was looking for a
That was peculiar enough, but what concerned him more was that he’d checked his academic directories and been unable to find any reference to a Roger Goldman. Or, for that matter, to a Jean-Paul Pannetier. There was a Pallentier and a Pantonnier, but no Pannetier. Of course, he could have misheard—the museum had been quite noisy—but the incident, in conjunction with Angela’s warning, did concern him.
So as he emerged into the evening bustle of Great Russell Street, Goldman was—for once—paying attention to his surroundings. But spotting anyone who might be lurking in wait for him was virtually impossible, simply because of the sheer number of people on the pavements.
At least he didn’t have far to go—only to the tube station at Russell Square. He walked down Great Russell Street, casting occasional glances behind him, checking the traffic and the pedestrians, then turned up Montague Street.
Until that point, Goldman had seen nothing to concern him, but when he glanced back once more, he saw a dark-haired man starting to run directly toward him. More alarmingly, he locked eyes with a bulky man sitting in the driving seat of a slow-moving car, a man he instantly recognized as the “Jean-Paul Pannetier” who’d visited the museum that afternoon.
Goldman didn’t hesitate. He stepped off the pavement and began running across the road, dodging through the traffic. A barrage of hoots followed him as he swerved around cars, taxis and vans, sprinting for the far side of the street and the safety—he hoped—of the tube station.
He almost made it.
Goldman glanced behind him as he ran around the back of a car, and simply didn’t see the motorcyclist coming up fast on the vehicle’s nearside. When he did see it, the bike was just feet away. The rider braked hard, the front suspension of his bike dipping, and Goldman instinctively leapt aside to try to avoid him.
The front wheel of the bike hit Goldman’s left leg and knocked him sideways.
Waving his arms to try to regain his balance, he stumbled and almost fell, then recovered himself. Again he risked a quick look behind him as he resumed his weaving run, still slightly unbalanced. The man he’d spotted was just a few feet away, and Goldman increased his pace.
But when he looked ahead again, all he saw was the front of a black cab. To Goldman, it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. The driver stamped on the brakes, locking the wheels, but the taxi just kept coming, straight toward him.
Goldman experienced a moment of sheer terror, then the solid impact as the front of the skidding vehicle smashed into his chest. He felt a sudden searing pain as his ribs broke and organs ruptured, then only blackness.
II
Less than ninety minutes later, Angela stepped back into the hotel room.
“That was quick,” Bronson said, looking up from the book he was studying.
“I found a garage on Newmarket Road selling secondhand cars,” she said. “I got a Renault Espace, seven years old. It’s a bit scruffy around the edges, but it’s got a decent rating, good tires and most of its service history, all for two nine nine five. I haggled the salesman down to two and a half and told him to forget about the warranty, which was almost worthless anyway. Five hundred deposit and the rest on credit.”
“Excellent,” Bronson said, as he began packing away the reference books Angela had bought. “That’s ideal. Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
While Bronson carried their few bags out to the car, Angela handed back the room key and paid the hotel bill in cash.
“So, now where are we going?” she asked a few minutes later, as Bronson swung the Espace off the A10 and onto the London-bound M11, just south of Trumpington. “I know you want to cross the Channel, but what was all that about a new bathroom?”
“The plods may be trying to find me, but they shouldn’t be after you. And even if they are, hopefully they’ll be looking for a Mrs. Angela Bronson, not a Miss Angela Lewis. We’re going to fill the back of the car with flat-pack furniture and catch a ferry out of Dover. And I’ll be under all the boxes.”
Angela stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. The checks at Dover and Calais are rudimentary, to say the least. This is the simplest way I can think of to get across the Channel.”
“And if they stop me?”
“You deny all knowledge of me. Tell them you haven’t seen me for weeks. Act surprised that anyone’s looking for me. You haven’t heard about Mark’s death, and you’ve recently bought a tumbledown ruin in the Dordogne—just outside Cahors, say—and you’re taking a bunch of B&Q’s finest flat-packs over to refit the bathroom.”
“But what if they steer me into the inspection shed and start unloading the boxes?”
“In that case,” Bronson said, “the moment they find me, you leap out and hide behind the biggest customs officer you can find. You’re terrified, because I’ve forced you at gunpoint to help me escape from Britain. You’re a victim, not a collaborator.
I’ll back you up.”
“But you don’t have a gun,” Angela objected.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Bronson pulled the Browning from the pocket of his jacket.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
Bronson explained about the second, failed, burglary at the house in Italy.
“You do know that you could go to prison just for carrying a gun?”
“I do. I also know that the people we’re up against have already killed at least once, so I’m hanging on to this and taking my chances with the plods.”
“You
Bronson shrugged. “I know, but that’s my problem, not yours. I’ll do my best to protect you.”
Just more than an hour later, Bronson emerged from the B&Q warehouse in Thurrock with a laden cart. He loaded everything carefully into the back of the Renault, making sure that the upturned acrylic bath was in the center.
Then they were off again, crossing the Thames at Dartford and picking up the motorway for Dover. Bronson pulled off at the last service area before the port and parked the Espace in the most secluded section of the car park he could find.
“Time to pack me away,” he said lightly, his tone not entirely concealing his concern.
There was no certainty that the police would accept that he had forced Angela to drive him out of the country if his hiding place was discovered. He knew very well that they could both end up as unwilling guests of Her Majesty if it all went wrong.
He climbed into the back of the Espace and slid under the bath. It was cramped, but by pulling his knees up to his chest he was able to make himself fit. Angela stacked boxes over and around the bath until it was covered, then climbed into the driving seat and pulled out of the service area.
At the port, she bought a five-day return ticket at one of the discount booking offices and drove into the Eastern Docks, following the “embarkation” signs. At the British Customs post she proffered her passport, which was swiped through the electronic reader with barely a grunt of acknowledgment. The French passport control officer glanced at the maroon cover and waved her through.
Just beyond the two booths was another “embarkation” sign, but as she accelerated toward it a bulky figure stepped in front of the car and pointed to his left, toward the inspection shed.
Angela cursed under her breath but smiled agreeably at him, and followed the road around into the shed. Inside, she dropped the driver’s door window as one of the officers walked toward her and glanced into the back of the car.
“The French dream?” the officer asked. People who bought goods in Britain to try to renovate French ruins were not exactly a rare sight at Dover.
