At Risk

42

They let the first car pass. It was a Fiat Uno covered in unpainted patches of filler, and didn’t look as if it had much life left in it. Parking the Astra at the side of the road between Dersthorpe and Marsh Creake-in the same layby, as it happened, in which Brian Mudie and Wendy Clissold had spent twenty happy minutes the night before-had been a calculated risk. If a police car had passed, that would probably have been the end of it.

But no police car came. The Fiat was followed by a Nissan, in equally poor shape, and as it disappeared a silent mushroom of flame-red smoke leapt into the sky beyond Dersthorpe. The Fiesta’s petrol tank, thought Jean, as the fuel-enriched smoke joined the thickening grey coil from the house. The fire service would almost certainly be on their way already-someone would have seen the bungalow go up-but they probably had to come from Fakenham. With a bit of luck it would be a good five minutes or so before the police were on the case, and at least ten before any roadblocks were set up.

Rain streamed down her face, but strangely, Jean wasn’t cold. Desperation, and the real possibility of capture, had taken her beyond fear to something like calm. She was steady now, and could feel the modest, comforting weight of the Malyah in the pocket of her mountain jacket.

A silver car-she didn’t have time to identify it, but it looked newish and sporty-swung into view, and she heard the thump of a powerful bass speaker. She stepped into the road, arms waving and hair flying, forcing the driver to make an emergency stop.

He was in his late twenties, with an earring and a greasy centre-parting. Techno-trance music poured from the car. “Want to get yourself bloody killed?” he shouted angrily, half opening the door. “What’s your problem?”

Wrenching the Malyah from her jeans, she pointed it at his face. “Get out,” she ordered. “Now! Or I’ll shoot you.”

He hesitated, slack-jawed, and dropping her aim for a second she put a 9mm round into the seat between his tracksuited legs. The wind whipped away the sharp percussive crack.

“Out!”

He half fell, half climbed out of the car, bug-eyed with shock, leaving the key in the ignition and the engine and the CD player running.

“Into the passenger seat, now. Move!”

He scrambled unsteadily inside and she reached in and snapped off the music. In the sudden silence, she was aware of the loud beat of the rain on the car roof.

“Seat belt. Hands on your knees.”

He nodded mutely, and she kept him covered as Faraj exited the Astra, loaded the rucksacks into the boot of the silver car, and took his place in the back seat with the map book and the biscuit tin on his lap. He was wearing the Yankees baseball cap beneath the hood of his waterproof jacket, and his face was all but invisible. For perhaps thirty seconds Jean familiarised herself with the gearing and dashboard controls. The car was some sort of Toyota.

“OK,” she said, reversing sharply into the layby and swinging the nose back towards Marsh Creake. “Like I said, you just sit there, understand? Try anything-anything at all-and he’ll shoot you in the head.”

From his pocket Faraj drew the blunt-nosed PSS, reloaded with SP-4 rounds, and slapped back the magazine, which engaged with a businesslike click. The man, very pale, gave the ghost of a nod. Jean let out the clutch. As she drove off, they passed Diane Munday’s metallic-green Cherokee speeding in the opposite direction.

“Navigate for me,” she said to Faraj in Urdu.