Turning Point (16 page)

The engine of the Range Rover broke into life, Travers and Natasha waving as they edged the vehicle with its trailer back along the path. Scott raised his hand, overcome by the weirdest of sensations that it would be a very long time before he saw his friends again. Shaking the thought away he turned the ignition, the familiar roar of the engine cutting loudly across the silence. Opening the throttle, and with a burst of speed as if wanting to fly the bike across a hundred miles of countryside between them and Exeter, he headed for the main road.

The wind cut across the open terrain like a knife forcing Scott to ease back on the throttle, conscious that Hilary was only wearing borrowed gear, her jacket neither heavy enough nor windproof at high speeds. Natasha's own career as a model dictated the wearing of clothes that were a fashion statement rather than practical and, although Scott felt grateful for her forethought, it would be an unpleasant ride for any pillion passenger in those clothes. His headlights picked up the sparkle from a thick covering of frost on the grass verges. Momentarily, he considered handing over his own jacket, instantly recognizing how stupid that would be. No one except an idiot would ride a motorbike in sub-zero temperatures, wearing only a light sweater. Even on a hot day the wind chill was considerable and while people strolling were okay, on a bike you still needed windproof gear. Tonight, with temperatures plummeting, he would never make Exeter except on a stretcher suffering from frostbite and exposure; the cloth of his jacket built for town wear, not a seventy-mile-an-hour bike chase across a hundred miles of open country. The sensation of warmth against his back, as Hilary nestled tightly against him, was very welcoming and reminded Scott of Scotland – a good memory.

He dropped his speed back to fifty, frustrated at not being able to go faster, to get the journey over and done with and track down the furniture warehouse where the American Secret Service had their headquarters. Still, it was ludicrous to imagine anyone would be on duty this late. With a long night ahead waiting for dawn, when honest people would be up and about their business, there was no point breaking the speed limits. Even so… he remembered Travers' warning; he would be forced to stay put until the shops opened and Hilary could buy some tinted lenses.

Scott patted his jacket feeling a thick wad of notes that Travers had stuffed in his pocket before driving off. Travers was never concerned about money, he didn't need to be, but it was still good of him, especially now when it seemed unlikely Scott would ever be able to pay him back. He was like that, always had been, do anything for a mate. A good friend. Scott smiled ruefully, wishing he was still with them. Somehow Travers' larger than life appearance, so laid back and casual, created an aura of dependability which reduced panic to calm common sense. Perhaps Tulsa
had
survived and they were getting in a state for nothing. Perhaps his father
wa
s safe. Perhaps tomorrow everything
would be
all right. Somehow, with Travers on your side it all seemed possible. He'd inherited that calm air of assurance from his dad. Whenever Doug Randal was about, nothing ever went wrong.

Scott frowned, remembering Hilary's accusation. She couldn't possibly have been serious. Not Doug Randal. That was bang out of order. Like him going on about Sean Terry. Scott bit his lip, angry with himself for sounding off. He had behaved like a man drowning, casting around for something, anything, to hang on to. And yet, it
was
possible for Sean Terry to be a sleeper. It would explain why the bad guys caught them off-guard, turning up where they were least expected. Only someone in the know could organise that. Angrily, he blinked away the vision of Tulsa lying on the pavement, covered in blood. No! Hilary was right, it was crazy thinking. There was too much evidence to the contrary. Okay, maybe his manner and appearance put the agent in the category of archetypal villain, caustic, impatient, dangerous, but it's was still prejudice on his part, pure and simple. He resented the man's influence on Hilary. Because of him, they'd wasted an entire summer and it had taken Hilary resigning to change things.

Briefly, he removed one hand from the controls and flexed his fingers, reaching back to touch her leg.

‘What?'

‘You okay?' Hilary jerked her chin against his back in confirmation. ‘Won't be long now,' he added, sensing a change in temperature, the wind lessening as the warmth of the city seeped out past the welcoming street lights. ‘We'll stop and get a takeaway and then head for the university.' He caught the muffled word ‘bath' and grinned. Girls and their baths. Still, she had to be frozen solid.

Gradually, the lights of the town closed in around them. He glanced down at the time, a twenty-four-hour digital clock set amongst a myriad of dials, controlling fuel, speed, amps and revs, and saw it had gone eleven.

‘We'll be lucky to find anything to eat at this hour.'

‘Head for the centre, then,' he heard her say.

He'd visited the city once before but that was in the daytime when the streets were thronged with traffic and shoppers. Now, it felt strangely alien, silent in a way that only sleeping cities possess, the streets washed clean with rain from an earlier shower and deserted except for stray cats, and a solitary car returning home. Following the signs through the suburbs, with its rows of houses woven tightly together, Scott spotted lights ahead. Next moment, it was as if the bike had passed through a parallel universe, the streets as bright as day and thronged with party-goers. Young and skimpily clad, they surged in and out of an open doorway like waves on the seashore, the steady punching out of a base rhythm identifying the building as a nightclub, well and truly open for business.

The air was still cold and the sight of girls, in nothing but micro-mini skirts and strap tops, waiting in a line outside a kebab shop, sent shockwaves down Scott's spine. Noticing a burger bar open for business, he slowed to a stop then quickly sped up again, identifying the neon yellow of a police van, a row of black-clad police leaning against it their gaze fixed on the nightclub doorway. Nervously, he wove his bike through the partying jay-walkers, seemingly unaware they were standing in the road. Noticing a side-turning, he swept into it and pulled to a stop. ‘I daren't go any closer, the place is crawling with police,' he called over his shoulder. ‘And I'm starving.'

‘I'll go,' Hilary said, ‘but you'll have to help me off. My legs have gone dead.'

‘Why didn't you say, I'd have pulled over sooner?' Scott jumped off the bike and lifted Hilary to the ground, momentarily hugging her to him to generate warmth. ‘Sorry,' he murmured, wishing they could stay like that for ever, not moving, and simply ignore all the bad stuff happening around them.

‘Not your fault.' Groaning, she rubbed her legs. ‘But I'll be glad to get in.' Hilary peered down the road, the monotonous rhythm of the music reverberating into the side road. ‘I bet they just love weekends.' She nodded towards the darkened windows of the house nearest the corner, grimacing sarcastically. ‘What do you fancy eating?'

‘Doesn't much matter. Something quick,' Scott muttered, fishing in his pocket for a twenty-euro note. ‘And something to drink. Wait – that won't be enough. Here, take this.' He passed over a second note.

Hilary nodded and, still rubbing her haunches, disappeared round the corner. Scott waited, anxiously picking at the fabric on his glove.

All at once, the noisy mayhem of the main street accelerated into strident hoots of derision, followed by more authoritarian shouting. Scott was forced to picture what was happening, not daring to leave the bike and look. No doubt it was guys, too drunk to know any better, taunting the police. Silence descended for a moment and he guessed some sort of arrest had been made and the perpetrator was now cooling his heels inside the police van.

A bitter smile broke the edges of his mouth as he watched Hilary's neat figure appear round the corner. She waved and broke into a jog. ‘What?' She quickly unlocked the box at the back of the bike – a shallow compartment doubling as her seat.

Scott shrugged and smiled ruefully. ‘I was just remembering my marvellous idea, to take you out for an afternoon somewhere nice. Some great idea that was.'

At the corner of the street, two guys were slumped on the pavement a girl bent over them. ‘It's the thought that counts.' Hilary gave him a brisk smile and climbed back on the bike. ‘It'll happen one day, Scott. And when it does, let's go somewhere warm. Romantic walks in England should be outlawed in winter. Brrrr!' She shivered violently like a dog shaking off drops of water. ‘It's freezing. Come on. We passed the sign for the university back up the road.'

True to her word, Gladys had left a key under the mat – and a note. ‘If you're burglars I've nothing to steal, so don't bother. If you're Scott and Hilary – welcome.'

A series of other notes led them upstairs, a line of paper arrows pointing to one of two doors on the first-floor landing – a second key waiting for them under the mat.

‘She's very trusting.' Scott stared round the little room. Except Gladys was right; there was nothing worth stealing, the poky little sitting room cluttered up with a shabby sofa and chairs, and a work table. A threadbare carpet covered the centre of the room, its colour long gone leaving behind faded strings of grey yarn. The only thing burglars might have pinched were the curtains; long dark green velvet that reminded Scott of James Nicely's room in Scotland, with its cosy warmth countering blasts of bitter air from the open moor. Why did trouble always arrive when it was freezing outside? He frowned, remembering the road-side near Loch Lomond and his early-morning walk through the empty streets of Lisse. Everything was so much simpler if it was warm. Okay, so perhaps the temperature hadn't exactly been below freezing. Maybe it was the memory of being scared that made it colder than it really was. It had been April, after-all. Still!

From the kitchen came the hum of a central-heating boiler, a sense of warmth closing in on him. He peered round the door seeing Hilary had already unpacked their supper onto two plates.

‘How come girls always know where the kitchen is?'

‘What do you see when you go into a strange place?'

‘Never given it much thought. I guess… um… a refrigerator with food in it?'

Hilary flashed a smile, passing him a plate and a tray. ‘Girls check out the bathroom followed mostly by the kitchen because, somehow, you guys have it in your head that girls automatically know their way around a kitchen.'

‘I wouldn't dare think that,' Scott returned the grin. ‘Besides, Dad always made me do my own…' He stopped abruptly.

‘It's okay.'

Placing his tray on the worktable, Scott shrugged his jacket off. ‘I know. Take no notice. Whether he's dead or alive, the word still exists and I have to deal with it.'

‘For what it's worth, Sean Terry may be a scumbag but…'

Scott forced a smile. ‘Nothing we can say will make a scrap of difference. Let's leave it for tonight. And, for my sake, if I get stuck on a word, ignore it. This is one situation where talking doesn't help.'

Hilary nodded, her face full of sympathy. ‘Do you want to talk at all?'

‘Is it too late to ring Travers?'

‘It's nearly midnight, Scott. Can't it wait till morning?' Hilary perched on the shabby couch, tucking one leg under her. ‘He would have called if he had any news.'

As if Hilary had pressed a secret button, the mobile in Scott's pocket burst into sound. Scott grabbed it. ‘Travers?'

‘Just checking you made it.'

‘Anything?' Scott pressed the button for speaker phone and Travers's deep tone rang through the small room.

‘No, nothing. The police called again while we were out. They want to interview both Jay and me. Trying to find out where you are, I expect. Jay's still not back…'

‘You serious?'

‘Not a word. Mrs Brody's that worried. Mum told them I'd gone back to London with Natasha. She's the best at lying – she's that charming, no one ever suspects. She's going spare about Dad though, threatening divorce when he does get home.'

‘No!'

Travers chuckled. ‘The coast-guard said there'd been no reports of an accident.'

‘Will you…'

‘Scott, I'll talk to him as soon as, and call you. Oh yes, and Mary says…'

‘Is she there?'

‘No! She had to wash her hair, but my guess is there was something on telly she wanted to watch and didn't want me butting in and spoiling her fun. I'm picking her up first thing. What was I saying?'

‘Something about Mary,' Scott reminded.

‘Right. We need Weasel's address – you forgot to give it to us.'

‘So I did.' Hilary leapt up, fishing for the piece of paper which she had put in her jeans pocket. ‘Twenty-two Upton Court.'

‘Got it! Get some sleep.'

‘Travers?'

‘Leave the thanks till we're in the clear, okay? Bye.'

Scott flipped the cover on his mobile shut, once again overcome by that sensation of being cast away in a vast ocean without a trace of land anywhere, nothing but a wall of dark grey water rolling relentlessly towards a bare horizon.

‘Scott? Scott?'

Scott blinked and the pictures vanished.

Hilary slipped her arm through his, squeezing it tightly. ‘What is it? Tell me!'

Scott gazed round the shabby little room as if seeing it for the first time and a deep well of unease soared through his body. ‘I don't know but it wasn't very nice. Come on, let's get some sleep.' All at once, he felt unbearably sleepy. He got to his feet and delved into a pile of blankets and cushions left on the sofa, yet another note pinned to them.

‘You haven't eaten.'

Scott took a hurried bite of his burger. It had gone cold, the fat in the meat congealed. He took a hasty swig from his Coke bottle to clear away the taste. ‘I'm not that hungry. You having a bath?'

‘You know me, prickly as hell if I'm not clean. And it'll warm me up. Get some sleep. I'll try not to wake you.'

It was deep, dreamless sleep of total exhaustion; so deep that Scott neither heard their hostess get up and leave the flat nor Hilary moving about. He eventually awoke to the telltale click of an electric kettle switching off.