Murder by the Book (11 page)

At considerable risk to the shine of his brogues, Charles stepped forward and tentatively placed a foot in the mud. Heartened by the fact that he didn't sink in up to his knees, he took a further step, and then another. A yard or two from the gatepost, he stopped and tossed the envelope the rest of the way. The rectangle of paper planed aerodynamically through the air and lodged itself against the timber post.

Charles dashed his hands together, looked right and left along the lane, then turned and high-stepped back to the car. He wiped the mud from his shoes on the grass verge and seconds later was driving towards Maria. She stood next to the Sunbeam's gaping bonnet, and glanced up as the Bentley sped past.

Langham listened for the sound of the blackmailer's vehicle. He hoped it would come from his right, so that it would be he who would give chase first; at least then he would be active and the intolerable wait would at last be over.

In the event, the motorbike passed neither him nor Maria.

He heard the rapid throb of its engine and looked along the lane past Maria, but there was no sign of the motorbike. In which case, it had to be coming from his right. He started the engine and released the hand brake, readying himself to set off.

Only then did he see the motorcycle – not flashing past before him as had Charles's Bentley, but coming across the crown of the field down below and approaching the open gate from the north. At the far end of the field was a copse, and Langham wondered how long the blackmailer had lain in wait. Had he seen the two cars stationed suspiciously at either end of the lane?

The motorcyclist stopped as he came to the gate, reached over and plucked up the envelope. Langham tried to get a view of his face through the binoculars, but the rider was wearing goggles and the lower half of his face was concealed by a scarf. He caught sight of the motorcycle's logo on the fuel tank – Triumph – and recognized the model as a Thunderbird.

As he watched, the blackmailer tucked the envelope beneath his khaki-coloured greatcoat, then steered the bike from the field and turned right, heading towards Langham.

Maria was already in pursuit, perhaps a hundred yards behind the motorcyclist. Langham would have insufficient room to pull out between the blackmailer and Maria, so he elected to let her pass and then give chase.

Seconds later the motorcyclist sped past in a dazzle of flashing spokes, and ten seconds later Maria's Sunbeam roared by. Langham eased the Austin out into the lane, turned right and followed.

He kept a couple of hundred yards between himself and Maria's car. He had no idea what kind of rear view the motorcyclist might have, but he didn't want to alert him to the fact that there were two cars on his tail. For her part, Maria was likewise hanging back, maintaining two hundred yards between herself and the rider. Langham just hoped he wouldn't suddenly accelerate and give her the slip.

Langham had assumed that the blackmailer was resident in London, but he had no definite evidence that this was so. The Streatham postmark meant nothing, he knew, unless the blackmailer was supremely stupid, and something about his modus operandi
so
far suggested that that was far from the case.

If he did live in London, then that might pose something of a problem when they reached the capital. It was all very well following a motorcyclist out in the uninhabited wilds of the Sussex Downs, but trailing him through the streets of London, keeping the rider in sight while negotiating busy traffic, might be their undoing.

He found himself wishing an accident upon the blackmailer: a slick of oil on the road or a tight bend … anything which might unseat the rider. And then what? If the man survived, would Langham be up to the task of confronting him, disarming him, and threatening him sufficiently to get the details of where the photographs and the negatives were concealed?

Perhaps if the imaginary accident were to prove fatal, then that would solve all their problems …

He realized he was spinning fantasies and told himself to concentrate on the road.

Ahead, he made out the tiny shape of the motorcyclist as he slowed and turned north on the London road. Fortunately the traffic was light here too, and Maria managed to turn right without another vehicle interposing itself between her car and the motorbike rider.

Langham was not so lucky.

A dawdling charabanc passed from left to right on Maria's tail. Langham pulled out behind the coach and waited for a stretch of straight road that would allow him to overtake in safety.

Minutes seemed to crawl by before the opportunity arose. The bend unwound and he sighted a long, up-curving stretch of road ahead. The motorcyclist was a distant figure, having put perhaps a mile between himself and Langham. Maria was three hundred yards behind the blackmailer.

Langham indicated, pulled out and accelerated.

He sped past the coach and tucked himself in behind Maria's car. The rider seemed to be increasing his speed and Langham wondered if he was becoming suspicious. Maria accelerated so as not to be left behind. The road levelled out and passed through a plantation of fir trees. He put his foot down in order to keep Maria in sight, and glanced at the speedometer: he was pushing fifty. All he needed now was the attention of a passing police car.

The plantation petered out and was replaced by rolling hills. They drove north, and soon the land flattened as they left the Downs and approached Surrey. Would it be too much to hope that the blackmailer lived in some quiet suburban backwater to where he could be followed with ease?

His daydreams came to an abrupt halt when, a mile ahead, he made out a railway crossing. That might not have set the alarm bells ringing, but what did cause him consternation was the fact that the signals were flashing red. He watched as the motorcyclist sped through the warning, ducking as the barrier dropped across the road. Maria was right behind him as she attempted to catch up. Langham winced as she swerved into the middle of the road in order to give herself a better chance of passing beneath the falling barrier.

She made it with just inches to spare, and on the far side of the railway line the chase continued.

Langham braked and came to a halt, cursing his luck as the barrier clanked down before him. Now he would have to drive like a maniac if he were to make up the ground.

A goods train crashed into his field of vision, an alternating cavalcade of dark wagons and daylight. It seemed to be the longest goods train in the history of railway transportation, a deafening barrier rattling by a matter of feet before the bonnet of his Austin. He gripped the wheel, urging the train to pass and attempting to see between the interstices of the wagons and glimpse the road on the far side.

And then, with a suddenness that was shocking, the train passed and Langham saw that Maria had come to a halt perhaps thirty yards from the crossing. For a second he assumed that the motorcyclist had sped ahead and escaped her, and she had stopped to wait until Langham caught up. Then his heart leapt sickeningly as he saw that the motorcyclist had stopped too – stopped, he saw, dismounted, and was walking casually back towards where Maria waited in the road.

Langham willed the barrier to rise, but it remained obdurately in place before him. He fumbled the car door open, found the revolver in his pocket and pulled it out as, beyond the railway line, the motorcyclist did the very same thing.

Langham watched, frozen, as the rider stopped ten yards before the Sunbeam and raised his pistol with both hands. He willed Maria to get out of the car and run.

He cried out and stepped back, shocked, as something thundered by within feet of him – a train speeding in the opposite direction to the first. This one was a passenger train, and only later did he wonder at the reaction of anyone who might have looked out to see a distraught man waving a pistol.

All he could think about was what might have happened to Maria, and he cursed himself for his not being the leading car.

Then the train passed by, leaving in its wake a silence that was almost as startling as its arrival. He stared across the railway line at the Sunbeam and saw with disbelief that Maria was slumped against the steering wheel. He looked desperately for the motorcyclist, but the blackmailer had fled the scene.

The barrier rose. Shaking, Langham climbed back in and started the car. At the third attempt the engine kicked into life. He bumped across the railway line and eased the Austin forward, coming to a halt behind the Sunbeam. Automatically, dazed and disbelieving, he climbed out and approached Maria's car.

As his shadow fell across her, she raised her head from the steering wheel and looked out at him with tear-filled eyes.

He hauled open the door and she stumbled out and fell into his arms.

She was shaking. ‘I thought he was going to shoot me, Donald! I thought … Oh, my God …' She wept against his chest, and Langham felt a surge of relief, quickly followed by anger.

‘When he fired …' She looked up into his eyes. ‘I
knew
I was dead, and the fear I felt …'

‘He fired?'

She gave an odd half-laugh, half-sob, and pointed to the front offside wheel. The motorcyclist had shot the tyre, effectively ending her pursuit.

‘Do you have a spare?'

She shook her head. ‘No. And anyway, he shot both tyres.'

‘Very thorough,' he commented.

He led her back to the Austin and eased her into the passenger seat, then climbed in and held her in silence, murmuring comforting words while feeling thoroughly sick.

Five minutes later he started the engine. ‘We'll drive to the next town and find a garage. I'll get them to tow your car back and fix the tyres. It might take a while.'

She nodded, sniffing, and dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. ‘I couldn't see the man, Donald. He was wearing a scarf over his mouth, and these things …' She made circles of her thumbs and forefingers and placed them over her eyes. ‘What do you call them?'

He glanced at her, smiling. ‘Goggles.'

‘I did see he was short, though, and … how do you say … portly?'

He nodded. ‘We live to fight another day, Maria.'

She looked at him. ‘You sound so very calm and … unflappable, yes?'

He had to laugh at that. ‘Unflappable? That wouldn't really describe me five minutes ago when I saw him get off the bike and draw his gun. I thought …'

He couldn't get the words out; something was blocking them. He felt shaky now with the closeness of the call.

Maria reached out and squeezed his hand.

They drove on, and a sign indicated that Lingfield was just two miles away.

Ten minutes later Langham located a garage and instructed a mechanic to fetch the Sunbeam. He found a phone box and tried to get through to Charles to tell him that they'd been delayed by a breakdown, but there was no reply: evidently his agent had not yet got back.

They sat in the garden of a public house across the road from the garage and waited for the tow truck to arrive with the Sunbeam. The pub was closed, unfortunately, as it was after three o'clock. Langham could have murdered a pint.

Maria said, ‘What are we going to do?'

Loath though he was to admit defeat, he shook his head. ‘To be honest, I don't know. Charles can't go on paying out like this, and if he doesn't pay …'

‘Damn this stupid country and its primitive laws! You English pride yourself on your judicial system and fair play, but it's barbaric.'

He said, ‘And in France?'

‘In my country, Donald, while the ignorant man in the street might ridicule Charles for what he is, at least the law would recognize his desires, his homosexuality, and not criminalize him for them.'

‘Perhaps we have a lot of catching up to do.'

‘Yes, perhaps you have,' she said.

He pointed along the high street to where the tow truck was labouring under the weight of the Sunbeam. It came to a halt outside the garage and the mechanic jumped from the cab. He sauntered across the road, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

‘Not good news I'm afraid, guv. We don't have the tyres in stock. We'd have to order them from London. They'd come in later today or tomorrow. Either way, the car wouldn't be ready until tomorrow afternoon.'

Maria shrugged. ‘There is nothing else for it. Will you order the tyres, please?'

The man nodded. ‘Odd, though – that they both went at the same time like that.'

‘Very odd,' Langham said. ‘Will you put the old tyres to one side? I'd like to look them over.'

As they returned to Langham's car, Maria said, ‘The bullets, right?'

‘If we can retrieve them, I know someone who'd be able to identify the weapon they came from. You never know, it might help.'

They set off, and Langham considered what he was about to say. ‘Do you think Charles will give you some time off tomorrow?'

‘I'm sure he would.'

He hesitated, then said tentatively, ‘In that case, why don't we make a day of it? I'll drive you down here, we'll have lunch somewhere, and then you can pick up the Sunbeam and we'll drive back in convoy.'

She smiled at him. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Donald. Let's do that.'

Charles was beside himself by the time they arrived back at the agency.

He leapt from the settee as they climbed the stairs to his apartment. ‘My dears, you've been an age! My fevered imagination leapt to all manner of dire scenarios!'

‘He lost us,' Langham reported. ‘I'm sorry.'

Charles waved this aside. ‘I'm just glad that you both survived the ordeal. I … What's that behind your back, dear boy?'

Langham flourished the bottle he'd bought for Charles. ‘To soften the blow,' he said.

His agent took the bottle as if presented with a coveted award. ‘Laphroaig … The very finest, my boy. You are kind. Should we indulge?'

Maria laughed. ‘Not for me. I'll make myself a cup of tea.'