‘Uh. . Mrs Tangmere? Stokes Cottage?’ Harry glanced at his mobile and shifted the clipboard until the white blob of Matuq’s face appeared in the centre of the screen. Not quite sharp enough, but it would do. He keyed the button, freezing the face.
‘There is nobody of that name.’ Matuq’s voice was soft, like his appearance, the accent pronounced. His eyes slipped instinctively to the large brown envelope Harry produced from under the clipboard. It was addressed to an imaginary Mrs Tangmere in bold handwriting. Another good lesson learned: it was the detail that got you in, the lack of it that got you found out.
‘Took me ages to find the place.’ He hated this part, having to go through the play-acting just to give him an excuse to leave without alerting Matuq. But finding the target’s location was just one part of the assignment, albeit a critical part; next he had to get the photo to Jennings to prove it. He gestured down the track. ‘Had to leave my wheels down the end and leg it.’
He shivered briefly and smiled again to dispel any impression of threat. Visitors promising violence or incarceration rarely comment on the weather or the state of the roads. Nor do they carry clipboards. Harry was a bit under six feet, but probably looked worryingly big to a small man on the run.
‘Sorry. I cannot help,’ Matuq murmured regretfully, beginning to close the door.
Harry let him. He’d done what he came for. Now he just had to wait for instructions.
‘No problem. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned and walked away as the door closed, followed by the rattle of bolts being thrown. He squeezed a glance across the tips of the reeds in the marsh bed separating Stokes Cottage from the village of Blakeney. The air here was damp and sour, a ghost of mist adding to the chilled atmosphere. He caught a faint shine off the Saab’s roof as he rounded the curve in the track and hoped Matuq hadn’t seen it. A UPS delivery driver with a clipboard was unremarkable; the same man in a mud-spattered car was not.
He dodged puddles, automatically checking the ground for tyre tracks. A single set but not fresh. Matuq must have a vehicle tucked away behind the cottage. If the Libyan decided to split, he’d have a job tracking him down again. Runners, once spooked, rarely allow their pursuers a second chance.
Out over the reed beds, a startled bird took off with a clatter, wings beating the air. Others followed, scattering wildly into the darkening sky. Harry wondered if his presence had set them off. He brushed subconsciously at his neck and lengthened his stride.
This place was already giving him the creeps.
TWO
In the car, Harry checked the picture on his mobile against the hard copy in his pocket before sending it on the next stage. If Jennings was on the ball, he should have instructions within minutes. Then he could be out of here, with or without a package.
He yawned and shifted the passenger seat back and placed a foot on the dashboard, knuckling the tiredness from his eyes. There were times when he felt too old for this business; covert surveillance and tracking was for youngsters; those who were time-rich, who didn’t find themselves thinking of all the better things they could be doing instead of getting stale and stodgy in the front seat of a car while the world slipped by outside. Not that forty-something was old, exactly. He probably needed some TLC and a good holiday. With Jean, preferably. He leaned forward and checked his face in the mirror. Could do with a shave; hair still good — a bit long on top maybe but no traces of grey among the light brown; teeth not bad, either.
He lowered the window a fraction, allowing the smell of salt and decay to drift in. He shifted uneasily and eyed his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see here: the reeds, some woodland and dull, camouflage-coloured undergrowth. Beyond that and out of sight lay the coastline of dunes and the cold North Sea. The overall impression was unwelcoming and unnaturally quiet, as if all life had been turned off at the mains.
He eased the door open and stepped back out, treading with care in the mud. Out here was a steady rush of low-level noise produced by the breeze among the trees and rushes. Apart from that, there was nothing visual to disturb the scenery: no people, no movement, no vehicles. Just a car engine rumbling faintly from somewhere over by the village. He left the Saab and strolled the few yards back to the main road, using up time while waiting for Jennings to call back.
To his right, the road was empty, burrowing into the gloom before abruptly turning a corner as it followed the line of the coast. To the left, a hundred yards away towards the village, a white utility van stood on the grass verge, a red warning cone near the offside tail-light. The rear door was open, showing a jumble of tools inside. A long metal mains key stood against the side of the van. There was no sign of the driver.
He strolled back to the Saab and climbed in, taking a ten-day-old copy of the
He thought about Matuq, wondering if he’d have to take him back. He didn’t like taking in runners, whatever their alleged background or problems. It changed the whole dynamic of the hunter-prey situation. Tracing them was one thing; it was done remotely, avoiding all physical contact until the last possible moment. Doing the knock wasn’t always necessary, either, depending on the client’s requirements. But sharing car space with the target afterwards and having to listen to them justifying their actions was a step too far.
The phone buzzed. Jennings.
‘You may leave.’ The voice was smooth and bland, smug even, and Harry pictured him behind his executive desk in west London, pinstripe suit and polished brogues on display, self-satisfaction turned up high.
‘You sure about that?’ The last thing he needed was to drive all the way back to London only to have to come out here again because of a change of heart.
‘I’m sure. Someone else will handle it from here.’ A click and Jennings was gone.
Harry switched off the phone and placed it on the central console. Jennings had few obvious social skills and seemed determined not to improve them; maybe he’d been dropped once too often as a baby. He tossed the paper over his shoulder, distracted. Something was niggling at him. Something about the call. But it wouldn’t come.
He reached up to check the rear-view mirror, settling himself for the long drive back. He’d stop somewhere for a meal, if he saw a place open. Something with chips. Or salad.
In the mirror, two bursts of light flared briefly against the darkening sky.
The source was from the top of the track near the cottage. There was no sound, but Harry knew instantly what it meant.
THREE
He was out of the car without thinking. He clicked the door shut and crouched by the rear wing. No sound after the flares of light; no indication of anything wrong. Yet there was something. Had to be.
He stood up and opened the boot. Reaching inside, he located a heavy metal box with a dial, which he moved two clicks to the right. Seconds later he flipped open the lid and took out the familiar weight of a semi-automatic and inserted a loaded magazine.
This is not clever, he told himself. Crazy, in fact. But what he’d just seen in the mirror was the reflection of muzzle-flash. Gunfire. He’d be even crazier going up there empty-handed.
He sighed and closed the boot. Took a deep breath.
Like old times.
The layout of the track was familiar enough, but he took it at an easy walk, keeping to the side away from the reeds. He’d done this kind of thing too many times in too many places before and knew that hurrying wouldn’t help. Whatever had happened at the cottage was done; going in on the run wouldn’t change it and could easily get
