by Carola Dunn
“Roger, L6,” responded the radio in the sergeant’s voice.
“I can’t see them,” Eleanor said anxiously.
“Better get out the map book, Aunt Nell. In there.”
The lorry gradually slowed on the uphill slope. The sports car zipped round it; then more vehicles came down the opposite lane.
“Damn, I wish I had a gong and a light! All right, here goes.”
As Megan pulled out to overtake, Eleanor saw the van rocket across the southbound lane to take a narrow road leading east.
“They’ve turned right, Sarge. May think it’s the 395? Will follow.”
“It goes to the old Davidstow aerodrome,” said Eleanor. “After that, it gets confusing, even with a map. I usually end up at Altarnun but I’m never quite sure where I am.”
Megan’s language deteriorated. “Bloody hell!”
“Sorry, I don’t come this way very often.”
“Turning right, Sarge, towards Altarnun.”
“Got it. Hold on half a mo, Sarge.”
The road ran fairly straight for a mile or so. To the south, the tors of Brown Willy and Rough Tor were hidden in mist. Or low cloud cover, depending on how one looked at it. Wisps of mist drifted across their path, but the van was in sight ahead most of the time, steadily increasing the distance between them.
“L6, Dawson has turned south on a road that meets yours on the aerodrome.”
After a moment’s thought, Eleanor said, “I know it. I don’t think even your Speed Demon will get there in time to cut off the van. Besides, there’s plenty of room on the runways for them to dodge.”
“Old aerodrome?” asked Tariro. “How old can an aerodrome be?”
“Abandoned would be a better word. It was used to train Allied airmen in the war. It’s a good place to walk the dog in wet weather because of the tarmac. Look!”
The plateau of the airfield was before them, crisscrossed with roads and runways, mysterious paved circles where Eleanor had always assumed aircraft had been parked, and a cluster of buildings to the north. To one side of the buildings, the road Dawson was on—
And here he came, gong blaring, blue light flashing. Eleanor held her breath as the police car and the van raced towards the vee where the two roads merged.
The van got there first by inches. All three in L6 gasped as the Speed Demon’s brakes screeched and he veered a moment before he would have rammed the side of the van.
Eleanor let out her breath. “Thank heaven he remembered the men in the back!” Eleanor breathed.
“And the hot water he landed in last time he wrecked a car,” Megan said sardonically. “L6 calling Launceston. L13 and I are both chasing the van across the airport.”
“Roger, Megan. Tina here.”
“The van’s holding the centre of the road.”
“I hope Dawson doesn’t try to pass it on the grass,” said Eleanor. “It’ll be very boggy in places after the storm.”
“Hear that, Tina?”
“I’ll tell L13.” Tina’s voice became muffled, then returned. “Thank you, Mrs. Trewynn.”
“The next crossroads just leads to farms in both directions.”
“If they take either, we’ll have them cornered,” Tariro crowed.
The van sped straight across, with Dawson close behind. Megan kept up as well as she could. Thus when the van took the next right, the Speed Demon overshot the turn but Megan had time to follow.
“Straight on’s a dead end. But if they turn left…”
They did.
“Where does this go, Aunt Nell?”
“All over the place,” Eleanor said gloomily. “A network of lanes. They could go on to Altarnun and the A30, or double back, or cut across to the A395. It’s mostly farms, not villages, so there aren’t many signs. It’s anyone’s guess where they’ll end up.”
The van turned left. In the narrow lane—one and a half cars wide, with cutouts and farm gates for passing—it could no longer take advantage of its superior speed, so for a while Megan kept up with it. She glanced in her rearview mirror. “And here’s Dawson to join the party. Speed won’t help him now.”
They were descending off the moor into lower terrain, hedged and wooded country, trees and bushes putting out their spring green. The lane began to wind. Eleanor lost sight of the van in Bowithick, though at least she knew the name of the place. But with the tiny village behind them, their quarry had disappeared. The lane split, and split again.
They had no way of knowing which way the van had gone.
“We’ve lost them,” Megan reported reluctantly.
“Mr. Scumble says to split up,” Tina told her. “We’re sending out spotters, but we can’t cover everywhere.”
Megan took the right fork. Dawson peeled off to the left.
“We’re on our own again,” Tariro observed, sounding pleased.
Eleanor hoped he wasn’t nursing expectations of heroic deeds. “I have no idea where we are,” she said as they crossed Penpont Water for the second time, “and I’d be surprised if they do, but I’m pretty sure we, at least, will end up at Altarnun. Dawson may get back to the aerodrome road. He could join us in Altarnun or reach the A30 farther north. Or not.”
“Pencarrow.” It was Scumble’s gruff voice. “Yarrow just reported from Mrs. Mason’s house. She’s dead. I’ve sent Eliot, and Dr. Prthnavi is on his way.”
Eleanor blinked back tears. She had only just met Mrs. Mason, but she had liked her and hoped to get to know her better. Then a still more horrible thought struck her. “Oh, Megan, what about Nick?”
“He’s alive,” Megan said fiercely. “If he was dead, why tie him up?” But her tone lacked conviction.
NINETEEN
Nick had a horrendous headache, the worst he could remember, worse than anything he had suffered on the rugger field. It was even worse than the migraines that had afflicted him when he was battling his family over his determination to become an artist.
He couldn’t remember what had happened to make his head hurt. That was alarming. Still more alarming was that when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see.
The surface beneath him shifted. Ambulance, he thought fuzzily. Listening, he heard the roar of the motor and the whir of wheels on asphalt. A damned uncomfortable ambulance. He seemed to be lying on cold, ridged metal.
The vehicle swerved. Nick rolled helplessly, unable to brace himself, until he hit an obstacle. That was when he realised he hurt all over, and that his wrists and ankles were tied. Another swerve and again he tumbled across the floor. This time he fetched up against something soft.
Memory slunk back.
“Freeth!”
No response.
Not Freeth? Freeth unconscious? Not Freeth dead! Taking advantage of a smooth, straight stretch of road, Nick manoevred until he could put his ear to the man’s chest. He was breathing, his heartbeat strong.
The van—the white van Nick had seen in Mrs. Mason’s drive, of course—went over a bump. Both he and the inert Freeth jolted sickeningly. He had to find a way to immobilise them both. The first step was to explore their prison. Surely there must be some way to tie down the van’s usual cargo, some sort of hooks or rails attached to the sides, if he could only find them.
Freeth was lying against a side wall, where the last lurch had tossed him. Nick managed a sort of crawl-cum-scramble that was hard on the elbows but carried him past his companion’s head.
He found the wall with his own sore head. Kneeling, he felt with numbing hands from the floor upward. Just as he straightened to reach higher, they zipped round another corner and he went flying. Somehow, with his arms, he shielded his head from the collision.
A sudden slowing sent him slithering to the front of the van. He and Freeth and two heavy rectangular objects came together against the front wall. And he heard voices in the cab.
“… roads you’ve been taking aren’t even on the lousy map! I don’t know where the hell we are.”
“I told you, we hav
e to go east.” The second voice was equally angry but with an unpleasant whine to it. “I showed you on the map which direction is east.”
“A fat lot of good that is when I don’t know where we are, you bloody moron! Damn these clouds.”
The whiner’s response was muted. Nick was glad that their captors had troubles of their own, but it wasn’t a lot of help.
His groping fingers found a handhold. For as long as he could hang on, there would be no more battering. For him, at least. What about Freeth? Was there any way to help him?
Stretching out his legs, Nick fished for his fellow victim. One of the objects sharing their all too spacious accommodations was between them. He kicked it away. They were going uphill, so it slid all the way to the back doors and thudded against them. The sound seemed very loud to Nick and he held his breath for a moment, but their captors apparently didn’t hear.
Or they didn’t realise that, unlike previous thumps, the road provided no reason for this one.
His questing feet found Freeth. Lying on his back, he managed to hook his legs over the man’s body. His position was uncomfortable and tiring, but as long as the road was straight and smooth, he didn’t have to exert himself much. If they started veering all over the place again, it would be a different story.
Freeth’s body—Nick wished his mind had not provided that phrase. Freeth was alive, and would doubtless have an even worse headache than Nick’s when he came round.
Mrs. Mason, though … He had been trying not to think about her lying on the floor. Was she dead? It seemed all too likely when he recalled what he had heard through the door.
Besides, what else could explain the kidnapping of himself and Freeth but that they were witnesses to her murder? They were being taken to some suitably remote spot to be disposed of.
Yet this scenario didn’t make sense. Mrs. Mason’s house was well off the main road, with the nearest neighbours some distance away. Why not finish them off on the spot and make a clean getaway? Why go to the trouble and delay of knocking them out, trussing them up like chickens, and carrying them off, if they were to be permanently disposed of?
Nick would have shrugged had it been physically possible. Maybe Megan would be able to guess their reasons. He sincerely hoped he’d be present—and alive—to hear her explanation.
A stretch of smooth, straight road had lulled him into relaxing his grip. When the next, inevitable, sudden swerve came, centrifugal force nearly tore him loose, and Freeth with him. He barely hung on, his arms a fiery agony. Tyres squealed. The strain went on and on, as if the van was doing a 180-degree turn. His fingers were slipping when it straightened out.
Another one like that and he and Freeth would be bouncing back and forth again, helpless to protect themselves against further battering.
* * *
“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Tariro, “who is Nick?”
“My next-door neighbour, and a dear friend.” Eleanor waited hopefully for Megan to add “And my boyfriend,” but she didn’t.
Megan had to concentrate on driving, Eleanor consoled herself. If Nick came out of this affair in one piece, perhaps the two of them would make up their minds at last.
As Eleanor had predicted, the winding, branching lanes took them to Altarnun. They also slowed the van and no doubt confused its driver with a multiplicity of choices. After crossing Penpont Water yet again, the road straightened as it entered the village and continued straight for a few hundred feet, and Eleanor caught the first glimpse of the van in several miles.
“I knew it,” she said triumphantly. “We’re almost at the A30. We absolutely must see which way they turn. Step on it, Megan.”
“Not at the risk of running down a pedestrian.” Megan veered round a stout woman coming out of her garden gate, which opened directly on to the street. She was holding a lead. “Or a dog.”
“Wuff?” Teazle rushed to peer out of the window.
“Too late, pup.” Tariro ruffled the dog’s head as Megan accelerated. He had long since given up trying to hide. He had also taken over most of the radio reports and was thoroughly enjoying the job. “Tina, L6 passing through Altarnun. We have a sighting, repeat, we have a sighting.”
“Good job, L6.” The Launceston operator hadn’t been told his name, still—to his amusement—an official secret. “L13 has just reached the A30 at Holywell Cross. He got stuck behind a herd of cows.”
“Almost back in Launceston,” said Eleanor. “That’s the way the van will turn, don’t you think? I can’t believe they’d want to go farther south. Unless they’ve completely lost their bearings trying to dodge us.”
“If you ask me, they have,” said Megan. “One is definitely a Londoner and the other probably never walked a country mile in his life. He’s the sort that bounces between resort hotels, cruise ships, and cheap digs in London. And the odd spell in clink, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
The lane was winding again. The van was intermittently visible. Eleanor couldn’t see it when it stopped—if it stopped—at the stop sign. But they were close enough behind that when they, in turn, reached the junction, the van was in plain sight, speeding southwest.
There was little other traffic. Megan raced after them while Tariro reported the right turn onto the main road.
“They’re going to Bodmin?” Tina asked incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“Mrs. Trewynn says we are going towards Bodmin. The only signpost I had time to see said Jamaica Inn. And Lewannick the other way, which I gather is the way to Launceston.”
“Oh, I know those signs. A big new one to Jamaica Inn, and just an old fingerpost to Bodmin and Launceston. Very misleading.”
“Megan thinks the men in the van are lost.”
“Megan’s usually— Hold on, L6.”
They were dropping behind the van again. The road was mostly uphill, from the valley back up onto the moors. The low, unbroken clouds had brought an early twilight. Soon it would be difficult to distinguish the van’s rear lights from any other vehicle’s.
“Pencarrow!” Scumble’s voice. Tariro hurriedly held the mike close to Megan’s mouth.
“Sir.”
“I’m sending L13 after you. If the target stays on the A30, Dawson will pass you. I’ll have a car come up from Bodmin—they have one on stand-by already. Between them, they should be able to stop the van. In that case, when you catch up, you will observe and not intervene unless absolutely necessary. And for chrissake, keep those bloody civilians out of it. Beg pardon, Mrs. Trewynn, but please just stay in the car.”
Luckily, he continued to give instructions to Megan without requiring Eleanor’s word. She was quite willing to leave the capture to three or four policemen, but her thoughts were on the captives in the back of the van. Her first concern would be to free them.
The van came into sight again as they approached the turnoff to Jamaica Inn. It was caught in a slanting shaft of light from the sun, which broke through the clouds for a moment as it sank towards the horizon.
The brief gleam must have been a revelation to the villains in the van. If that was west, they were hastening farther and farther from London. Coming to the next side road, they swung round the sharp left turn at high speed, leaving black tyre marks on the road, as Eleanor saw when they came to the spot.
As Megan followed, not much slower, Eleanor hung on and glanced back and saw with relief that Tariro was holding Teazle.
“Aunt Nell, where…?”
Tariro moved the mike over towards Eleanor. She wasn’t as familiar with this district, so she checked the map, holding it up to her face in the fading light.
“It starts out going northeast, Mr. Scumble, then bends to the southeast and follows the River Fowey, wiggling like mad. It ends up near Liskeard, but if they realise they’re going south again, they’ll take the road to Alton.”
“Roger,” said Tina’s voice. “Hold on, L6.”
“If it’s wiggly,” said Tariro, “we should catch up a bit. Megan’s
a better driver.”
“Thank you!” said Megan.
“I hope so,” said Eleanor, “because we’ll lose sight of them again, what with wiggles and the trees along the river.”
“Are there any side roads they could take?” Megan asked.
Eleanor peered. “I can’t really see. Not enough light for map reading.”
“There’s a torch in the map pocket.”
“All right. Here we are. No, there’s only very minor lanes and they all seem to go to farms or to high points on the moors. Or hut circles. Prehistoric, I presume. It doesn’t seem likely they’ll choose to wander off into the wilderness with night coming on.”
“It’s getting foggy up in the hills, too,” said Tariro, twisting his neck to look up the slope of the moors to their right. “Or the clouds coming lower, maybe.”
“Just what we need,” Megan grumbled.
“It’s going to get worse if they turn east at Redgate,” said Eleanor, her finger following the line on the map. “It’s higher land. And it’s the logical way for them to take.”
“If they realise they’re heading south. I wouldn’t count on any logic coming into their movements. I wish I had the faintest idea what’s in their minds.”
“L6 … you receiv … me?”
“Reception is bad,” Tariro said, the clipped clarity of his accent noticeable. “L6 is in a valley.”
“Un … stood. Sending L … to Upton, repeat,… ing L13, that … Dawson … Upton. Do you…”
“Roger, Launceston. L13, the Speed Demon, to Upton.”
Half a laugh came over the radio. “L6, send … B … Red … peat, sending B16 to Redgate.”
“B, that’s Bodmin? B16 to Redgate. That came in clear.”
“L6, can you give me your exact position?”
“The middle of nowhere,” said Tariro.
TWENTY
Once again, Eleanor’s prophesy came true. When they reached the junction at the tiny village of Redgate, they were just in time to see that the van had turned left and was heading northeast towards Upton.
