by Leo McNeir
She followed the roads round to the central station and pulled into a parking slot two rows from the entrance. There was no time for precautions. She rang Donovan on her mobile and explained what was happening.
Silence for three seconds.
“How long can you stay in the car park?”
“Four hours, I think.”
“Right. Here’s what you do. Get a parking ticket for four hours. Then get a train to Watford. On the train phone Marnie and tell her where it is. She’ll have to collect it just before the four hours are up. Just say we’ve decided to change our plans.”
“Okay.”
“Ring me when you know your arrival time in Watford. I’ll meet you there.”
“Where?”
“I’ll be in the car park as close as I can get to the station. Look out for my black Beetle.”
“Why Watford?”
“No-one will expect you to be going there.”
Anne heaved her hold-all out of the Mini’s tiny boot and walked calmly into the station. With an enormous effort she restrained herself from looking back across the car park.
*
Anne spotted the Beetle across the road from the entrance. As she walked over to it, Donovan made no attempt to get out and help her with the hold-all. He pushed the passenger door open and indicated that she should put her bag on the back seat. When she climbed in beside him his face told her at once that something was wrong.
“What’s up?”
Without replying, he started the engine and drove off.
“Donovan, what is it? Are you annoyed with me? I couldn’t help being followed, if I was followed.”
“It’s not you. Having to change our plan is difficult.”
“I’m sorry, but –”
“No. I’m sorry.” He took the main road up to the M25, the London Orbital motorway, and headed out of town. “The thing is, this car isn’t up to making such a long journey. It’s not fully restored.”
“So what do we do, go by plane?”
“Have you any idea of the cost of booking a flight at the last minute, or a train for that matter?”
“Hire a car?” Anne was feeling desperate.
“Too complicated at our age, at short notice, for taking abroad.”
“So what are you saying? We haven’t got a car, so we can’t make the trip?”
“No. We do have a car.”
“Another one?”
Donovan nodded.
“And it can do the journey?”
“Oh yes.”
“So that’s okay, then. Problem solved. Isn’t it?”
“Not quite.”
*
Half an hour later they stood in Donovan’s garage. He had pulled the cover off the car in the end stall, and Anne looked at it for the first time. Its black bodywork shone in the harsh fluorescent light. Its chrome gleamed brightly.
“Does it have anywhere for luggage?” Anne asked.
Donovan pointed to the front. “Under there. Enough for two hold-alls, not much more.”
“Does the hood go up?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A Porsche 356, built 1955.”
“It’ll get us there and back?”
“Sure.”
“Not exactly inconspicuous, though,” Anne observed.
“That’s the point.”
“Do we have any choice?”
“Can you ride a bicycle?”
Anne smiled ruefully. “Let’s do it.”
*
The journey to the coast was uneventful, but the atmosphere in the little sports car was tense. Anne was surprised at how smoothly the Porsche ran for such an old machine. It felt like sitting low down in a bathtub, with only a few instruments and an old-fashioned gear stick, but a very sporty-looking steering wheel with a polished wooden rim.
They hardly spoke until they had left London and joined the motorway to the south coast. Then Anne asked the question that had been bothering her all morning.
“Do you believe I was being followed?”
“Yes.”
“New Force?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“You yourself said someone had been watching you.”
“But why did they follow me today of all days?”
“You’d been getting the car ready for a journey. I think they’re taking a lot of interest in you, as the one most likely to lead them to me.”
“D’you think they saw you meeting me from the train?”
“It’s possible, but I’m hoping they might be confused by the change of car.”
For much of the way they travelled in silence. Every now and then Donovan would speak. He had produced a list of jobs to do, which she found comforting, together with a list of key phone numbers.
“Ring the harbour. Tell them we’ve had to change cars. Give them this registration number. Check the sailing’s on time. Tell them we may be early, may want to take the first available crossing.”
Anne enjoyed having things to do. It took her mind off the thought that she may have been tailed that morning.
“Ring my insurance broker. Tell him we’re taking the Porsche abroad. Get him to give you a reference number for a green card. Say I can’t speak personally as I’m driving.”
Anne happily ticked off the items as she completed them. It felt almost like being in the office at home.
“Ring the AA. Tell them we’re using a different car and give them the details. We’ll need a new reference number.”
When they were heading south on the motorway Anne asked Donovan about the car.
“It was my father’s pride and joy. He inherited some money as a young man and bought this almost from new. Got if for a good price from a lady owner who said she found it too much of a handful and hardly used it. He thought she didn’t like the colour.”
“But you certainly do,” Anne observed.
“That’s right.”
Anne looked at Donovan. He was wearing black jeans and trainers, a black leather blouson jacket and driving gloves of fine black leather with small holes punched in the backs of the fingers. The ensemble was completed with a pair of gold-rimmed Ray-Ban aviators. His blonde hair made a marked contrast with his clothes. It was not surprising that, seeing them together, some people took them for brother and sister.
They were running at a steady seventy, the engine growling softly behind them, eating up the miles with no risk of attracting the attention of the highways police. Suddenly, without warning, Donovan turned sharply off the motorway and took the exit for Folkestone.
“What are you doing?”
“Precautionary measure.” He was looking in the rear-view mirror as they passed over the carriageway. “We need fuel. We’re making good time.”
They pulled into a Shell station where Donovan slotted the car into the furthest bay. He got out quickly and watched the road from behind the pillar before filling the tank.
“See anyone?” Anne asked.
“Don’t think so.”
They left the station and threaded the coast road along to Dover. At the eastern docks they checked in and were allocated a place on the next ferry. Anne’s enthusiasm began to replace her anxiety as they lined up in lane 95 surrounded by travellers who looked calm and relaxed. Several people walked over to look at them, but only to admire the classic sports car. They smiled and nodded at its two young occupants.
After embarking and making their way to the restaurant, Anne had shaken off her cares and was in holiday mood. Even Donovan seemed at ease as they perused the menu in the Brasserie.
“You don’t think we were followed here, do you?” Anne asked.
He looked at her over the top of the card. “No.”
“You sound pretty sure of that.”
“As sure as I can be.”
Anne sighed. “That’s a relief.”
Donovan tried not to think about pursuers, who by now were possibly waiting for th
em in Calais.
*
Anne tucked the receipt for the meal into her travel folder as they rolled down the ramp out of the bowels of the ferry and queued through passport control. It was early afternoon in France, and Europe lay before them. Anne had the road atlas open on her lap, and it was clear that the best way to Germany was to head towards Brussels and pick up the southern motorway – the autoroute de Wallonie – direction, Aachen.
She was surprised when Donovan suddenly said, “Can you see the A26 on the map?”
“Hold on, yes. It goes more or less south-east towards Reims via Arras.”
“That’s the one.”
“Isn’t that the opposite direction to where we’re going?”
“Yes.”
Anne felt perplexed. What did Donovan have in mind? She remembered what Marnie said about him: he’s not unreliable. No. Anne trusted him. So what was the game?
“You’re laying a false trail in case we’re being watched.”
“Let’s hope they’re not as quick on the uptake as you are, Anne.”
“Who?”
“Whoever.”
Anne felt uneasy again. “The motorway is that way.” She pointed at the signboard. “Arras, here we come.”
Donovan followed the lane indicated, but two minutes later turned off the bypass and made for Centre Ville.
“Not Arras, then,” Anne muttered.
“Not yet. Look out for signs showing Toutes Directions as we go into town and then see if you can spot one marked Autoroutes.”
They wove through residential suburbs until Anne saw a blue motorway sign leading into an industrial estate. Donovan murmured, good, good, and they slipped into a queue of juggernauts pointing east. He kept in line as they lumbered onto a motorway.
Anne was trying to read signboards but it was difficult from their place in the procession.
“Are we back on the A26?”
“We are indeed.”
“And are we being followed?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
After a mile or two with the juggernauts, Donovan eased into the outside lane and accelerated to seventy, his eyes flickering constantly towards the mirror. Anne read a road sign and checked their position on the map.
“How far are we going on this road?”
“Quite a way.”
“What does péage mean?”
“Toll. We have to pay from the next section onwards. Take my credit card from the wallet. The machine will be on your side.”
The toll motorway was smooth with relatively light traffic, and they ate up the miles with ease. While waiting their turn at the second toll plaza, Anne noticed an argument going on between a motorist and a traffic cop – a gendarme.
After they had gone through the booths, Anne said, “What was that all about?”
No reply. She looked across at Donovan. He was studying the rear-view mirror, frowning.
“What is it?”
“Not sure.”
“You think we’re being followed?” She swivelled in her seat and looked out of the tiny rear window. “Which car is it?”
“Possibly that grey BMW with the red and white number plates. Belgian.”
“Can we outrun him?”
“No chance.”
“So what can we do?”
Donovan accelerated and pulled in behind a large white Renault van that was bowling along at a fair speed.
“We take cover.”
“He’ll still be able to see us.”
“Yes, but not run us off the road.”
Anne gasped. It had not occurred to her that they might be forced into an accident. They settled into a steady rhythm a few cars’ lengths behind the van, and Anne remembered her earlier question. She asked Donovan about the row between the gendarme and the driver.
“The speed limit in France is eighty miles an hour. That man’s average speed in that sector must’ve been substantially higher. The cop was booking him.”
“Speed cameras?”
“No. The toll ticket records entry and exit times from one plaza to the next. Written evidence, irrefutable. They can fine you on the spot and hold you up.”
Anne was silent for a minute.
“Donovan, how fast can your car go?”
“Not fast by modern standards, but she can do a hundred and five comfortably all day.”
Anne checked the map.
“Donovan, do it.”
“What?”
“Go at that speed till we get to the next toll booths.”
“What?”
“Trust me. We’ve got thirty miles to the next toll thingy. Go at a hundred.”
Donovan reflected, then smiled. He signalled and pulled out into the centre lane. Anne felt the seat press into her back as he hit the accelerator. The growl behind them intensified and the car surged forward. For mile after mile the Porsche flew along. Soon the first signs indicated the toll plaza ahead. As they slowed, Anne pointed to the hard shoulder on the right at the edge of the road.
Donovan swung across the highway and brought the car to a halt. Beside him, Anne was doing a calculation in her notepad, muttering to herself.
“A hundred miles an hour, thirty miles, that’s roughly … eighteen minutes. Is that right?”
Donovan was watching the traffic.
“Yes!”
“You agree with my figures?”
“What? Oh, not sure. The BMW’s just gone past.”
“Good. So thirty miles at, say, seventy. I make that … just over twenty-five minutes. Here, check my calculations.”
Donovan read her notes.
“Seems about right.”
“Can we sit here for another five minutes?” Anne asked.
“We’ll have to, or we’ll get booked by the gendarmes, as our friend in the BMW is being.” There was a note of triumph in his voice. “Anne, you’re a genius.” He leaned over and kissed her before getting out of the car.
“What are you doing?”
He raised the rear engine cover.
“Checking the oil. I expect we’re being watched on CCTV. No-one’s going to query this with such an old car.”
Donovan made a show of pulling out the dipstick, wiping it and checking the oil level. Next, he opened the luggage compartment at the front of the car and took out a can of Castrol GTX.
“Are we using oil?” Anne asked from the passenger seat.
“No, but a drop or two more won’t do any harm.” He poured some oil then wiped the engine with a rag. “How’re we doing for time?”
“Another minute and we can go.”
Donovan put the oil bottle back in the boot and closed the covers front and rear. He walked once round the car as if checking the tyres and climbed back in.
“Okay now?”
“Spot on.”
They took their place in a queue of vehicles and found themselves behind the same Renault van that they had followed earlier. Anne handed the credit card and toll ticket to the operator in the booth, who passed them back with a merci, bonne route.
Pulling out from the booth lane, they accelerated quickly towards the next stretch of motorway. Both pairs of eyes scanned the plaza. Away to their right a gendarme was writing on a pad in front of a motorist who was gesticulating wildly with both hands. They were standing beside a grey BMW with red and white Belgian number plates.
Donovan pulled out to overtake the white van.
“How far to the next intersection?” he asked.
“That’s a junction with the A2, about twenty miles or so.”
“Direction Brussels?”
“Yes.”
“Work out a route to Liège. We’re looking for Mons, Charleroi, Namur. Can you see them?”
Anne ran her finger over the page. “Got ’em.” She noticed that they were travelling faster than their usual seventy. “Any sign of the BMW?”
“Not yet. I want to be well away before he can catch up.”
At the approach of the
intersection Donovan pulled into the right-hand lane and turned off, following signs to Mons. They had barely taken the A2 when he groaned, looking in the mirror.
“What now?” Anne was aghast. “The BMW?”
“No. Could be worse. Police, coming up fast in the outside lane.”
Anne realised that theirs was the only car in that sector.
“We’re not doing anything wrong, are we?”
“You never know what kind of trick they might pull.”
The car drew alongside and Anne looked across. The word Gendarmerie was emblazoned on the side in blue letters. The policeman in the front passenger seat smiled at her. She made a big effort and smiled back. The police car remained in position beside them. Donovan looked over.
“What are they playing at?” he muttered.
To their surprise, the policeman waved them on. While Donovan kept the Porsche at a steady eighty, the man waved more quickly.
“I think he wants us to go faster,” Anne said.
Donovan looked over again and saw the gendarme smiling and waving. Anne pointed forwards and raised her eyebrows in a question. The gendarme nodded and waved again. Donovan took it up to ninety. The police car caught up, the gendarme still waving.
“I never reckoned on a police escort,” Donovan murmured, “but the quicker we get away, the better.”
He hit the throttle and the engine growled. They left the police car behind as they passed a hundred. In the mirror Donovan saw the police car flashing its lights in farewell, receding into the distance.
“What was all that about?” Anne asked.
“Enthusiasts, I suppose. This kind of car attracts that kind of attention sometimes.”
“But they were gendarmes and they encouraged you to break the speed limit.”
Donovan shrugged. “This is France.”
“But not for much longer at this speed. Belgium up ahead.”
Donovan slowed back to eighty and a minute later they were passing through the frontier, where the border police hardly glanced at their passports.
For the next two hours Donovan held a steady eighty and they gobbled up the autoroute de Wallonie, the southern motorway which, as he had promised, was light on traffic. They made good progress but neither of them could relax, and Donovan constantly watched the mirror, wondering where the next problem was coming from.
