Still no one came out.
“What happens if they aren’t in there after all?” someone asked.
“There are ninety-nine other caravans to search,” said Diamond with a yawn.
“He were definitely in there,” the farmer insisted.
Nobody disputed it, but the tension had eased.
A man wearing a gas mask and armed with a gun entered the caravan, spent a few seconds inside and then came out and spread his arms to gesture that no one was there. The search would have to widen in scope. Warrilow began issuing fresh orders.
Diamond stayed well in the background, preferring to prowl around the farm buildings. Not that he expected to find anyone. He was sure Mountjoy would have quit the area immediately after the fracas with the farmer-if, indeed, the man inside the caravan had been Mountjoy.
The impression he got of this farm was that it barely deserved being described as such. He guessed that the farmer- who must have been over sixty-relied on the caravan parking fees as a main source of income. There were no animals apart from a few chickens. The farm machinery consisted of a tractor with mold growing on the wheels from disuse. Maybe the policy known as “set aside” had something to do with it. Diamond vaguely understood the economics that paid farmers to limit their production, but found it depressing to observe.
Emerging in the lane again, having completed his tour, he spotted the man who had checked the interior of the caravan. The gas mask was off now.
“What was in there?” Diamond asked.
“The caravan? Definite signs of an intruder, sir. A half-eaten loaf, some apple cores, a milk carton, a piece of rope. He can’t have got far.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We found the motorbike behind a hedge, so he doesn’t have wheels anymore.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“What did you say, Mr. Diamond?” It was Warrilow himself, butting in on the conversation.
“I said I wouldn’t count on Mountjoy being without wheels. There’s a garage behind the farmhouse with an up-and-over door which is open. Empty. If I were you, I’d ask the farmer what make of vehicle he drives.”
“Gordon Bennett!”
“Really? I’d have thought an old Cortina was more his style.”
Chapter Ten
Emerging from a satisfying sleep, he lay faceup, registered after some time that there weren’t any cracks in the ceiling, so it couldn’t be Addison Road, which led him after some more time to recall that he was in Bath, staying at the Francis. With their Traditional Breakfast in prospect-the “Heritage Platter” being the Trusthouse Forte term for bacon and eggs with all the trimmings-he had no difficulty rising from bed. The events of the evening before surfaced in his memory and prompted quiet satisfaction at Warrilow’s comeuppance. It was disloyal, but Peter Diamond grinned-a rare way for him to start the day. A stretch, a scratch and a yawn and he padded across the carpet to the window, reached for the curtain-and instantly regretted it when a needle-sharp pain drove into his thumb. In his muzzy state the shock made his skin prickle all the way down his right arm.
First he reckoned he must have touched the point of a needle or pin left in the curtain by some negligent seamstress. But the pain didn’t ease. If anything, it got worse. With the curtains still closed, he couldn’t see much. Flapping the hand, he hurried to the bathroom and ran cold water over it. In the better light, he examined the thumb. Around the point that hurt most it was turning white. No blood was visible.
He’d been stung.
Hotel rooms were always too warm for his liking and the previous evening he had opened the window a little. A wasp must have flown in. At this end of the year there were still a few about.
It could still be lurking in the room, waiting to strike a second time.
You never know what infliction life holds next, he thought, back to his embittered worst, standing in the bathroom with the door closed while he tried to step into his clothes using one hand. You get up in the comfort of a good hotel ready for the Heritage Platter and the morning papers and this happens.
Downstairs he asked at the desk if they had anything for wasp stings.
“How did you do that?” the young woman on duty asked.
“I didn’t do it. It was done to me.”
“Are you sure it was a wasp, sir?” She seemed to take it as a criticism. Perhaps in a four-star hotel a queen bee would have been more fitting.
“I know I’ve been stung, right?”
“Did you actually see the wasp?”
Now he felt as if he were being treated as an unreliable witness. “Don’t you believe me? What do you want-a description?”
“We’ve got some antihistamine in the first-aid box. Do you mind if I look first?”
He held out the thumb. Some people waiting to pay their bills stepped forward to join in the diagnosis.
“That’s no wasp sting,” a small man in a tracksuit said. “It must have been a bee. Look, the sting is still here.”
“So it is,” said an American woman. “That’s gotta be a bee. It’s the way their stings are shaped, like little arrows.”
“Barbed,” said the small man.
“I can see it now,” said the receptionist.
“Well I can’t,” said Diamond, thoroughly peeved.
“That was definitely a bee,” the receptionist said to justify the stand she had made.
“Perhaps you need glasses,” the little man suggested to Diamond. “The eyes change at your age. Want me to take it out? It ought to come out, you know.”
“You wanna be careful with a bee sting,” said the American woman.
“Wait a minute. I’ll get some tweezers,” said the receptionist.
The operation was performed at 8:10 A.M. and the patient remained conscious throughout. Everyone had a different suggestion for the aftercare: a blue bag, bicarbonate of soda, iodine, cold water and fresh air.
“Take my advice and get your eyes tested,” the little man said in a parting shot.
“Thanks.”
He didn’t fancy the Heritage Platter anymore. All he wanted was strong tea and one slice of toast. The thumb was still sore, even with a coating of antihistamine ointment. Some of this came off on the Daily Mail, leaving a smear beside the report that a major police operation was under way to recapture John Mount joy. The stakeout at the caravan park had happened too late to make the morning papers.
Where would Mountjoy go? he demanded of himself, trying to ignore the throbbing. The stolen car wouldn’t be of use for long. Every copper in the West Country would have the number by now. Without a doubt Mountjoy would have some new bolt-hole planned. He’d lived in the area long enough to know his way about. Another caravan site would be too risky. So where?
With a friend? It seemed unlikely that anyone would run the risk of conspiring in a kidnap as well as harboring an escaped prisoner. Friends with that degree of loyalty are rare.
Mountjoy’s problem was Samantha. A man alone might wander about looking for places, or decide to sleep rough. A man with a young woman hostage wasn’t going to get far without creating suspicion. An empty house was the best bet. There were plenty in and around the city with agents’ boards outside.
Julie Hargreaves was already in the office when Diamond got there soon after nine. To his already jaded eye she looked depressingly top-of-the-morning.
She said brightly, “We’re still in business, then?”
“Naturally,” said he, manfully. “It throbs a bit, but the antihistamine will take it down, no doubt.”
She said, “I think we’re at cross-purposes. I was talking about Mount joy getting through the net at Atworth last night. What’s wrong?”
