Daniel shoves aside those horrible memories and focuses on the journey ahead. The van is doing well. He hadn’t been sure it would make the journey overland to the border, but by and large, the vehicle was performing well above expectations. Thankfully the main roads in Turkey are pretty good, not like the unpaved, rocky, dirt roads of Southeast Asia, where you could encounter slips every five minutes, especially in monsoon season.
The downside of Turkey is the dust you get from the arid landscape. A fine tawny powder that covers the dash and puts half-moons on the windshield. Daniel has to jet the glass with water at regular intervals to heighten visibility. He tries that now but the water is running low and a tiny squirt barely reaches the glass. He turns on the wipers regardless, and the dust smears, then blurs, until the windshield partially clears.
He needs to replenish supplies, check the status of the oil, and refill the water tank. Not yet, though. Daniel wants to log as much distance between him and Istanbul as possible. He had seen the reports and knew the police were looking for them. They had no clue as to where he was though, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Careful to keep his eyes on the road, he unscrews the drink bottle and takes a pull of the tepid water. If he keeps to this trajectory, he’ll hit Iraq then Pakistan and India, all suitable places in which to disappear. But those countries do not appeal to him as much as Southeast Asia, where westerners are held in high regard and the cost of living is dirt cheap. Not to mention the skirmishes and wars that break out in this part of the world. No, that would not do at all. Daniel and Toni needed a safe place to raise their children.
Tomorrow, before the last run to the border, he will have to stop and stock up on food and water. There’s no telling when he’ll be able to get more once they cross the border into Iran. He needs to be careful with money, too. He has a healthy wad of US dollars but that must last because it’s anyone’s guess how many bribes he will need to dish out at the border.
A nasty smell filters through the car.
“Oh dear. Did we have an accident?” says Daniel, winding down the window. “Never fear, my love, we will have you sorted out in a bit.”
He scans for somewhere to pull over. But everywhere is too exposed. He bears the stench for another twenty minutes until he finds a small bush-clad layby on the outskirts of a small village.
He parks and gets out. Making sure he’s alone, he circles round to the back of the van and pulls a lever to lower the seat and enters the area where Toni is sweating beneath the nest of blankets. He peels back the layers. He pauses there, brushing his hand across her forehead, bending to graze his lips with hers. But the smell soon has him moving. He lifts her dress, exposes the adult diaper, and unfastens the sticky strip on either side.
It’s nothing to him. He’s dealt with all manner of bodily fluids and human detritus for years. Still, his nose wrinkles as he folds the soiled diaper and puts it in a plastic bag for later disposal.
Opening the cylinder of antibacterial wipes, he withdraws two sheets and wipes her clean.
She groans.
“There, there, I know it’s cold.”
Daniel smooths hydrocortisone ointment on her inner thighs where a red rash has formed, then slips a fresh diaper under her hips, fastening the sticky strips and pulling her dress back down.
“What did I tell you, my love? Fresh as a daisy.”
He glances at his watch. She’s not due for another shot for an hour yet so he leaves her there and gets out of the van to study the darkening horizon. Should they stop for the night? Or perhaps it is better to keep driving, put as much distance between them and the authorities as possible? It is only a matter of time before he is recognized by some local.
No, he needs rest. He’s no good to Toni if they have an accident. He thinks of the small town they just passed. Perhaps he could rent a room there. But Daniel quickly dismisses the idea. It’s better to sleep in the van. Doing otherwise risks identification.
He tips his wrist to look at his watch. One more hour of driving and he’ll stop. He returns to the van, reaching behind the driver’s seat for his duffel bag. He digs inside, can’t find what he’s looking for. He turns on the interior light and peers into the bag, then tips the contents out on the seat next to him and sorts through it. He sits back, staring at his things, heart hammering. It isn’t there. The map, the one upon which he had so carefully penciled out his route, is missing.
65
“His full name is Daniel George Bambury,” says Sergeant Mager, the bleary-eyed Greater Manchester police sergeant. “He—”
Sergeant Mager’s voice cuts out, his face becomes pixelated, and the video conferencing screen goes black. Detective Muhtar reaches for the remote and looks at the buttons helplessly. Suddenly Sergeant Mager’s face flashes up and the screen returns to normal.
“Can you hear me now?” says Sergeant Mager,
