve let yourself get so besotted with? Can’t you see that maybe you’re in more danger from your precious Max than from Tenterden?–
“No, no, no!” and she whispered it aloud, so that the sounds bounced back at her from the windscreen. That can’t be true. If I hadn’t seen the car parked at that café, he’d never have stopped, so that isn’t on – And as for the M in the note – that could be anyone – a woman even. It just isn’t on–
All right then. The police. He’s police, and he’s latched on to you just to lead you on and collect evidence before hauling you into court – remember the way he talked to that Inspector? They didn’t sound as though he were a stranger, did it? The way he talked – it was as though he were taking the initiative, not as though he was simply answering questions the way you thought he was, the way he told you–
I’m not gong to listen any more, she told the insistent little voice firmly. Shut up, do you hear? I’m not going to think about Max, or the whys and wherefores of him, not now. All that matters now is getting Danny out of trouble.
And the memory of that dark curly head, that battered small face came up before her strained and watery red eyes, and effectively drowned the little voice.
They must have been a bare ten miles or so from the outer ring of London suburbs when she nearly came to the end of her chase in ignominy. The car she was following suddenly disappeared. It had been in front of her for miles, those red rear lights so imprinted on her vision that she could have seen them with her eyes closed. And suddenly they just weren’t there.
She leaned forward and stared out into the thick darkness, quiet, because in the small hours as it now was the traffic had dwindled to a mere trickle of London bound trucks. She kept the car moving, in a low gear, and it was probably because it was idling along that it happened – and saved her.
The engine suddenly stalled, as her trembling foot slipped on the clutch – but the car was on an incline, and silently it went on moving forwards. She was too bemused to put her foot on the brake, and as she reached for the ignition key to restart the engine, she noticed two things.
First, her petrol gauge was pointing to almost empty. That was shocking enough. And secondly, that just as she was about to put her foot on the brake to stop the slow rolling of the car, it slid past a layby – in which was parked the car with the twisted fender.
It was almost miraculous, she thought, trembling with reaction. If the petrol hadn’t almost run out, the car probably wouldn’t have stalled, and if it hadn’t stalled I would have driven right past Pale Raincoat and not noticed him – and lost him. It is a miracle, so help me.
About fifty yards beyond the layby, the incline levelled out and the car slowed agonizingly and finally stopped. She sat there for a while, listening, but clearly the other car wasn’t leaving its parking place. And now what, she asked herself bleakly? Stuck nowhere with no petrol at all? An obliging quarry, undoubtedly, sitting there waiting for me, but where do go from here?
Look for petrol, idiot, the little voice advised. This is an estate car with a big boot – maybe there’s a can of extra petrol in it.
There was. She got out of the car quietly, and though she almost fell when she tried to stand up, her legs were so shaky and weary, she managed to creep to the rear of the car. The boot wasn’t locked – and there was a can of petrol.
It took an eternity to find the cap of the car’s tank, to empty the petrol from the spare can into it, biting her lips in case the car now behind her should start to move again, but she managed it, and still there was no sound in the darkness, only the occasional roaring grumble of a passing truck – and there were only two of them.
She stood half-leaning on the car when she had replaced the empty can in the boot, and considered her next step. And she had to dig up all her shredded courage to do what she decided was best.
Moving like a cat in th shadows of the hedge, she made her way back along the road towards the layby. I’ve got to see what’s going on, haven’t I? she told herself. No sense sitting chewing my nails and not knowing–
He lay back in his seat, his head sprawling sideways, his mouth hanging open in an unlovely grimace. For one sick moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw his chest move and understood. He was asleep.
She stood in the shadow of a hawthorn and looked at him, but he was deeply asleep, she could see even from this distance.
A sensible man, remarked her secret voice. He’s grabbing some much needed rest. Why don’t you? You might as well, though if you’ve any sense at all you’ll drive to the nearest police station and let them handle the whole sorry mess–
“Like hell I will,” she whispered in answer. “Like hell I will. I’ll just wait till he wakes up and goes on–”
And she crept back to the estate car, and settled herself in the driver’s seat again to wait as patiently as she could.
And of course the private argument with herself started up again, over and over again, the fears and doubts, the sick nagging about Miles Tenterden, the wondering about Max’s motives – but still, stubborn in her fatigue, she stuck to her essential belief. The only thing that mattered was Danny. Whatever Max was or wasn’t, whoever the man behind her was or wasn’t, Danny had to be found and protected. And she also clung to her conviction planted in her by Max – that as long as the man behind her was followed, Danny was safe.
The night thickened and darkened even more, if that were possible, and she wondered stupidly what the time was. Darkest before dawn, isn’t it? she asked the little secret voice, but there was no help to be found there any more, for the other part of her mind seemed to have shut up shop, to have opted out of the whole mess–
She awoke abruptly as the car with the twisted rear fender passed. She was lying sprawled sideways, across the passenger seat, and as she sat awkwardly upright fumbling for the ignition key she realized that it was this that had probably saved her from detection. Her car must have looked empty as Pale Raincoat went by. Another miniature miracle.
The darkness was thinning out, now, not that there was any real light in the sky. It was as though a couple of layers of chiffon had been drawn back, so the darkness lost some of its stifling velvety quality. Now there was a promise of light to come, some time soon.
And the landscape changed too. Fields and hedges gave way to scattered houses; the houses closed up, because strings of semi-detached villas sitting prim and complacent in miniscule front gardens. There were cars parked on grassy verges and against the edges of the pavements that now fringed the wide road and this helped her keep Twisted Fender in sight without being seen herself.
And now, suddenly, fear and depression settled over her like a pall. They were so nearly at the end of the journey, and for the first time, she started to think about what she would do when eventually Pale Raincoat stopped, and left the car. Would you just park behind him, leap out and and say “Stop! You shall go no further!”? That would be ludicrous. Follow him on foot? To where?
I don’t know, the little voice said sourly, suddenly waking up again. Where do you think he’s going?
To the house, she answered. To the house I remembered with such terror. I can’t follow him into there–
But I’ll have to. I’ve come this far. If he does go into the house. I can’t just stand skulking on the pavement outside while he goes in and finishes off the job he started on Danny.
But how are you going to get into the house, idiot? came the hateful little voice. Use some sense, woman. Get the police, get them to help you – you can’t do it alone.
But will they believe me? Max said they’d just arrest me, and that would b
e that – and I believe him. I do believe him, I believe everything he said.
Do you? retorted the little voice. Of course you don’t. This is me you’re arguing with, me who is really you–
A set of traffic lights winked lollipop green and then amber in front of her, and changed to a firm red before she could shoot over the crossing. The rear lights of the car she was following dwindled and disappeared far in front of her and as she reluctantly stopped the car at the row of studs that edged the crossing, she stared after is anxiously – and then turned her head as another vehicle drew alongside.
A policeman on a motor scooter. Instinctively she slid down a little in her seat, but he didn’t turn his head, gazing blakly ahead of him at the lights, yawning hugely.
She stared at him, fascinated. They say you’re getting old when policemen start to look young, and this one looks very boyish under that absurb helmet of his, with peach-down cheeks and rather slight shoulders. Shall I wind down the window and lean out and say – ‘Will you help me? You’re looking for me in connection with the disappearance of my stepson, but never mind that – will you help me? I’m chasing the man who really hurt Danny.’ And what will he say? ‘Well, now, Madam, how do you know he’s at all involved? Who is he? You’d better come along with me –’ I can’t do that.
But I’m so tired, and so frightened. Wouldn’t it be better to let them put me in a cell and let me sleep and leave them to get on with the hunting of Danny, the protection of him? And the thought of sleeping, even in a cell on a hard pallet, was so suddenly enticing that she put out her hand to open the window.
But the lights winked amber and green again, and the motor scooter moved forwards and turned right, and that was that. As her own car crossed the intersection she looked after the little figure, so absurdly perched on its Noddy scooter, with a sort of longing – but it was too late now.
She increased her speed anxiously. She was still committed to her chase, but where was her quarry? He’d had time to make half a dozen turns; perhaps she had lost him for good and all.
Lady Mislaid Page 7
