He was still partly sceptical, but still not discounting a hidden ‘mike’ or the latest in the ‘dirty tricks’ department. He waited until they were out in the street, before making his proposition. ‘Tomorrow I’m wiring Pol for business expenses, and we’ll take a little holiday in Spain. How are you fixed with the LSE?’
‘I’ve got two weeks’ holiday.’
‘Then we’ll be spending them in an obscure little town in the middle of the Castilian Plain. A town called Soria.’
CHAPTER 9
Hawn sent the wire that night to Pol’s PO number in Annecy, then booked two open return tickets for himself and Anna, and for his old Citroën, on the Southampton ferry to Le Havre — which would be almost deserted at this season, and would give him plenty of scope to see if they were being followed.
There were also two other things to be done. First, in the morning, he rang New Scotland Yard and asked for extension 429 — Chief Superintendent Muncaster, a man with whom he had long been on close professional terms. Muncaster was in conference, but someone said he would ring back. From Hawn’s experience of police work, that might mean any time before midnight. He decided to fill in the time with a trip south of the river, to Wandsworth.
Hamilton Motors were in a cul-de-sac behind a railway bridge. From the outside the place looked as respectable as any establishment can with a forecourt full of freshly painted second-hand cars for sale. A notice over the door announced that they also dealt in hired cars.
Hawn picked his way through pools of oily mud to a door marked OFFICE — WALK IN, WHEN OPEN. It was open. A youth with long plaited hair, in stained overalls, sat reading Melody Maker. A transistor bellowed, unseen. There was a cluttered desk, one telephone, several chairs arranged along the wall. Hawn glanced back round the car park, but saw no sign of the three Fords which had followed him yesterday.
He pushed his way in and shouted at the youth above the music: ‘Where’s the boss?’
The youth called over his shoulder, ‘Bunnie — business!’ — then returned to his magazine.
An inner door opened and a youngish man with small flat features and curly blond hair came in. He wore a white shirt with blue stripes and his worsted jacket had too much padding in the shoulders. In his breast pocket was a blue silk handkerchief that matched his blue socks. He smiled at Hawn, with teeth the same colour as his hair. ‘Morning, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘I understand you had three cars out on hire yesterday — two blue Escorts and a yellow Cortina. I’d just like to know who took them out.’
The man’s smile persisted; he looked tough and relaxed. ‘Our records are confidential — unless you’ve got a warrant.’
Hawn showed his Press card. ‘It’s all right — I don’t want to look through your VAT fiddles. I just want to know the name of the man, or men, who hired those three cars from you yesterday.’ He handed him a list of the three registration numbers.
The blond man looked at them. ‘You say you’re a reporter? For what?’
Hawn took out his Scotland Yard Press pass, with two ten-pound notes folded inside. The man looked at them as though they were a couple of postcards; then still holding them, he turned to the youth in overalls and said, ‘Go on, Jerry, scram. You’ve got that Merc to get ready by this evening.’
When the door had closed, he put the two notes in his pocket and handed Hawn back his pass. ‘You’re lucky I run this place. Otherwise I could get myself into a load of trouble.’ He shook his curly head. ‘Ah, you never know who’s going to make trouble for you these days. I’m asked to do a special turn for someone — three cars in good condition hired for one day, full comprehensive insurance — five hundred paid in readies, but no licences. Now, I don’t believe in miracles, Mr Hawn, but Christ — if this happened to me every day I’d be a bleeding millionaire.’
Hawn looked at him. ‘And that’s all you know?’
‘Scout’s honour. Why should I lie? I could say it was a delegation from the Liberal Party and you wouldn’t know no better.’
‘Three cars, one obviously equipped with UHF, all hired together, and presumably returned together, and you don’t know anything about it?’
The man shifted his feet slightly apart, but otherwise made no movement. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret of the trade, Mr Hawn. I specialize in second-hand jobs. Now I know a bit about the Press — I know that when someone gives you a good tip-off, you don’t reveal the source. Same with me. I’m discreet. If a bloke comes to me and wants three cars, for a good fee, I don’t ask for his birth certificate.’
‘I’d like you to be my source,’ said Hawn, ‘in total confidence. The people who came to you yesterday were pros. They were as good at a relay tail-job as the police. The only mistake they made was that I spotted them. You still don’t want to tell me who they are?’
The man stood with padded shoulders squared, hands curling at his sides. ‘I think you’d better go, Mr Hawn.’
Hawn took out a third ten-pound note. ‘Not until I’ve seen your books.’
‘Sorry, chum, my books aren’t in order.’
Hawn still held out the note, but the man made no attempt to take it.
‘Christ, you must have money to burn, mate. Am I going to feature in the Sunday Mirror or something?’
‘This is private, confidential.’
‘Like fuck it is.’
‘I just want to look at the three cars that tailed me yesterday. Any objections?’
‘I have. They’re all
