Tracers

THIRTY-SIX

H e’d got company.

Rik was over an hour out of Blakeney, along a stretch of dual carriageway near Newmarket, when he realized he was being followed. One minute his rear-view mirror showed a deserted road, the next a plain blue Volvo had ghosted up out of nowhere and was sitting two hundred yards behind him, matching his speed.

He increased his pace. The other car picked up and stayed with him. When he slowed down, the Volvo did the same. He waited for a straight, clear stretch and eased up to ninety, slipping by two slower vehicles with ease. After an initial hesitation, the Volvo kept pace and slotted in behind him again.

After two more miles of convoy driving, the other driver accelerated and rushed by with a surge of power. There were two men inside, and the passenger gave Rik a long look on the way past. Then they were gone.

It wasn’t exactly subtle and stirred the hairs on Rik’s neck. He thought about the woman outside Stokes Cottage. Also not too subtle, and no more a dog walker than he was. He doubted if she was local, either. He was willing to lay good odds she’d called out the troops as soon as he left. It must have taken them until now to locate his position.

So who the hell were they?

He checked the map. Another few miles and he’d be on the M11 heading south. The fact that the men in the car hadn’t stopped him didn’t mean they weren’t planning something. Once on the motorway, he’d be an easy mark with no simple way off and no place to hide. All they had to do was sit on a bridge and wait for him to go by, then tuck in behind him or radio ahead to another car and throw a boxing manoeuvre around him.

He saw a sign coming up. A moment’s hesitation, then he swung the wheel and took the turning at the last second, squeezing between a milk truck and a caravan, the suddenness of the move drawing a long blare of protest from the truck’s horn.

He slowed and checked the map. He was now heading west towards Royston. It might take longer to get to London, but if the men in the Volvo didn’t know where he was, they couldn’t stop him.

He settled in his seat and concentrated on watching for speed cameras and weaving past slower traffic, skilfully changing down to power through bends slick with spilled mud off the fields. He grinned to himself and flicked on the radio, enjoying the tiny burst of rebellion and the feel of the road skimming by. If they were really serious, they’d find him in the end. . but in the process he’d give them a run for their money.

After several miles he pulled into a gateway and allowed some trailing vehicles to pass him. Local traffic, none of it fast. He took the opportunity to call Harry and let him know that the cottage was clean.

‘It’s as if Matuq was never there. And I collected a couple of new friends on the way.’ He explained about the woman and the Volvo.

‘Sounds official,’ said Harry.

‘Yeah — it looked it, too.’ They had both spent enough time around these kind of cat-and-mouse situations to recognize when they were on the receiving end, although Rik hadn’t got Harry’s level of active experience. ‘What do we do about it?’

‘We stay loose,’ Harry replied pragmatically. ‘Until they show their hand and we know who they are, there’s not much we can do about it.’ He hesitated. ‘We had our own share of excitement down here, too: Joanne shot a car.’

‘Nice of her. Was anyone in it?’

‘One man. Could be the same watcher who was on our case all along. Where are you now?’

‘Heading for Battersea. Do you still want me to check it out?’

‘Yes. If that’s clean, too, there’s a pattern. But take it easy and don’t get caught.’ Harry cut the connection.

Rik got out of the car and cocked his ear, listening. He was surrounded by fields and the air was deathly quiet save for a couple of skylarks. No droning engines. If his followers had a helicopter at their disposal, it was operating at distance.

He got back in and took off again.

The flat in Battersea looked deserted on his first drive-by. After the second look, and with no signs of anything suspicious, Rik slipped his car into a space by a newsagent along the main street and sat for a while watching the flow of people and traffic.

When he was satisfied everything looked right, he got out and strolled along the pavement, checking out the other cars along the kerb. He had an eye out for the signs Harry had told him about: the misted windows, the driver sitting too still, the collection of takeaway wrappers or water bottles in the foot-well. There were no watchers that he could see, but that meant nothing; anyone worth his salt would look like an ordinary shopper, not an armed response unit member with a Heckler amp; Koch across his chest.

He turned the corner and glanced up at the open stairway to Joanne’s flat. The door looked shut tight. If the lock had been mended, someone must have been inside. So why was there no crime scene tape anywhere?

His chest was hammering. This was the most difficult part: preparing to go through a door and knowing that somebody might be waiting for you on the other side. He almost felt his nerve go, but steeled himself. He had to see if a clean-up job had been carried out, like in Blakeney. If he freaked out now, he’d never forgive himself. And nor would Harry. He might say it was OK, but that would be it for them.

He stepped on to the metal stairway. Walked up two at a time, trying not to rattle the structure and signal his approach. A bit like hacking into someone’s computer system, he thought vaguely. He still couldn’t tell if the door was fixed. He reached out and put his fingers against it.

It swung open.

‘Hello?’

If only he’d got a weapon. He was pretty sure Harry had got one tucked away somewhere. He’d meant to ask him about it, but Harry had always vetoed the idea of them outside of the range or a known ‘hot’ zone. If he’d got one, why hadn’t he said something?

His call echoed back. The place was empty. He glanced over his shoulder to check the street. A few empty cars at the kerb, two elderly ladies struggling to get a shopping trolley up on to the path. No single pedestrians lurking with little apparent purpose, no unusual flashes of light to indicate binoculars, no sudden movement of bodies getting ready to rush up the stairs and pound him into a pulp.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside.