Death Warmed Up

by John Paxton Sheriff

  Downstairs again, I said, ‘If I’ve got this right there’s a rough track leading to their lookout position. In theory they could watch us leave here, race down and cut us off. But I think we’re safe enough; in this weather and on those slopes they’d need four wheel drive to manage that.’

  ‘And with me driving,’ Sian said, ‘we’ll be ahead of them at the main road.’

  ‘We’ll head for Bethesda. You never know, we could reach Alun Morgan’s cosy police station before they catch us.’

  ‘Good thinking. Right, are we ready?’

  The keys to Eleanor’s flat were on a hook in the office. I told Calum where they were. He nodded, and went through to get them.

  Charlie said, ‘And you’ll need these.’

  He threw the Micra’s keys to me. It crossed my mind then that we hadn’t thought further than the switch of clothing, and the Wises’ getaway. We’d have their hired car. If we survived the next half hour, our next task would be to take it to Liverpool. After that, well, to me another trip to Gibraltar seemed inevitable… .

  Then Sian and I were at the front door. In the porch we both grabbed waxed Barbour jackets from pegs. When we ran out into wind-blown rain smelling of cold wet heather they were over our heads but not completely hiding our borrowed clothing. Indeed, we lingered over opening the car, keeping our heads hidden but making sure the watchers got a good eyeful of the rest. Then, already soaked around the nether regions, we ducked into the Micra and slammed the doors.

  ‘You realize this could all be for nought, a waste of effort?’ Sian said as she gunned the little car down the slope over the bridge and onto the road running alongside the Afon Ogwen. ‘Those folk on the mountain could have been farmers with shotguns, after rabbits, or lost hikers looking for the way home.’

  ‘But we know they weren’t,’ I said, gazing in dismay at the wet slopes, ‘because that surely has to be the bad lads in that Land Rover rocking and rolling down the track to our left. Two of ’em in there, as far as I can make out.’

  ‘Damn, they heard all about the mountains and the rain and brought a suitable vehicle.’

  ‘Yes, and if you don’t put your little clog down they really will cut us off at the pass.’

  Stones and wet gravel flew into the air like grapeshot as Sian pushed the accelerator to the floor. The front wheels spun, gripped, and we took off. Almost literally. Never more than ten yards from the river, the road that would take us up to the A5 was a trail of potholes held together by patches of tarmac. We spent a considerable time airborne. Our seat belts prevented us from crashing through the windscreen in a shower of glass. My fingers hooked on the underside of my seat stopped my head from breaking through the roof. Sian had the steering wheel to hang on to, but she was smiling and leaning back in her seat with the relaxed confidence of a rally driver.

  We jolted past the track coming down from the mountain with no more than twenty yards to spare. I reached up and pulled down the sun visor. Through the vanity mirror I saw the Land Rover hit bottom and bounce. In mid-air, the driver spun the wheel to the left. When they touched down, the front wheel’s gripped while the back end slid on the gravel. The rear wheels hit the wet grass sloping down to the rushing water. Then the four-wheel drive took over and pulled them clear.

  ‘That’s some driving.’

  ‘Clontarf,’ Sian said, eyes flicking to the mirror. ‘Thinks he’s on a dirt track in Queensland, chasing bloody kangaroos.’

  A quarter of a mile ahead the road did a sharp right turn into a steep up-slope. At the top there was a dry-stone wall, with an opening onto the main road. In the hair-raising seconds it took us to reach that turn the Land Rover was up close enough to nudge the Micra’s bumper. In my vanity mirror I could see Clontarf grinning through the windscreen behind the wide sweep of the wipers. He could see my eyes watching him. He lifted a hand, sliced his finger across his throat.

  ‘I wonder what Crocodile Dundee will do,’ I said quickly, ‘when he realizes he’s been tricked, that Charlie and Adele have slipped through his fingers.’

  ‘Not a damn thing, because I’m going to make it to Alun’s place.’

  ‘Sublime confidence in the face of overwhelming odds.’

  ‘Why, how many are in that Land Rover.’

  ‘Can’t see. I know there were two.’

  ‘Then we’re not outnumbered. And if the other one’s that useless thug Ebenholz …’

  The turn loomed. Sian hit it at fifty. The car slewed as if on ice. She fought the wheel, used the heel of her hand to change down to third, accelerated hard up the hill. In the mirror I could see billowing blue smoke from the burning rubber. Then I closed my eyes. She went through the hole in the wall onto the London to Holyhead main road without looking right, and spun the wheel hard left. On the smooth wet tarmac the Micra slid sideways onto the wrong side of the road. Down a gear she went, into second, and with a howl of protest the little car shot back across the road. Just in time. A camper van coming up from the coast rocked to a screeching halt, horn blaring, the woman driver’s eyes like saucers.

  ‘Goodness me,’ Sian said mildly, and I looked at her innocent expression and started laughing.

  Two hundred yards later I was still chuckling uncontrollably when she fiercely banged my shoulder with her fist.

  ‘Here we go.’

  There was a roaring in my ears. For a moment I was disorientated. Were we being buzzed by one of the low-flying jets from RAF Valley on Anglesey? Then the Land Rover drew level with us. Too close. At fifty miles an hour on a not very wide road the vehicles touched with a squeal of tortured metal. The big one leaned on us. Sian hissed like a snake, said something rude and forced the Micra to lean back. Then Clontarf changed tactics. He accelerated and looked as if he would complete the overtaking manoeuvre he’d begun. Instead, with half the Land Rover past us, he simply slowed down again and began cutting across Sian’s path.

  There was a way out. Sian found it. We were down to a crawling twenty miles an hour when she slammed on the brakes. The Micra stood on its nose. Clontarf was caught out. The Land Rover pulled ahead before he could react. Sian dropped to first, spun the wheel right, banged on the accelerator and pulled out to overtake. The small engine’s revs where up in the red as it drove the lowest gear. There was a high-pitched howl, the reek of hot oil. Then we were past the now stationary Land Rover and pulling back into the left lane as a fast Ford Mondeo came up the hill with horn blaring and headlights flashing.

  But we were still a long way from that homely police station and our friendly detective inspector. This time Clontarf didn’t pull punches. Half a mile further on down the hill he brought the heavy Land Rover roaring up behind us. Without slowing down, the big 4 x 4 slammed into the Micra’s rear off-side wing. The impact knocked the little car so far off line it almost rolled. Sian held it by wrenching a hard right lock, but momentum defeated her. She swore as there was a horrible crunch of metal and the tinkle of breaking glass. Then, with a teeth-on-edge grating we juddered to a halt, the nearside front wing crumpled against the jagged stone wall. We were sticking out at forty-five degrees, the Micra’s boot on the road’s centre line.

  My ears were ringing. Sian was biting her lip, looking in the mirror while unclipping her seat belt. There was the flat sound of someone running: Clontarf was coming fast around the Land Rover to my side of the car. Then something rapped so hard on my window the glass starred. When I looked, the muzzle of his Glock 19 was glaring at me like an evil black eye.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ Sian said. ‘Sit here until hell freezes, or open the window to see what he wants?’

  ‘Neither holds much attraction,’ I said, and reached across to press the button.

  The window slid down at its own pace. A gust of wind drove cold rain into the car. Then Clontarf was peering in.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s Scott of Gibraltar and the karate kid.’

  Then he rammed the cold muzzle of the Glock into my ear and bared his white teeth
in a grin that reminded me of a hungry shark.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said, and eased my head away from the Glock. Clontarf shook his head, tutted, and grabbed me by Charlie’s colourful collar.

  ‘Not a good move, not a good answer,’ he said. ‘How about you, darling, you got more sense than this feller?’

  ‘I have, actually,’ Sian said, and turned to smile sweetly at him.

  ‘Yeah, and that’s not exactly the answer I wanted either,’ he said, and he turned and spat into the road. ‘I’m getting soaked out here, so let’s hurry this up. Charlie Wise and that Sheila of his swapped clothes with you two, and you led me a dance. My guess is they waited a while, then piled into that big Mercedes with your oppo and set off at great speed in the opposite direction. Doesn’t take a genius to work out they’re making for Liverpool. So it’s back to the question, slightly rephrased: we all know where they are now, but what I need to know is where they’re going.’

  ‘A long speech,’ I said, ‘for the same short answer: I don’t—’

  The strong hand moved up and grabbed my hair. The cold muzzle twisted further into my ear, and I winced, clenched my teeth.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ Clontarf said, ‘then the karate kid gets blood and brains all over her borrowed dress.’

  And then we all heard the patter of many feet splashing down the hill and a strange and breathless voice from Sian’s side of the Micra called, ‘Is everything all right here? Anybody hurt?’

  Clontarf eased back. The Glock disappeared. He straightened, and moved away from the window. Around the middle-aged man who had spoken several men and women in running kit were bouncing on the spot, jogging up and down the road or doing stretching exercises in the rain as they waited for their friend. He was steaming in the cold, wet hair stringy, bare legs beneath running shorts streaked with mud.

  ‘I was just asking these people the same question,’ Clontarf said. ‘They’re fine, so—’

  ‘Hit them from behind, did you? Understandable in this weather, but doesn’t give you a leg to stand on, does it? Unless they’re not bothered, but with that damage—’

  Sian’s window whizzed down. ‘It’s a hired car. It’s their insurance so we couldn’t care less,’ she said,’ and we’re certainly not going to get this poor man into trouble.’

  The wet runner had a moustache that was drooping in the rain. He grinned at Sian, looked across the car at Clontarf.

  ‘Lucky you, eh? The best you can do now is jump in your motor and buzz off smartish. Scrape the blue paint off your bumper. Plead ignorance, if questioned. We’ll help separate this wreck from the wall and check the damage.’

  He waited.

  I said, ‘That’s very good of you.’

  Then I looked innocently at Clontarf.

  Rain was dripping from his bush hat. His teeth were bared in what could have been a friendly smile but was more likely to be a silent snarl of frustration. There was nothing he could do. He’d ended up surrounded by steaming members of a local athletics club out on a training run – Runners in The Rain, The March Hares or some such – and the only luck to come his way was bad.

  He gave me a stare from hard blue eyes that held a clear promise. I thought of General Douglas MacArthur’s words when he left the Philippine Islands, and I knew that Clontarf was telling me he’d be back. Then he splashed away through the rain, the door of the Land Rover slammed and the runners scattered as the angry Australian did a three-point-turn at racing speed and drove back up the A5.

  ‘Notice anything?’ Sian said.

  ‘We’re still alive.’

  ‘Clontarf was alone.’

  ‘No. I definitely saw two men—’

  ‘Look,’ the moustachioed runner said, watching cold wet runners taking off in ones and twos and vanishing downhill in the spray, ‘we can help if you’re desperate, but you’d better speak up or there’ll be just me left.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Sian said, and to prove it she started the Micra and gave the engine a couple of blips. Then, for emphasis, she pulled away from the wall with a scraping and a tinkling that made the runner screw his face in anguish.

  ‘Right then.’

  ‘Thank you for stopping.’ Sian smiled. ‘I know it sounds dramatic, but you saved our lives.’

  ‘I—’ He frowned, looked at the wall, looked at the car, looked at Sian and in utter bewilderment said, ‘Yes, well… .’

  And he was off, a middle-aged jogger some fifty yards off the pace and with a conundrum to work out.

  ‘Turn now,’ I said, ‘while the road’s empty.’

  ‘I thought we were going to see Alun?’

  ‘There were two men in that Land Rover—’

  ‘No, Jack, not when Clontarf drove off.’

  ‘I believe you. I’m talking about earlier. The second man must have rolled out when they were coming down that track. There could be only one reason for them splitting up, and that’s why we’re going back to the house.’

  The explanation was unnecessary. As soon as I mentioned the second man’s fast exit Sian was into a three-point turn that made Clontarf’s look like something executed by a learner driver on his first day. And the road was no longer deserted. Cars coming up and down with windscreen wipers flapping slowed and beeped horns or flashed lights, and as we raced away and Sian waved a hand airily out of the open window I saw heads turning to look at the gouges in the stone wall and scattered fragments of headlight glass shining in the rain.

  Sian took the Micra up to sixty, then seventy. I was waiting for a wheel to fall off, or something filled with petrol to explode and finish what Clontarf hadn’t managed. Sian, arms as straight and as twitchy as a Formula One driver’s, kept casting glances to the right of the road looking for the opening in the wall that led to the road down to the river, and home.

  She said, ‘Was the other man Ebenholz?’

  ‘Don’t know. They were bouncing down that track; the second man was just a vague shape.’

  ‘Well, we were posing as Charlie and Adele, so he would have made for the house hoping to catch the real us with our pants down.’

  ‘As it were. And, yes, he would have done that, on foot. But if it is Ebenholz, he’ll be fast. Also, if he stays on the road by the river he’ll be in the right place to wreck our clever plans. Calum doesn’t know him, hasn’t seen him. If a stranger stood in the middle of the track waving the Mercedes down, Calum would be forced to stop.’

  ‘And with Ebenholz brandishing that Heckler and Koch it’d be all over. Damn, damn, damn.’

  ‘Yes. He’d see Charlie and Adele with Calum and know at once how we’d worked it. He’d take them back to the house.’

  ‘Where Clontarf,’ Sian said, ‘will very soon join him—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, we’re there,’ I yelled.

  Sian slammed on the brakes. We slid on the wet road, sort of sideways, which pointed the Micra’s damaged nose where Sian wanted it. Once again, without looking anywhere except where she was going, she accelerated across the road, bounced through the opening in the wall and suddenly we were careering down the stony slope.

  ‘You lead a charmed life,’ I said, opening my eyes.

  ‘Long may it continue.’ She flashed me a look. ‘But isn’t going back to the house pushing our luck? Surely a better idea would have been to go to Alun’s and get backup?’

  ‘If it was just Charlie and Adele, yes, but Calum’s involved.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  She was quiet for a moment. The car rattled and bounced. Afon Ogwen, already swollen by water rushing down from the heights, was a fierce roar that could be heard above the whine of the engine.

  ‘You’re still in third.’

  ‘Better that way, unless you want to end up in the river. I’m thinking hard, wondering what lies in wait for us.’

  ‘If Calum was stopped by Ebenholz, they’ll all be at the house. If he got past Ebenholz … well, who knows? Ebenholz must h
ave seen the Merc. If he couldn’t stop it he’d have watched to see which way it went, then waited for the Land Rover so he and Clontarf could give chase. In that case they’ll be hot on Calum’s tail and we’ll have the house to ourselves. Or perhaps Clontarf got back in time to see Calum turn up the hill, and went after the Merc on his own.’

  ‘Leaving Ebenholz stranded, in which case, again, he probably went for the house,’ Sian said. ‘Well, we’ll soon know,’ and she twitched the wheel to take the turn onto the stone bridge, bounced, then roared up the slope into Bryn Aur’s yard.

  She pulled to a halt alongside her Shogun. Beyond the big silver 4 x 4 there was a space where the Nissan Micra we were in had been parked, then my Audi Quattro.

  ‘The Merc’s not here,’ I said.

  ‘Nor is the Land Rover.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. It’s a repeat of the other night, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘We got here in darkness and rain. That strange blue Astra was parked where we are now. You said something about nosy strangers, and I suggested they were lurking in the dark living room waiting to waylay us. They weren’t then, but now… .’

  ‘Yes,’ Sian said, ‘but before we find out the hard way I’m going to look behind the house.’

  ‘Excellent idea.’ I clicked open my door. ‘Stay there and keep your eyes skinned.’

  ‘Hey, hang on —’

  But I was already out and jogging across the yard to the side of the house furthest from my stone workshop, closest to the porch and front door. The wind had dropped; the rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Watching the house, fully expecting the front door to burst open and a man with a gun come charging out, I slipped on the wet stone and almost fell. Then I was around the side of the house and on the gravel incline that led to what would have been a back yard or garden if there’d been room. But this was an old farmhouse in North Wales – hill country. It backed onto sheer rock that had been eroded by centuries of water cascading down from the high peaks. Between the house and the cliff face there was a space some six yards wide. We had left the cars there, under covers, while we were in Gibraltar. It stretched for the full length of the building. Underfoot was solid rock. On it a shed, a couple of bins, lots of empty flower pots, some sacks of compost.