Singleton's Law

by Reginald Hill

  He saw again Sheldrake in Oxford; uninjured, allegedly because he knew nothing; unworried, allegedly because he expected to be transferred.

  But he had known something, and had admitted it freely and openly. He had known they were in Jesus College. And with such knowledge no enemy of the Jays could have expected to be released alive.

  And suddenly Whitey knew why King had been so eager to have him killed rather than captured.

  And he knew also that his chances of coming through this evening alive were nonleague to the point of non-existence.

  Nixon Lectures: Fifth Series

  Documentary Material

  2 (P) Extract from speech made by the French Foreign Minister to the European Parliament, March, 1992.

  La Grande-Bretagne n’est plus un seul pays, mais cinq, peut-être six. Avec lequel de ces pays faut-il traiter?

  Son parlement a été dissous et ses représentants n’ont plus le droit de participer à nos conseils. À quoi faut-il done parler?

  Nos routiers refusent de traverser la Manche parce que tant de leurs confrères ont été récemment attaqués et volés sur les routes dela Grande-Bretagne. Ceux d’entre nos ouvriers français qui n’ont pas encore quitté le sol britannique restent silencieux depuis si longtemps que leurs families s’inquiètent profondément à leur sujet.

  Les redevances sur le plan financier ne sont plus versées par la Grande-Bretagne. Les accords commerciaux ne sont plus respectés par la Grande-Bretagne.

  Dans quel sens peut-on continuer à considérer ce pays déchu comme membre de notre communauté?

  Chapter 13

  “Once you got to London again, you were bound to bump into me, or hear me mentioned. And once you did that, well, I mean, it wouldn’t have taken you long to begin to worry and wonder about my miraculous escape, would it? Perhaps I’m wrong. Distrust breeds distrust, however, and I’m too important to be put at risk. You do understand? So I arranged for us to talk.”

  “And the other fellow, Burdern? What about him?”

  “Oh he was for real,” answered Sheldrake negligently. “He was well protected so they needed me to set it up. Naturally they had to take me with them for appearances’ sake and they chucked me in with Burdern, just to check that he’d told them all he knew. It was just as well they did! When he told me he’d got a ‘bug’ stitched into his gut, that really put us into extra time!”

  “And the shooting.”

  Sheldrake shrugged.

  “No point in dragging Burdern around. I was a bit concerned when I heard you’d got loose. That King! Yesterday’s nappy-crapper and he thinks he knows it all.”

  “He did try to shoot me at Coventry. And arranged another try later,” said Whitey, feeling absurdly defensive about King.

  “So? You’re here, aren’t you? And a danger still. So tell me, Singleton, just whose side are you on? In theory you should be with us, the Underground I mean. In practice you seem to be levelling with Hobhouse and Wildthorpe and that lot. So where do you really stand?”

  Whitey raised a wan smile.

  “You can’t really expect rational debate, can you? At the moment where I really stand is here, wondering what the hell I can say to stop you shooting me. You know it; I know it. It’s hardly the atmosphere for truth and sincerity, is it?”

  In a nearby room a ’phone sounded. Sheldrake looked as if he had been expecting it and quickly moved across to the door. The friendly Striker came in as he left.

  “I seem to spend half my life in rooms with members of the First Team,” observed Whitey. “We’ll be getting a bad name.”

  “What?” said the Striker.

  “I mean, they’ll be saying that you’re a lot of glibs,” laughed Whitey.

  “None of that,” ordered the Striker, looking much less friendly now.

  “Why? What’s the matter? There’s lot of it in Management, you know. Take a look at this.”

  He pulled open the door of a wall-cupboard selected at random. It contained what looked like a rather expensive set of crystal goblets and a decanter. Whitey picked it up and held it in the air to catch the light.

  “What?” asked the Striker coming forward, full of prurient curiosity. “It’s only a decanter.”

  “Have a look inside,” said Whitey knowingly. The Striker peered into the cupboard and Whitey crashed the decanter down on to the exposed neck. Fortunately it did not break or the man’s neck and Whitey’s hand’s might have been badly lacerated, but the Striker fell forward among the wine-glasses then slid back out, pulling the shelf with him. The noise this made was tremendous and Whitey was spared the agonies of rational choice as fear-provoked instinct took over and the black square of the open window suddenly let in a gentle breeze which rustled the curtains as though in invitation.

  The invitation seemed less pressing when he clambered on the sill. These were tall houses and the shadowy vagueness of the garden below made the drop seem immense. Behind him a door opened. Whether it was Sheldrake or another Striker he didn’t bother to find out. There was a shout. He jumped.

  The ground hit him a lot earlier than he had expected. What he’d had in mind was something more like the descent of Lucifer, twisting and turning slowly in the air for nine days and nights. But there seemed no gap at all between the sill and the low though fortunately sturdy shrubs which contributed slightly to deceleration. His unpreparedness prevented tension and he rolled forward three or four yards, limbs flailing loosely, before fetching up against a slender tree. Laburnum, he thought for some reason as he pulled himself upright against its trunk and waited for his much overused nervous system to tell him if anything was broken. The lights that flashed on in his mind were just the familiar pinks and oranges of bruising and laceration, almost a disappointment in a way as it meant he had to keep on running.

  The garden was not very deep and ended in a high smoothfaced wall. He leapt for the top, just reached it with the ends of his fingers, discovered it was lined with broken glass, and collapsed to the ground swearing and waving his hands in the air to assuage the pain.

  At the open window someone was shouting angry instructions. No pursuers seemed to have come out of the house yet, but from the other side of the wall he heard running feet and, worst of all, the excited bark of a dog. It sounded like a large dog.

  He stood upright once more, wondering if it was worth trying to get back into the house. Close-by he heard the rattle of a key in a lock. Whoever was outside had the wherewithal to get inside. If he could only locate the door in the wall…

  It swung open almost into his face, admitting precipitously a combination of shapes which seemed to comprise a Striker and a huge Alsatian, with the dog very much in control. Its main object at the moment seemed to be to out-roar the angry man at the upper-window. Gratefully Whitey slid round the door and stepped through the wall. The Striker had left the key in the lock. He pulled the door shut, turned the key, withdrew it, hurled it into the darkness of Parliament Hill, and followed it.

  This was his mistake, he realized half an hour later. If you are being pursued in the open countryside, you don’t try to escape by way of a small hamlet of a dozen houses. Conversely in the midst of any large urban area, the relatively small patch of open land is a trap. In every direction he could see moving flashlights and hear the throaty calls of hunting dogs. He had waded through two ponds in his effort to break the trail and had at least succeeded in confusing the beasts. But it was a delaying tactic only, he thought as he crouched wet and shivering behind on oak tree. The great branches vaulting outwards not far above his head seemed to offer a promise of security, but to climb up among them would be fatal, he was sure. His flight had given Sheldrake the opportunity he must have planned to invent of killing him, and once the dogs had him treed, it would be like shooting rooks for the Strikers.

  His only real hope was to break through the line of hunters and get back into the streets and buildings. And then… a choice. Ring the number Exsmith had given him and ask to be taken out
. Or contact Hobhouse and tell him that Sheldrake was a Jesuit. A difficult decision, but one which he was presently a long way from having to face. Strangely enough the only person he felt he would like to be able to contact now for help and advice was the ingenious King. Who would kill him, of course, but that apart, he’d know how to slip out of this trap.

  He looked up into the tree once more. It really was tempting. That was the difference, of course. King would not have been tempted. But he might have been inspired.

  Carefully Whitey began to climb the oak.

  Five minutes later he was crouching in the shallows beneath the bank of the last pond he had walked through. He was colder than ever now, having removed his jacket and left it spread out over a couple of branches as high up the oak as he’d been able to penetrate. Then he had dropped to the ground and as nearly as possible retraced his tracks to the pond, re-entering it and wading round to the far side. His hope, based on memories of some childhood story, was that the dogs, casting round the pond for his scent, would pick up and follow his double track to the tree. Once there, if the Strikers believed they had him trapped, and if they summoned all the searchers to be in at the kill, and if they … he pulled himself up. One ‘if’ at a time was all he could hope for.

  And even that seemed a vain hope a few minutes later.

  A bunch of Strikers and a dog arrived at the pond, following the track of his first entry into the water. As anticipated, they began following the line of the bank to pick up his exit spoor. But instead of moving round the pond clockwise which would have brought them shortly to the oak-tree trail, they set off in the other direction which meant they would pass his hiding-place first.

  ‘Hiding-place’ was too fine a term for it. He was crouched low beneath a bank only a couple of feet high, his only protection to the landward side being a few ferns which drooped over the surface. He was better protected to the water-ward side by a water-logged branch in which were tangled various other pieces of flotsam. The water stank and was full of bits of junk and debris. The thought of sinking any lower in it was nauseating but as the lights and the dog approached nearer and nearer, he could delay no longer and slowly he slid down beneath the branch till the water lapped at his chin.

  His self-abnegation was rewarded. The searchers passed by without pause and moments later, the dog barked, there was an encouraging murmur from its handler and the party broke away from the pond and headed towards the rise on which the oak grove stood. He raised his head above the level of the bank and watched them go, shapes at first and then only a moving tangle of lights.

  After a while the lights stopped, untangled themselves and formed a loose pattern. There was a brief silence. They had reached the tree, must be standing around it. He envisaged the dogs standing against the broad trunk, forelegs out-splayed, trying to track the scent into the leafy darkness above.

  Then, a shout. A wild chorus of barking. A blowing of whistles. Other lights began to converge on the oak grove. They must have spotted the foreign darkness of his jacket in the topmost branches. For a few moments they thought they had him. But no more than a few moments.

  With difficulty he pulled himself out of the stinking ooze which lined the pond and pointing himself at the nearest line of silhouetted houses, set off at a laboured trot. Behind him he heard a shot and thought for a second he had been spotted. It was followed by a lengthy fusillade and he realized the Strikers were filling the bush of the oak-tree with lead. When they stopped and no bullet-torn body crashed to the ground, they would realize their mistake. But it would be too late, he told himself optimistically. Another twenty yards and he’d be out of the open. The shooting stopped. Now they’d probably send someone up the tree. He’d find the jacket. They’d start the search again. But he’d be long gone. Down back alleys, along protective canyons of tall buildings; perhaps he could break in somewhere, steal a car, find a ’phone. The options were endless.

  The options ended.

  As his feet struck tarmac, a light sprang out of the darkness and stung his unprepared eyes.

  “Just stop there,” came a command. Behind the lights he could dimly make out two Strikers. Both had guns pointed unwaveringly in his direction. He stood still, slack with defeat.

  “Shall we finish it now?” asked one of his captors.

  “Blow up the others first. Silly reffers, they almost let him out. Let’s rub their noses in it.”

  The notion seemed to amuse. Three long blasts on a whistle followed. They woke Whitey to the desperateness of his situation.

  “Listen,” he said urgently. “Ring Hobhouse. Tell him I’m here. Don’t do anything till you’ve talked with Hobhouse.”

  “Who’s Hobhouse?” asked one of the Strikers with what seemed genuine puzzlement. They really don’t know, thought Whitey. Why should they? Too young to remember him as a manager, and probably only his personal team knew him as a Director. “Perhaps it’s his solicitor,” said the other and they both roared with laughter.

  The first of the main band of Strikers was approaching now, a long way ahead of the disappointed mob who had been gathered round the tree. Perhaps extra blood-lust had given him strength to hurry to the kill thought Whitey as the figure came rushing through the darkness.

  “What kept you so long,” called one of the two captors derisively.

  There was no answer, just heavy, out-of-breath panting. And there was something odd about the newcomer’s running style, thought Whitey. It brought something to mind. Something very ordinary. A woman running for a bus.

  It struck his captors too. A second torch was flicked towards the new arrival. Red First-Team track-suit. Regulation machine-pistol. But the face …

  “It’s a reffing woman!” exclaimed one of the Strikers.

  It was the last thing he said. The reffing woman was firing now. She must have been dazzled by the torchlight, but it provided her with an unmistakeable target. The torches shattered and the men behind them folded up beneath the murderous hail which continued till the magazine was empty.

  “Hello,” said Whitey.

  “Are you going to stand there all night? You’ll catch your death of cold,” said Hydrangea.

  The pride a man feels in being independent, resourceful, his own master, is matched only by the pleasure of abdicating to someone else complete responsibility for his health and wellbeing. Once having done this, Whitey was able almost to enjoy the quarter-mile run with the Strikers close behind, followed by the ten minute drive at a speed potentially suicidal even if the driver had been using lights. The driver he recognized without surprise as the bulky, pale-faced man who had been involved in the plane hi-jack ten thousand years ago.

  The car finally came to a brief halt in a street which Whitey felt vaguely must be in Kensington, though he would not have been unduly troubled to find that his sense of direction had misled him and he was in Biggleswade. Hydrangea pulled him out on to the pavement and the car continued its progress rather more steadily.

  “Let’s get inside,” said Hydrangea, making for the main entrance of the block of flats outside which they were standing. It was a good idea, thought Whitey. You didn’t hang around the streets of London after dark, if you were wise. Already a couple of shadowy figures had detached themselves from the night at the end of the street and were moving slowly in their direction.

  Hydrangea took him to an apartment on the second floor. The rooms were spacious and the decoration looked as if at one time it had been luxurious. But it had been long neglected and the present furnishings were sparse and functional. But to Whitey it had the holy atmosphere of sanctuary that a church must have had to a medieval fugitive.

  “If I were you,” said Hydrangea, “I’d get out of those clothes. Bathroom’s through there. The water should be hot and you’ll find a robe you can use till your pants get dried. I’ll do some coffee.”

  “Great,” said Whitey sincerely.

  “Great,” he repeated with undiminished sincerity twenty minutes later as he sank
into one of the tatty and peeling old leather armchairs and sipped the scalding coffee which awaited him.

  “You make things rough for yourself,” said Hydrangea. She had changed out of the First Team gear and was wearing the kind of soft frilly feminine dress only glibs ever wore in public.

  “Yes,” answered Whitey, looking at her approvingly. “Lucky you came along.”

  “Very lucky,” she agreed. “But not entirely so. I like a bit of credit. When they all congregated round that tree, I thought you’d had it. Only I couldn’t believe you were stupid enough to get yourself trapped up a tree. And if you were up the tree, you certainly weren’t stupid enough to pretend that you weren’t when thirty Strikers are all standing around below dying to let their guns off. No, you’d have dropped down and started talking. It would have done you no good, but that’s what you’d have done. So I started back-tracking you. I’ve read my Fenimore Cooper too. That’s how I had such a good start on the rest when those two poor wankers blew the whistle on you. Not entirely luck.”

  “No,” agreed Whitey, sipping his coffee. “Well, so that’s how it happened, is it? Good. Though of course it doesn’t quite altogether explain what you were doing wandering around disguised as a Striker in the first place.”

  “Looking for you, of course.”

  “Yes. I see that. But how did you know where to look for me?”

  “We have our methods,” she said enigmatically. Somewhere in the flat a ’phone rang, then stopped as though someone had picked it up, Hydrangea cocked her head attentively.

  “And who is ‘we’?” asked Whitey.

  “Just a few friends.”

  “Are you still working for Chaucer?”

  “No. Not exactly. Excuse me.”

  She rose and left the room, whether to evade his question or to consult with the person who’d answered the ’phone, Whitey was not sure. He gave her twenty seconds before following. The old leather armchair was surprisingly comfortable and he could easily have slipped into sleep just sitting there. But there were things he had to know.