“I’m ready for bed. It was a lovely meal.”
“Why don’t you close your eyes for a few minutes?”
She laughed. “I’d just go to sleep.”
“I’ll wake you up. Just rest your eyes … that’s it. When I count to ten you’ll be asleep but you’ll still hear me. One, two … three, four … good … five … six … seven … deeper and deeper … eight, nine … ten.” He paused for a few seconds and said softly, “Can you hear me?”
The girl nodded and Symons said, “Eight, nine, zero. And now you’re Lara. Beautiful Lara. And you hate what they’re doing to the man you love. The house in the snow and then the Spring and the daffodils. Do you remember?”
“I can hear the tune. The lovely tune, and the bells on the horses’ harness when we had to go away and leave him …” She sighed softly.
“Look at these photographs, Lara. Look at this man. He’s your enemy. And your husband’s enemy. He’s the man who will split you all up. This is where he lives. In this house. Remember this house. Tomorrow you’ll go to that house and ask to see him. You’ll give him this letter and tell him to read it right away. And as soon as he opens it you’ll shoot him with this gun. In his face and his chest. You know how to shoot. You’ll fire twice and then run down the path to the car. This man will be in the car. His name is Ames. He’ll bring you to me and you will have saved us all.”
The long row of Victorian terraced houses looked grim despite the sunshine. As the car pulled up at the corner of the road Symons got out of the car with the girl and as they walked together he said, “Lara, you know what to do?” The girl nodded and Symons walked back down the street, ignoring the parked car.
There was a dusty privet hedge in the small front garden, marking the boundary with its neighbour, and a cement path led up to the door. She knocked on the door and stood back as she had been told to do. So that they could see that it was only a girl.
The man who opened the door was holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich in his hand. Dark-haired and red-faced he seemed younger than he had looked in the photographs.
“Mr. Rafferty?”
“That’s me.”
“I was told to give you this letter. They want me to take back an answer.”
The man put the last of the sandwich in his mouth, wiped his hands on his shirt and started to tear open the envelope. The first shot took him full in the face, jerking back his head. His hands were reaching out for the support of the wall when the second shot, in his chest, knocked him off his feet.
The door of the car was already open and the engine running, and Maclaren pulled the girl inside as he let in the clutch. They left the car outside St. Saviour’s Church and walked a hundred yards down the road to where Symons was waiting for them in the hire car. Maclaren took the wheel and Symons scrambled in the back with the girl. He turned to her quickly.
“Close your eyes, Lara … I’ll count from one to ten and you’ll feel real good. One, two … coming up … three, four … five … waking slowly … six, seven, eight … deep breaths … nine … ten. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Maclaren reached over with one arm and took her handbag as he watched the road ahead. Driving with one hand he removed the gun and passed the bag back to Symons.
“You’re nice and relaxed … you don’t remember anything about today or yesterday evening … you’re Nancy Rawlins … and you’re on holiday. D’you understand?”
“Yes. I like being on holiday.”
“Tell me your name.”
“I’m Nancy Rawlins and I’m on holiday.”
“Good girl. Now I’ll wake you up again.”
16
Percy House could only be reached by the rough dirt road from the metalled road that eventually wound its way half-way up the Cheviot Hills. From the bedroom windows you could see the deserted beach and the sea where it foamed and crashed against the strange outcrop of granite rocks that jutted out from the shore for almost two hundred yards. Local historians sometimes claimed that the outcrop was man-made, a sighting line from the big house to Holy Island. Geologists dismissed the theory as totally unfounded, but the annual debate on the subject at Alnwick Local History Society was always the liveliest night in their winter programme.
Symons and Petersen sat in one of the workrooms watching the screen. They were both in casual clothes. Blue denim shirts and trousers, their feet in solid walking shoes. As the black and white film flickered to an end on the screen and the tail of the film came free from the sprocket Symons switched off the projector and used a torch to walk over to the main light switch.
He made his way back to the armchair, sat down and leaned back looking at Petersen.
“D’you trust them, Pete?”
“You mean all of them?”
“Yep.”
Petersen yawned and stretched his arms and legs.
“They’re too deeply involved to try any fancy games.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t trust that bastard Maclaren.”
“Why him particularly?”
“He’s always probing around. Have I had any practical experience that it works at different levels? How did the CIA pay me? Always back in the past. Away from what we’re doing now.”
“They’re scared that it could leak that we’re doing it for them.”
“Let’s have another look at the film.”
When the lights were out and the focus readjusted on the projector they both sat watching the screen.
The camera angle was low and the lens slowly followed the white lines on what looked like a parquet floor. The lines were straight, branching off at right angles, left and right, in a convoluted pattern
