The Lost Testament

105

‘Thank God for that,’ Angela muttered as Gary Burnside set the parking brake and switched off the engine of the Piper, and they watched the propeller spin somewhat jerkily to a stop.

It had been an uneventful, if bumpy, flight from Le Touquet, and there had been an intermittent crosswind at Redhill, so the landing had also been somewhat bouncy. Angela really hadn’t enjoyed it at all. But now they were down on the ground again, and back in England, and for that Angela was supremely grateful.

The three of them climbed out of the aircraft and walked over to the terminal building, where they were completely ignored by everybody, and Burnside led them through to the main entrance, where two taxis were parked outside.

‘There you go, my friend,’ Burnside said. ‘Not a Customs officer in sight, only a couple of licensed bandits in taxis. England awaits you, as indeed do I, or at least I await a certain amount of folding money, as we agreed.’

Bronson handed over the slim wad of notes that he had prepared.

‘There’s one hundred in sterling and another hundred and fifty euros, which means you’ve made a bit on the deal. Have a drink on us. We really owe you, probably more than you’ll ever know.’

Burnside slid the money smoothly into his trouser pocket and nodded his thanks.

‘I really didn’t believe the inventive story your good lady span for me, but I thought she seemed like a decent person, and you’re not so bad yourself. One word of warning, though. I know the weather’s quite warm at the moment, but if I were you I’d try and make sure that you keep your jacket buttoned up. In that leather shoulder holster under your left armpit is what looks suspiciously like a Glock 17, and carrying one of those around this green and pleasant land is strictly forbidden. As in: “do not collect two hundred pounds and go straight to jail” kind of forbidden. So take care.’

Bronson nodded, smiling ruefully.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said, ‘and you really don’t need to hear it, but thanks again.’

After Burnside had walked away, Bronson paused, looking pensive.

‘What’s wrong?’ Angela asked.

‘We’re here, but I’m not sure we’re going to have it that easy. I don’t want to climb into a taxi out there only to find that the driver is a hitman from P2 waiting for us with a sawn-off shotgun.’

‘You really think they could know we’re here?’

‘I have no idea, but we’ve come so far I really don’t want to take any chances.’

Bronson turned away and strode across to a general noticeboard. Pinned along the edges of the board were a number of business cards from companies offering various services, including taxis. He picked one of the cards at random, took out his mobile, dialled the number and held a short conversation.

‘The car’ll be driving down Kings Mill Lane in about five minutes,’ he said, ending the call. ‘We’ll go out of the other entrance, just in case.’

Moments later, they slipped out of the building, behind the waiting taxis, and made their way through the car park. Nobody appeared to be taking any notice of them, but they still moved cautiously, trying to keep out of sight.

They’d almost reached the road when they heard the sound of a car, accelerating hard, approaching the aerodrome and getting closer by the second.

‘Our taxi?’ Angela suggested.

‘Probably not,’ Bronson replied. ‘This way.’