by Oliver Tidy
He noticed a farm-gate-opening in the hedgerow. It was off to his left, far from the straight line between his position and the promise of a settlement. It would cost him valuable time if he detoured. He ignored it and continued as the crow would – heading towards the church tower.
The hedgerow was thick but not impenetrable. He was able to force his way through the thin branches, then up a steep little bank and on to a narrow road. Finally, he had tarmac beneath his feet. He allowed himself a glance and a listen over his shoulder, but again there was no sign of pursuit – no helicopters in the sky; no shouting men or further barking of dogs; no sign of human life or activity at all. He trotted on towards civilisation.
As he ran, he fished the phone out of his pocket and rang Mrs Tallis. She answered quickly.
‘I’m on a road heading for a town or village.’
‘Is that wise? Aren’t you more exposed on a road?’
‘Yes, but it’s quicker for me and it’s quiet. There’s plenty of cover if I need to get off it in a hurry.’
‘What is the name of the place?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve just crossed a bridge over a railway line. It said Comley Hill.’
‘That’s not far from me at all. Go back to the bridge. Get out of sight. I’m on my way.’
‘I don’t know how much time there is,’ he said. ‘Worst case scenario, they have dogs out trailing me.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she said. ‘If you think it’s necessary keep going, but keep in touch.’
He didn’t argue. She was aware of the seriousness of his situation. Her confidence gave him confidence. He trusted her and he had little choice but to do so. He turned around and followed the road back to the railway bridge.
There were tall old oaks nearby. Leaving the box at the foot of one of them, he climbed one for a better view of the surrounding area. The foliage was dense but he was able to make out the field he had crossed. It was empty. As the seconds crept by the voice in his head that would always be insisting that he considered the alternative, whatever it was, grew more persistent. It urged him to continue on to the next town as quickly as he could. He should be moving. If they came across the field now their radio communication would travel ahead of them and him to those who would be looking to head him off, to seal off his escape route. Being stuck on foot on a country lane didn’t bear thinking about.
In the far distance he made out the slow progress of a train snaking its way across the open countryside. Four carriages. Not a commuter judging by its pace. He watched it for a long moment before more excited barking snapped his attention back to the view across the fields.
He saw no movement. Then three people and a dog emerged from the sweetcorn crop to stand at the edge of the dyke as he had done, where he had done, not fifteen minutes before. Stunned with the realisation and its implications, he wasted valuable seconds watching them when he should have been clambering down and running. But then he understood what a pointless exercise that would be. Their radio communications would already be well ahead of them. As he stared fixated on the little group, he saw one man vault the ditch and then another try but fall backwards, presumably into the water. It was enough. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there and wait for them. He hurried down, picked up his box and headed back to the road. Standing on the railway bridge looking around, he picked out the front light of the locomotive coming towards him and in his desperation made a decision that he would never have considered under normal circumstances; not even for a sizeable wager, or recklessly, Army-drunk.
He’d need two hands for it. He threw the plastic box into long grass and brambles that swept down to the track. If he got through this, he’d be back for it. As he watched the train’s approach his mind emptied of all arguments. Thrust into a survival situation, he was being provided with a chance to escape – perhaps live to fight another day. He tried to gauge the speed of the thing and the physics of his anticipated contact with its metal casing. The drop from the bridge to the roof of the train would be perhaps ten feet. The train’s approach seemed slow. He visualised himself landing and the momentum of the train flinging him backwards unless he could land virtually flat and just hang on. Perhaps his impact would be heard. Perhaps he’d be seen. Maybe the train would stop anyway and he’d be caught. Maybe he’d be thrown from it.
At a hundred yards he could make out the driver in the cab. He also understood that it was moving faster than he thought. The phone began to ring in his pocket. He snatched it out and accepted the call, his eyes fixed on the locomotive now fifty yards from him.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Are you close?’
‘I’m on the road heading towards you.’
The train was rattling the rails beneath him. The phone to his ear, he sprinted across the narrow road and with one big step-up stood on up on the parapet of the low bridge wall. He looked down at the speeding sections of the train and in the seconds that he delayed found himself staring at the disappearing rear of it. He stood there looking after it and then down at the drop that would certainly have broken bones if he’d tried and failed.
‘You’d better put your foot down. They’re coming.’
He rang off, straddled the fencing and fought his way down to his box. By the time he had scrambled back up to the road, he could make out the approach of a car. He took the pistol from his belt and stood in the middle of the road. If it wasn’t her he’d be taking it.
She drew up alongside him. He cast a last look down the way he had come and seeing no one called through the open window to her. ‘There could be police ahead. Open the boot and think of something to tell them.’
The boot popped. He clambered in and clutching the box to his chest pulled it shut after him.
He lay in the darkness feeling the car accelerate sedately away and the shame of his cowardice. If the car was stopped and searched and they opened the boot to find him cowering in the dark it would serve him fucking-well right.
***
14
Another day, another boot. It might have been funny if it wasn’t, thought Sansom. He bumped and rocked along in the darkness, the condensed heat in the airless little space fairly suffocating him. His clothes stuck to him with the sweat of his exertions and his fear. The phone rang. He struggled to work it out of his sweaty trouser pocket. It was the same caller ID as before.
‘You all right in there?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Any sign of trouble?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Good. Where did you get the car from?’
‘It’s my son-in-law’s.’
‘Won’t he miss it?’
‘When he’s stopped propping up the free bar. He’ll get over it.’
‘And the phone?’
‘My daughter’s.’
‘Let me guess, she’ll get over it?’
‘She’ll have to. They can have them back when I’m done with them. I’m sure they’ll understand that I was upset.’
‘How was it?’
‘How do you think? Bloody awful.’
‘Sorry. Where are we heading?’
‘Home, I thought. No time like the present. I’ve had enough of this place. When do you want to get out?’
‘When we’re well clear...’
‘Oh dear,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Flashing lights ahead.’ She severed the connection, leaving Sansom with only his imagination to build pictures of what awaited them and how it would unfold.
He felt the car slow and roll to a gentle stop. From his confinement Sansom made out the chatter of radio traffic and muffled voices.
‘What’s the problem, officer?’ said Tallis’s mother. She sounded impatient and irritable.
‘Good afternoon, madam. Sorry to interrupt your journey. It could be that there’s a dangerous man in the area, that Sansom that the whole country’s looking for. Did you see anyone on the road?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any identi
fication on you?’
There was a delay.
‘We’ve orders to search all vehicles. Would you mind stepping out of the car, Mrs Tallis?’
‘Doesn’t my name mean anything to you? Do you know why I’m here? Do you know what I’ve been through today?’ Even through the barrier of the metal, plastic and fabric that shielded the soldier the rising anger and indignation in her voice was obvious.
Another voice broke into the conversation: authoritative. ‘What’s the problem?’
Tallis’s mother was on the offensive. ‘This idiot wants to search my vehicle for that killer Sansom. That’s what the problem is. Is this some kind of sick joke? I’ve buried my son today – Detective Inspector Tallis. You might remember him. He was shot dead by Sansom in the line of duty. Do you really suppose that I’d be giving my son’s murderer a lift somewhere?’
Another delay. Shorter.
‘Clear the road, constable.’ There was no doubting the sentiments of the man in charge. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tallis. Really sorry. For this and for Stan. We knew each other. He was a good man and a good policeman. He’ll be missed. Why are you on this road, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I seem to be lost. I think I might have taken a wrong turning from Westbourne Cemetery. I’m looking for the A3.’
‘Well, you’re going in the right direction. Just keep on along this road and you’ll see signposts for it. Would you like an escort?’
‘Thank you. That would be most welcome, Sergeant...?’
‘Porter, madam. Safe journey, Mrs Tallis.’
The Sergeant’s words became indistinct as he moved away from the vehicle. Sansom waited and breathed. A few seconds later they were moving again.
‘Can you hear me?’ She was shouting above the noise of the car and its passage on the road.
‘Just about.’
‘Hang on then. It won’t be long now.’
‘I heard.’
She didn’t answer.
They drove for several minutes at a steady pace, then slowed and stopped. Words were exchanged with the escort and they were moving again.
Another couple of minutes, another couple of miles and she pulled over. The engine was killed, the boot was popped and Sansom heard the driver’s door open, felt her get out. She crunched gravel around to him. He pushed up the lid of his confinement and cooler fresher air flooded in with the half-light of early evening. He breathed it hungrily. He manoeuvred himself out and stretched his compacted frame.
‘Where are we?’
She studied him severely, no sign of sympathy for his earlier plight or interest in his condition or question. ‘What happened?’
‘With the car?’ She nodded once, quickly. ‘I went into Southleigh Forest to waste some time. When I came back to it there were two police looking it over.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I ran. What is it? What’s wrong?’
He didn’t understand. Maybe he couldn’t.
‘Thank you for coming to my rescue. Stan would have been proud of the way you dealt with the road block.’
She glowered at him in the half light. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because I’m old I’m useless or stupid. I’ve now put myself in a very dangerous position with the law and I have dumped something rather unpleasant on my conscience. I’ve got my reasons for doing so and they are worthy, to me. But I’m now responsible for anything and everything that you get involved in. If you cause harm to innocent people it will be my fault. I’ve volunteered to have that responsibility, but I’ll ask you not to abuse my trust in you. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ he said, disturbed by her outburst.
‘Good. Now you can drive. We’re about to join the A3. I don’t like driving on busy roads, especially at night.’
They moved off in silence. She waited until they were comfortably in the flow of busy evening traffic before she said in a calmer voice, ‘What were you proposing to do if I hadn’t come along?’
The memory of it made him uncomfortable, but he found himself strangely interested in her response. ‘I was about to jump off that bridge on to the roof of a passing train. It was either that or get caught.’
She turned a little and he felt her gaze settle on him.
He maintained his stiff-jawed staring out of the windscreen.
‘Are you serious?’
‘It was only your phone call that stopped me.’
‘Then it was a good job I rang when I did. Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if you’d gone through with it?’
‘I hope that I would have succeeded in getting away or at least put some time and distance between them and me.’
She turned back to stare out at the traffic ahead of them. ‘Stanley said you were hot-headed. He may also have used the word reckless to describe some of your exploits. It wasn’t necessarily a criticism, by the way, just an observation he made. Would you agree with that?’
Bristling a little, he said, ‘I had some difficult decisions to make in Bodrum and I didn’t always have the luxury of time and reflection. I’d rather focus on the ends justifying the means. I achieved what I set out to do in Turkey and the three of us survived intact. I call that a result.’
‘More luck than judgement was my interpretation of the way Stanley told it.’
He made a noise. ‘My dad used to say that you make your own luck.’
‘Touché. Stanley said that you saved his life in Bodrum at considerable risk to your own. As his mother, I thank you for that.’ Her tone softened a little more. ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. We’ve established that we can help each other. It might also be said that we need each other for our own ends. We each have our own motives for this. Maybe they even overlap in places. But for us to have any chance of success we – and really I mean you, Acer – are going to have to be very careful indeed. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Once again, Mrs Tallis, perfectly.’
If she hadn’t been right, he might have been tempted to stop the car and help her out on to the hard shoulder. But she’d just prolonged his liberty – probably his life – and when all was said and done she was still Stan Tallis’s mother.
*
The A3 soon dropped its pretensions of being a motorway and resigned itself to A-road status. A sign for the M3 prompted her to say, ‘It’s out of our way, but it’ll save us time in the end. We should take it.’
And he did, not because he thought that she was necessarily right, but because she’d told the police it was the A3 she was interested in locating. When they realised he had just disappeared in the middle of nowhere someone might start asking questions, her name might be mentioned. For all her sophistication and astuteness he doubted whether she had made that connection.
She continued: ‘Also, when they realise that you’ve vanished into thin air someone will inevitably start asking questions and we have to presume that my identity will crop up.’ Sansom mentally took it back. ‘Our saving grace is that this car is not registered to me and I doubt that anyone back there made a note of the number plate. It’s still a risk having you in it though, but we don’t have much choice for now, do we?’
He understood the question was rhetorical. ‘Well, if they put two and two together and get four won’t they come looking for you at your home if they don’t find you on the road?’ Sansom realised that part of his voicing of his thoughts was an attempt to score points off this old woman who had properly put him in his place. He felt a little childish for it.
‘Yes. That’s why we’re not going there now,’ she said, still ahead of him.
‘Oh. Where are we going then?’
‘We’re going to get on with it.’
‘I’m sorry, where’s that?’
She looked at him to see if he was having fun with her and was only slightly less disappointed to see that he wasn’t. ‘We have to assume the worst-case scenario. Agreed?’ He nodded. ‘Then the worst-case scenario is that I might fa
ll under suspicion for helping you get away. Given your profile, I imagine that the law will be extremely thorough and I didn’t see much other traffic around.’
‘Right.’
‘Naturally, they will then come looking for me. If you and I are found together, that’s it. The way these desperate thugs are operating, I’ve no doubt that that would be the end of it.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘To see your journalist, I thought.’
‘What? But I have no idea where she lives.’
She smiled thinly in the gloom of the interior. ‘After you left this afternoon, I thought about your grand plan. You might actually have something. I called her paper, told them who I was and that I admired her work and I wanted to be interviewed by her. She’s obviously rather keen for her exclusive with the dead policeman’s mother while he’s still a newsworthy topic, or her editor is; she called me straight back. I have her number in my bag. We were to meet this week, but I suspect strongly that if I were to telephone her now and impress upon her the urgency of a meeting...well, she’s a journalist.’
‘You’re suggesting that we call on her at home? We?’
‘Do you have a better idea?’
He didn’t. But he was not prepared for, or convinced of, hers. ‘So you ring her, she’s going to part with her home address; you tell her that you happen to be passing on your way home – incidentally on the day that you’ve buried your son – and that you’d like to call in for tea and an interview.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Good luck.’
‘You make your own luck, remember? Give me my phone, please.’
When he realised that she was serious, he asked if he should pull over. She said he should keep driving and be quiet. So he focussed on his driving and the other cars on the road as she rummaged in her bag for her glasses, found the woman’s number and then fumbled with her mobile phone. When she held it to her ear he held his breath.
