“Hector. All the men in position?”
“Aye. Why?”
The dogs panted, grinning up at me. “One bloke yesterday tried sussing out the two wings. Ever seen him before?”
Hector tried to grin. “No, Lovejoy. Should I have?”
“No. Any extra men we can use?”
“No variation,” he said. “Your own rules, mon.” So no extra man guarding the cottage.
I bit my lip anxiously. “Watch out for the blighter. Tall, thin. Looks sour.”
“Aye, I mind him. Dinna fash.” He laughed, thinking I believed him about Dobson.
Apologetically I grinned and left, hands in pockets and pausing for a last look at one of my favorites, a Joe Knibb bracket clock. Simple rectangular, 1720, and worth a fortune.
“Tara, darlin’,” I said to its lovely face, and walked out just as I was. Tinker was in the beer tent, as I’d instructed. I didn’t glance his way, nor he mine. At the corner of the east wing Andy waited with his energetic collie. Why are dogs never still?
“Going well in there, is it?” he asked. Great how the retainers had committed themselves.
“Aye, Andy. Don’t let yon dog nod off.” And I strolled on past, through the unkempt garden. Under a crumpled greenhouse’s door stone lay the two-pound hammer and cold chisel. Heavy, but Joseph was probably bolted in and I’d need something for the door.
Then I trotted away from Tachnadray. I’d miss it.
Distances contract during daytime. I’ve often noticed that. Maybe it’s because you know where you’re putting your feet. I had the sense to follow Dubneath Water from the bridge, moving on the stones and eventually climbing up where I’d been baulked by Ranter. The guard was standing on the skyline a half mile off, facing the house in a patriarchal pose. From there he could see the cars and all the activity. No dog, thank God.
Somewhat muckily I climbed out of the watercourse and moved left, getting the cottage between us before I made a direct move towards it. The main door was on the side facing the distant guard, as was that unlatched shutter. The rear door my side was virtually rusted in place. Using the chisel, I levered off the bolt, and did the old lock with my belt buckle. A push on the Suffolk latch, and I was in. Must, rust, dust. Just to make sure, I peered into the two downstairs rooms, a parlor and a kitchen. Unused for years.
Grime was trodden shiny on the middle of the stairs. A tranny played pop music above my head. I went up, a bit scared—well, not really scared as such. More worried. Maybe I’d got it wrong.
But I hadn’t. Joseph was sitting in the upstairs room with that shutter ajar. They hadn’t even allowed the poor bugger a light, perhaps in case he signaled. He stood, jaw dropping, and stared at me in the doorway with my hammer and chisel. One hand was manacled to the wall by a long chain, and his ankles were chained to a granite cube. He could move, but he’d be noticed in company.
“Dear God,” he said faintly, his face drained.
“Wotcher, Dutchie.”
“I didn’t kill the driver. Honest, Lovejoy. Please.”
“I know you didn’t, silly burke.” I tested the wall chain. With that broken, I could at least get him away. “Gawd, Dutchie. Robert wasn’t mucking about when he stuck you here, was he?”
“Lovejoy…” His voice broke. “Is there a chance?”
“Let’s make one,” I said, and started on the damned thing.
I was past caring by now. He had a towel that I used to muffle the blows. The cold chisel went through the wall link with me banging the two-pounder on it in great sidewise swings. When the wall insert did go, it nearly took my eye out, whizzing past my forehead and pitting the wall opposite.
Dutchie carried his chains over his shoulder, me humping his granite cube. We left Shooters and crawled to the gully. We must have looked a sight by the time we reached the bridge. Dutchie was exhausted. I shoved him so he was in the dry under the arch, and heaved myself up to join him. He tried to gasp what the hell were we doing, but I shut him and whispered that our own private express service would be along shortly.
Cars were still passing overhead, heading towards Tachnadray, but only intermittently.
One of them would be Dobson and his five sociopaths.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon before that ancient engine came thumping down the track and arrested humming on the bridge. Even then I didn’t make a move until a gravelly cough temporarily muted the racket.
“Come on, Dutchie.” I tugged on his chain. We struggled up the bank. Tinker gaped from the Mawdslay.
“Bleedin’ hell, Lovejoy. That Dutchie you got there?”
“Shut it.” I dumped the granite block in. “Drive. South.”
He blasphemed at the gears. “ ’Ere, Lovejoy. Why’s Dutchie in chains?” We slammed forward, skidding wheels spraying earth. “Can we stop at a pub?”
« ^ »
—— 29 ——
We ran into Dubneath, veered south, and started the long run. In the first few miles we hardly spoke, except for me once.
“Give over hammering, Dutchie. The frigging floor’ll fall out.”
