mud-spattered Raleigh bicycle, she was heartened to see that its front tyre had plenty of air and that the rear, while spongy, would likely hold up. Because the saddle was set for a man, she had to pedal in the standing position. She wobbled the first few feet across the bumpy dirt yard, quickly gathering speed once she reached the gravel drive.
Though still not daybreak, a sliver of moon peeping from time to time from behind the low clouds offered enough light to guide her way. Soon she reached the road. It had no signpost. Without thinking, she turned left, downhill. She had to put as much distance between her and the farmhouse as quickly as she could.
Crouched low over the handlebars, she freewheeled flat out down the steep incline, the rushing wind loud in her ears. She pedalled hard for another five minutes or so. She was thinking, so far so good, when she detected another sound over the wind, a low droning, growing ever louder. Taking a risky backward glance, she caught sight of the dancing headlights of a fast approaching car, about a quarter of a mile away. She had to get off the road.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, she saw the dark silhouettes of a cluster of buildings, probably a farm. She squeezed gently on the brakes. A screeching of metal on metal pierced the chill morning air as the shuddering old Raleigh slowed sufficiently to allow her to swing in a clumsy arc off the road on to a dirt path. She leaped off the bike, threw it against the nearby hedge and crouched beside it, her heart beating rapidly, eyes fixed on the road. In a matter of seconds the car flashed past, accelerating up the hill. It was travelling so fast – a momentary blur – that she couldn’t tell what kind of car it was but she had no doubt that it belonged to her captors. Hearing the engine fade in the distance, she breathed more easily.
She left her bike by the hedge and walked down a rutted path in search of a house where she could use the phone to call the police and Alex. After scouting the area for several minutes, she determined that there was no farmhouse, that the silhouettes she’d seen were sheds housing farming equipment, barns and various outbuildings. Aware that she’d wasted valuable time, she went back, retrieved her bike, and walked it up to the road.
For twenty minutes or so she pedalled hard along the empty country road. The ride was difficult and more tiring without a saddle to sit on. Every now and then she would have to stop and take a rest. She guessed that she was now at least five miles from the farmhouse, still with no sight of a telephone. Sooner or later, she knew she would happen on a village. There she would definitely find a phone box or get to use a phone in one of the shops. She just prayed that it would be soon, her legs were aching like hell.
It was now daylight, the pale beginning of what looked like a gloomy day. But that made no difference to the songbirds, they were up and chirping away as usual. Though she had now lost the cover of darkness, the sound helped keep her spirits up.
Rounding a curve in the road, she came to a T-junction. She stopped briefly to study the black and white signpost. Going three miles to the right would take her first to the village of Little Charwell and two and a half miles farther, to Steeple Tarrant. It all made sense to her, now. The farmhouse had been chosen not only for its isolation but also for its proximity to The Parsonage, convenient for surveillance. She was not headed for home, though. That would be the first place they would look for her. Once she had called the police and Alex, she was headed for Peg’s house. Peg and her husband lived in a village five miles beyond Steeple Tarrant.
On a long uphill slope, she started to realize how exhausted she was. The adrenalin that had given her the energy and strength to make such good time was ebbing. Her entire body ached. She was sticky with perspiration, beginning to feel the effects of not having slept for over twenty-four hours. And she still had quite a way to go. She was starting to wonder whether she had the strength to make it all the way to Peg’s.
Within ten minutes she reached the village of Little Charwell. On the edge of the village, fifty feet ahead of her, an old church came into view. The gold hands on its black-faced clock showed just past seven. Where was everybody? Even at this time of morning she should encounter a few people – villagers, delivery men, dog walkers – but so far she hadn’t seen a soul. Perhaps it was Sunday.
Pedalling slowly into the village, she passed the White Swan pub and a bakery, both closed. On the other side of the road a small dog yapped at her from behind an iron garden gate. Now she was in the centre of the village and finally there it was, up ahead, outside a newsagent’s shop – the welcome sight of a red phone box.
She cycled up to it, walked the Raleigh the last few paces across a grass verge and leaned the bike against the phone box. Once inside, with the heavy door closed behind her, for the first time since she’d left the farmhouse she felt a brief sense of safety. As she rummaged in her pocket for the coins, she looked at herself in the small mirror over the phone. She had expected worse. Her hair was damp and bedraggled and her eyes a little bloodshot, but otherwise she looked none the worse for her ordeal.
Her hand was on the phone, ready to take it out of the cradle, when she caught sight of a man outside, reflected in the mirror. He was dressed all in black and was wearing dark glasses. He had crossed the street and was now running straight toward the phone box. She gasped and took her hand off the phone and clasped it across her mouth. She could feel the beat of her heart quicken. Suddenly the door was yanked open. Now, she could see him clearly through the small glass panes in the door. He was holding the door in the open position.
‘Okay, bitch,’ he rasped. ‘Come on out.’
She knew immediately by the accent that it was one of the men from the farmhouse.
She stepped outside and the door closed behind her. Now he was facing her, a short stocky man with dark stubble surrounding his thin-lipped mouth. The hood of his black sweater was pulled over his head and tightly around his face, revealing little of his swarthy features. His hands were by his side, and in one of them he held a black pistol with a silencer on it. He moved it back and forth slightly, to make sure she noticed it.
Before she knew it he was at her side, gripping her arm so hard that it hurt. She felt the gun pressed into the small of her back. His mouth was inches from her ear. ‘You make a fuckin’ sound and you’re dead, lady,’ he breathed. ‘Nod if you understand.’
Kate nodded.
‘Okay. Now walk nice and easy with me to the car over there.’
Reaching the Jeep, he opened the passenger door and, with a shove in her back, Kate slid into the seat.
With the pistol in his right hand rested in his lap, and pointed directly at Kate, the man drove slowly out of the village.
Kate leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She desperately wanted to cry, but wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty-six
’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone.
Thomas Moore
Entering the hotel’s breakfast room – actually the dining room with different tablecloths – Alex spied Kingston seated at a corner table reading the newspaper. Alex pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. Kingston was tapping his lower lip with the end of a pencil, eyes glued to the crossword puzzle. He had yet to acknowledge Alex’s arrival.
‘Bloody clever, that clue,’ Kingston muttered to no one in particular as he pencilled in the answer.
‘What clue?’ Alex asked.
He looked up, as if surprised to see Alex seated in front of him. ‘Oh, good morning, Alex. Sorry – this one’s a bit of a struggle,’ he said, putting the paper aside.
‘Let’s not forget to call Compton,’ said Alex.
‘I tried about fifteen minutes ago. No answer at his home number, and the machine’s on at the office. Probably sleeping in late, if he just got back from the States.’
‘I suppose it is a bit early. Let’s try again just before we leave.’
‘If we can’t reach him, we’ll just go up there. According to Emma he’s bound to show up sooner or later.’
Alex nodded. ‘Let’s hope this is the very last time we see that accursed rose. One way or another we must bring the whole business to an end today. Finished. Once and for all.’
