“West, about four miles. And I think . . . yes, they’ve stopped.”
“We’ll take the next exit,” said Merlin. “Any unattended car we see, we’ll swap over.”
Both of them were quite expert car thieves, hot-wirers, housebreakers, and picklocks. It was part of the curriculum at Wooten. The left-handed did most of that sort of thing, but as swapping handedness was very common through adolescence into the early twenties, the school trained everyone as if they would be a field agent at least until they became definitely right-handed and usually grew less interested in that sort of thing.
Merlin glanced at Vivien in the rearview mirror. She looked extremely troubled.
“Those officers back there,” she said. “Their vehicle. Registration index A163SUY. It was in the square, at the safe house.”
Merlin examined his memory.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Parked at the north end. With those officers in it.”
“They must have been sent after us almost straight away,” she said. “They could have caught up to us ages ago, stopped us.”
“But they didn’t do anything but follow,” said Merlin. “Until we stopped . . .”
“So whoever instructed them kept it simple,” said Vivien. “Follow until they stop, then shoot to kill.”
“Who or what could put an instruction like that into mortal minds?” asked Merlin, thinking aloud.
“An Ancient Sovereign, in its own demesne,” said Vivien. She hesitated, then added, “A Cauldron-Keeper, probably anywhere—the cauldrons have no geographic boundaries and they all grant powers over mortal minds, amongst their more specialized powers. And one of us could have done it. A powerful right-handed bookseller.”
“We would have felt the presence of an Old One,” said Merlin. “I mean, everyone would have. Una and the others from the response teams.”
There was silence for half a mile, both of them thinking.
“Exit,” said Merlin, veering to the left. “Head westwards, right?”
“Northwest,” said Vivien. She looked at the open Bartholomew Road Atlas of Britain next to her on the seat. “Take the A50.”
“Okay,” said Merlin. “Who was with the team from the New Bookshop? I saw Silas and Rory . . .”
“Uncle Silas, Aunt Esther, Cousins Rory, Stewart, and Darius,” said Vivien.
“Could any of them—”
“I don’t think so,” interrupted Vivien. “They’re all competent, unlike Cousin Jake. But a compulsion to kill, maintained for hours . . . Thurston could do it, of course . . . Great-Uncle Feroze and Great-Aunt Evangeline at Wooten, Great-Aunt Sheena . . .”
“Who’s Great-Aunt Sheena?” asked Merlin, frowning. They were off the M1 now, into a big roundabout. He took the exit for the A50, already looking for cars to steal. They had only a few minutes, he thought, before every police vehicle and officer in Leicestershire was hunting a London black cab.
“She heads up Harshton and Hoole in Birmingham,” replied Vivien. “You’ve never met her?”
“Never had anything to do with the silversmiths. What about the even-handed? Could they place such a compulsion?”
“Any of them could,” said Vivien. “But . . . I can’t believe they would.”
Merlin slowed as he spotted a Forte Travelodge with a large car park, and pulled in, aiming for a spot where the cab would be shielded from the hotel and the road by a lone, remnant patch of trees left in the middle of the expanse of asphalt for mysterious tree preservation reasons.
“What about that superintendent? He was there, he’s suspicious.”
“But he couldn’t do it, no mortal adept could compel someone to kill. I mean, maybe in the moment, but not to last for hours,” said Vivien.
“He bears looking into, though,” said Merlin. “You said he moved from Unit M to CID before going to gangs. His name wasn’t on the file, but I wonder if he was involved in the investigation into Mum’s murder.”
“I wish we were back at the Old Bookshop so I could look into things,” said Vivien fretfully. “I’m not meant to be in the field anymore.”
“Hasn’t been that long since you were left-handed.”
“Long enough. How about that Austin 1300, there?” asked Vivien.
“No,” said Merlin. “We might have to drive fast. Besides, that one looks like the wheels might fall off.”
Vivien sat up straighter and pointed. “That Ford Capri over there!”
“You want to be Bodie from The Professionals, don’t you?”
“I like her,” said Vivien. “So what? You like Raelene Doyle.”
“Doyle’s much the prettier of the two,” said Merlin.
He stopped the cab and they got out, moving swiftly but not in an obvious hurry. Merlin collected his yak-hair bag and suitcase, Vivien scooped up his belt, scabbard, and the road atlas.
The clump of trees shielded them from everywhere except the last row of cars in the car park, but there was no one watching. They walked three cars up, Merlin put his case down, drew a short length of what looked like a metal tape measure from his boot, slid it down next to the window, and opened the Capri’s door in three seconds. He jumped inside to unlock the other doors before starting to hot-wire the ignition. Vivien threw her stuff in the back seat, shoved Merlin’s case in as well, and got in the front passenger seat at the exact moment the engine roared into life.
Forty seconds later, they were back on the A50, now in a silver Ford Capri 3.0 Mk 11 with a black vinyl roof, exactly like the one in the ITV series The Professionals.
“Is the sword still in the same place?” asked Merlin.
“I’m checking,” said Vivien, who had to reach back to grab the atlas and the scabbard. “Keep heading west.”
Susan emerged panting and spluttering, crouched on the stony rim of the well, and looked desperately for her weapon. But she’d turned around completely in the water, and swum to the wrong side. The sword was well out of reach, and the Fenris was up, already looking healthier. Her eyes were bright again, the froth gone from her gums.
The giant she-wolf stalked without any noticeable limp towards Susan, and opened her jaws.
“No,” said Morcenna, standing in the wolf’s way. She looked very small in front of
