so of Amnesty International.
They have a stable regime in a turbulent area…'
Barker snarled, 'They send a murderer onto our streets, they suborn one of our nuclear scientists; they lay siege to our embassy in Baghdad – and all you want to do is to send them a basket of flowers. They are dangerous, these people. They are thieves and muggers on the grand scale. Unless a line is drawn and they are stopped on that line, they have the potential of causing catastrophe.'
'A pretty speech but hollow. In other words, they do what quite a lot of people do. Frankly, Dickie, I ' d have expected a little more sophistication from someone in your position. Nevertheless, I want their gunman dealt with, and I want our scientist returned, and I want the siege on our embassy lifted, and I want a blanket over the whole wretched matter.'
'Well, we agree on that at least, and now, if you will excuse me, I have business to do and I have a young widow to visit.'
Barker pushed back his chair.
' Y o u also have an American to find, before he does any more damage… ' Martins drank deeply. 'Well, that's it then, D. D. G ., and I'm glad you agree with me that this is a matter for the Prime Minister's desk… '
'I had to come, to tell you… '
Erlich stood in the hallway of the small house.
'… i t was my gun, and I shot him… '
The door to the street was open behind him.
'… I had the target in the sights. I just didn't see him.. .'
Penny Rutherford stood in front of him. She would have been changing flowers in the sitting room when he had rung the bell.
She was still holding the flowers, chrysanthemums, and they were dead.
'. he wouldn't have known anything, I promise you, no ti pain…
She turned away from him. She walked the length of the hallway, and into the kitchen. He watched as she put the flowers into the garbage. He watched her, down the length of the little house that was her home.
'… I'll never forgive myself, Penny, I'm just so sorry.'
She turned and her voice was the clear-cut wind streaming from the storm's eye.
'All your crap about dedication, all your bloody duty, and what am I left with? You stupid, silly little man. He was mine, God, what else did I have? Go away, go away from me. Go back to your bloody kindergarten, where you came from, go back to your bloody guns and toys. Go somewhere where you can't hurt good people. Get out, I don't want you here. I don't want your apologies, for God's sake. Just go.'
He closed the door behind him.
Erlich drove away fast. There was only one place now he could head for.
Dan Ruane stood in the middle of the concourse. There were high white sheet-screens around the shooting scene. Rutherford's body was still there, but covered by a blanket. There was the fast flash of the photographer's bulb, Scene of Crime completing their work. The suitcase and the grip bag were now open. The clothes were being lifted out, checked, noted, piled. There were chalk circles round the three spent cartridge cases.
'We lost a brave and able young man because your cowboy didn't know what the hell he was doing… '
'Crap.'
'… and because he couldn't face the music, he ran.'
'You won't like it, Hobbes, but you're going to get them, home truths, stuffed up your gullet. The failure was yours. You moved nowhere on this. Every break you had, every lead, came from Bill Erlich. You sit in your goddam ivory towers, you think you matter in the world, whatever world. Erlich came here expecting action, expecting a good scene, and he got himself pissed on. Your resources are pathetic. Your work rate is pathetic.
Your commitment, beside Bill Erlich's, well, it's laughable.'
The photographer with the flash camera on the tripod was watching him. The two detectives on their knees and taking the clothes from the suitcase and the grip bag were listening to him.
The policeman with the chalk mess on his fingers eyed him. And Dan Ruane, the big man, didn't give a damn who listened.
Hobbes stood his ground. ' H e ran away… '
'Say that again, and I'll put your teeth at the back of your throat.'
Hobbes stood his full height. 'Grow up, Ruane. This isn't the Wild West. Just tell me where you think he's gone.'
It might just be, just, that Erlich had one more chance, not more than one more chance. And it might just be, just, that if Erlich didn't take that chance then Dan Ruane would be on the flight out with him. One more chance, and that was stretching it, that was all Erlich had.
'He'll have gone where he reckons Colt's gone… Have you a better idea where he should have gone?'
' W e have very little time, Dr Bissett.'
' Y e s. '
'What we have going for us, and it's not a lot, is that with everything else that's queuing up, they take time to get their act in place.'
' Y e s. '
'What I reckon is that the ferries are our best chance. You with me?'
'Which ferries?'
'Weymouth, Bridport down south, boat across to France. One of the night sailings. They'll take time to get their act in place, that's our best hope.'
' I f you say so, Colt.'
They were past Salisbury. Colt drove into the lay-by beside the darkened windows of the shop. The village was called Bishopstone. It was a small place, tucked away from the great world in vast tracts of farmland. He had followed the side roads, as far as was possible, through the villages. He was safe among the villages and on the high-hedged lanes, because that was the country he knew. Bishopstone and Heathrow, they were not of the same world.
' W e have to decide where we go from here,' Colt said.
' Y o u make the decision.'
There was a quiet grimace on Colt's face. 'It's rather awkward.. . They'll give it back to you, of course, but I don't have enough money for the ferry tickets. Will you lend me what we need?'
'I've just small change.'
' Y o u haven't…?'
'I left my cheque book at home, for Sara… I doubt I've five pounds… '
'Jesus… '
Colt heard the cringe in Bissett's voice. 'I left my cheque card, too. I didn't think I'd need English money in Baghdad.'
Colt's eyes never left the road.
He drove on. Wild and lovely and lonely country, on from Bishopstone, and once he braked hard and threw Bissett forward, and he missed the big sow badger that treated the road as its own. At Broad Chalke, he found a telephone box that was not vandalised. He took coins from his pocket. He parked under trees, away from the lights near the telephone box and the bus stop.
She was out in the scullery, working to a hurricane lamp because the electricity had never been run into the damp stone extension of the kitchen.
The telephone rang.
Fran was good at it and old Vic, down at the pub, would take all the plucked pheasants she could bring to him.
She came out of the scullery, and the breast feathers were spilling off her arms and her chest, through the kitchen and through the small room where old Brennie grunted before the closed fire. The cottage was bitter quiet without Rocco's snore, without the jangle of his collar chain. She never knew whether it was real, him sleeping through the telephone's ringing. He said it was the war, the trench slits, sleeping in them and all, under the artillery at Monte Cassino.
She heard his voice. 'Thought you were gone, Colt.'
