“What’s this, Russell?” A senior-officer voice, not so much confident as super-confident, and alien for that reason, cut in.
dummy1
“Who is this?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Mr Russell answered his officer evenly, also without fear. “But that’s Mr Nabb over there, who runs the taxi-service in the village.”
“Oh, yes?” The senior officer sounded as though he had heard of
‘Mr Nabb’. “And where’s his taxi?”
No answer came from over the water, and Benedikt began at last to understand the dimensions of the drama to which he was a witness, which Chief Inspector Andrew had enlisted to serve Colonel Butler’s purpose.
“I don’t think he’s on duty tonight, sir. It looks like he’s visiting his sister, Mrs Tanner. . . She’s married to Mr Tanner, who’s manager at Cassell’s Farm, sir.”
“Oh, yes?”
Benedikt’s dislike of the officer voice—the inspector voice—
blossomed with his understanding: it had suited Colonel Butler’s plan that the local police were busy in this part of Dorset, leaning on after-hours drinking in public houses, which was in contravention of Britain’s archaic licensing laws—it had suited him that the
What he had not understood until now was that, while the inspector wanted to catch the
dummy1
Because
“Oh, yes?” The Inspector had made some of those same connections, if not all of them, by the sound of his voice. “And who are you, then?”
He had come back to the van-driver, realised Benedikt.
“Eh?” The van-driver sounded not one bit abashed by the question.
“What the fuck is that meant to mean—who am I?”
He had to adjust, thought Benedikt: the Inspector must know what he was doing, and this was all for Mr Nabb’s benefit—‘Blackie’
Nabb’s benefit—if he was on duty at the ford, as they had expected someone to be on duty here, as the first trip-wire in Duntisbury Chase’s defence system.
But the corollary of that was that the Inspector must behave as he would have behaved in real life—so that ‘Blackie’ Nabb should react in the same way, to warn the Chase of the arrival of the police within that same defence system.
But ... in the meantime . . . the van-driver had to react also—and this was England—rural England in the 1980s—and that in itself was educational.
“What are you doing here?”
“Doing?” The van-driver echoed the verb insolently. “I wish to fuck I knew, mate!”
“There’s no need to use that sort of language with me—not if you want to stay out of a cell tonight.” The Inspector remained coolly unmoved by the insolence, he merely pitched his voice so that it dummy1
could be heard on the other side of the water. “I’ve got a warrant-card in my pocket. . . and we’ve had enough burglaries round here for me to inquire what you’re doing in these parts at this hour of the night. So you can argue the toss with me, and I can put the constable here behind the wheel of your vehicle and take you back to the nearest police station—if you like . . . And we can sort you out there.” Pause. “Or you can answer the question. Take your pick.”
Two seconds—five seconds—
“Well?”
One second—
“All right, guv‘!”
“Well?” The repetition was lazy with dominance.
“Worsdale, guv—Jack Worsdale . . . Easy Removals—you can ring my gaffer, Mr Page, if you don’t believe me —straight up!”
This pause, thought Benedikt, covered a pointing finger at the phone-box, to support the surrender. “Takin‘ an upright grand—a grand
—Norton
“At this hour of night?”
“There was an ‘old-up on the M3—on the Alton junction— wiv’ a tail-back . . .”
Pause.
“There was a crash on the M3, sir. Junction 5,” said Constable Russell, almost apologetically. “Early this evening. The road was blocked for nearly two hours.”
dummy1
“An‘ I ’ad a blow-out near Stockbridge.” The van-driver achieved a genuine whine. “Took me another hour—
