Site Index
Home and Site Index
Near the edge of the wood the trees began to thin out. Bill Lomas lowered himself to the ground and began to crawl through the remaining undergrowth towards the vantage point overlooking the village of St-Jean-Du-Bois. He could feel the sun-dried earth grinding into his suit. Dust had got into his mouth and he spat it out.
Why hadn't he thought to bring some jeans or something? If it came to that, why was he here at all, ruining a perfectly good suit just because that idiot Ratcliffe had got a bee in his bonnet that the job was going to be so important? What the hell was all the rush about?
'Careful,' said Millie as she came up beside him. She moved easily, working her way through the undergrowth on her elbows as if she had done that sort of thing all her life. 'You're disturbing the bushes. We might be spotted.'
She eyed his suit expressionlessly.
'You had better let me go first. Didn't you think to bring anything to wear?'
Lomas wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. The grit on his sleeve ground into his skin.
He crawled slowly after Millie. Yesterday he had been all set for three days in Amsterdam, but Ratcliffe's telephone call had screwed that up. Three days expenses down the tube at least, and he could probably have dug up a good reason to stay over for the weekend.
And what about the Ireland versus Holland match? It wasn't every year there was a World Cup, and this year England had a chance. He had really been looking forward to tonight's game: there was nothing to beat top-class international football, even on TV. But there was fat chance he would get to watch it now. If that idiot Ratcliffe hadn't got him to ruuh down here without even a chance to think, he could have made a rational decision and remembered to set the video. All he was likely to get now was the fucking highlights on some Frog late-night show after they had checked into a hotel. And have to put up with the Frog commentator being snidy because England would have to meet the winner and the whole at Europe had already made up its mind that there was no way England stood a chance at surviving past the second leg.
Something in the undergrowth had anagged his jacket and Lomas jerked at it irritably.
Ahead at him he could hear Millie Bateman draw in her breath in exasperation.
'For God's sake, Bill! Stop disturbing the bushes!'
There was the sound of ripping cloth. Lomas gritted his teeth. Well, that was the end at that suit. And it had cost a fortune! He was a city man - how was he supposed to know the job would entail slithering through half the French countryside?
Millie had stopped at the edge of the wood.
'Johnson?'
A man's voice replied.
'Over here...'
Millie's head turned back toward him. Her voice was low, urgent.
'We can see the garage from here, Bill. But be careful! There's not a lot of cover.'
Lomas squirmed through the last of the undergrowth toward the edge of the wood. He could see Johnson now, a burly but athletic looking man wearing a tracksuit. Why hadn't he brought something suitable to wear like that? Even Millie had had the foresight to have brought dungarees. Although of course they were extremely trendy dungarees - Millie never wore anything that wasn't good for her image, especially if Ratcliffe was around. But then everybody knew that Millie was starry-eyed for Ratcliffe. She probably thought she was in his trust, probably believed all that bedtime crap that Ratcliffe was sure to hand out. Ratcliffe was full of crap, although women never seemed to realise. Screwing the boss wouldn't be doing Millie's career any harm, but it certainly wasn't making her any friends among her colleagues.
But just because Millie was shacking up with Ratcliffe, it didn't mean she had any special clout. He would have to make that clear - he was the officer in charge of the case, the one with the experience. What could Millie Bateman know about surveillance work?
Lomas edged forward. His head was level with Millie's hips and she wriggled sideways to make room. She had quite a good figure, Lomas decided. And those tight dungarees left nothing to the imagination. Nice bum... Maybe if he hadn't messed up his career and let a jerk like Ratcliffe get ahead of him, it would be him she would be screwing, not Ratcliffe.
Millie's voice himssed at him angrily.
'For Christ's make, Bill! You're disturbing everything! And mind where you're putting your hand!'
'Sorry,' said Lomas carefully.
He settled himself into the grass. Well, now he was here. Lying in a particularly uncomfortable patch of grass at the edge of a particulary impenetrable wood perched on a hilltop overlooking the sort of grotty French village they deliberately never mentioned in the guide book. And no doubt there would be ants.
A face smeared in black camouflage paint was talking to him. 'Good morning. I'm Johnson. I was expecting you hours ago.'
Lomas stared. This was Johnson? Couldn't Ratcliffe have used some common sense? This guy was military, one of Hodges' grunts. Didn't that idiot Ratcllffe know better than to get Hodges involved?
Lomas shook Johnson's hand. He was going to say something about the traffic that had held them up, but then he thought better of it Why should he apologize? The guy was getting paid for being there.
Lomas sized up the man lying in the grass beside him. Military-style short-cropped hair, a dark tracksuit, a bum-bag like skiers wore, and a distinctly belligerent face covered in what looked like boot polish. Late twenties or early thirties, probably a NCO. A real grunt. Only one of Hodges' goons would have thought it necessary to paint his face. But at least the idiot hadn't brought a gun.
Then Lomam realised he was wrong. The bum-bag sagged heavily from a thick belt around Johnson's waist: fanny-pack holsters they called them in the States.
Lomas controlled him exasperation. There was no rearson to let it bother him. This was Ratcliffe's show. With Willoughby away, Ratcllffe had the responsibility for running the Department. Well, let him get on with it. Why should he care if Ratcliffe made an asshole of himself?
'I was expecting one of Latimer's men,' said Lomax.
'Who's Latimer?' said Johnson.
'Never mind,' said Lomas. 'So have they told you anything about this?'
'Not a lot. Just that this guy Richardson is supposed to be some sort of terrorist. As I understand it, I'm here to give advice on surveillance. But that all depends on what level you want. Personally I think it's a load of shit'
'Ah... right,' said Lomas. 'So where is Richardson?'
Johnson held out a pair of heavy binoculars.
'You will need these. They're high power, but if you keep them well supported you shouldn't need a stand.'
He pointed towards the village in the valley below.
Lomas peered through the binoculars. A road ran from east to west through the village. The village straddled the road, a haphazard collection of rundown buildings with most of the shutters closed.
'That's the road you came on,' said Johnson. 'You can't see the turning that leads to the wood from here, its too far to the right.' Then he turned his head away and spat 'Fucking ants. They get everywhere.'
'So where's the garage?'
'Over there,' said Johnson, pointing. 'Just on the edge of the village.'
Lomam focussed the binoculars on the garage. A man was on the forecourt filling up a car. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, leaning leisurely against the car while the display on an old-fashioned petrol pump slowly clocked up the litres. So that was Malcolm Richardson, the man there was all the fuss about.
Johnson was speaking again.
'Am I said it's a load of shit. It's going to be next to impossible to arrange anything approaching close surveillance. Any stranger around here will stick out like a sore thumb. I wouldn't even like to use these woods more than once or twice. That lane we came by must be in constant use - you can tell by the tracks. Some busybody would be bound to spot the cars.'
Lomas scanned the garage through the binoculars.
It looked run down, seedy, the sort of place no one would consider stopping at unless they were desperate for petrol. Rusting cars and vans littered a yard at the back of the garage, and through the murky window of the office Lomas could see what appeared to be a row of pottery artifacts with curling sun-faded price tickets. Not a bad site for a local garage, but it would need investment to make it a success, and there was no sign of that.
A boy had appeared from inside the garage carrying a broom and had begun to sweep the forecourt. His sweeping was haphazard, ineffectual, as if no one had bothered to show him how to do it. Probably a school kid, Lomas decided. Ratcliffe had said Richardson lived alone. Probably the boy was earning some holiday money by helping around the garage.
'If this guy Rlchardson really is a terrorist, he hasn't chosen a bad location,' said Johnson gloomily. 'The village is not far from the motorway and Lyons is only an hour or so away by car. And yet the village is quite isolated. There's not much traffic, and hardly anything ever stops. But then there's nothing to stop for of course...'
He turned to Lomas. 'So what's Richardson suppossed to have been up to?'
Lomas ignored him. There was no way he was giving out information to one of Hodges' people. Johnson was sure to brief Hodges afterwards. If Ratcliffe wanted to involve Hodges, that was up to him, but it was not something he would do.
He would have to brief Millie, but that could wait until Johnson had gone. Although no doubt Ratcllffe would have already told her something. There was bound to be pillow talk.
'OK. Run over what has happened since you got here. I want to know what Rlchardson has been doing. If he's got a routine, that sort of thing.'
Johnson started to relate what had happened, but Lomas found himself unable to give Johnson's voice his full attention. Through his binoculars he could see the man on the garage forecourt putting away the nozzle of the pump. Then he leisurely straightened up and went around to the driver's side of the car. A hand appeared at the car window holding out a banknote. It waved the note irritably, as if the driver was annoyed it had taken so long for the car to be refuelled. Then the car was surging away off the forecourt and heading east.
'My guess is that Richardson is planning a trip,' Johnson was saying. 'He's got some sort of Volkswagen minibus and he serviced it this morning. Then he filled it with petrol.'
Lomas trained the binoculars on the vehicles on the forecourt. There warn a battered, faded-blue vehicle parked near the double doors of what Lomam took to be a repair shop.
'It's a Microbus. You don't see a lot of those these days.
'So what's that when it's at home,' said Johnson.
'A Microbus,' explained Lomas. 'They were around in the Seventies. You used to see them painted all over with flowers. Real hippy wagons they were then.'
'If you say so,' said Johnson. 'Before my time.'
What would Richardson be doing with a Microbus? They were hardly a practical proposition now. Those things went as if that were powered by rubber bands. It took ages to wind them up to a respectable speed. Only an idiot would use one for transport nowadays.
The man was going back inside the garage, a lanky figure wearing jeans and a T-shirt and trainers, ambling casually across the forecourt as if he didn't have a care in the world.
A phrase came into Lomas' head. The guy was so laid-back... Old fashioned expression now, of course, but that was exactly the expression that described Richardson. Could they have got it wrong? Could they be watching the wrong man? Ratcliffe had said Richardson was supposed to be dangerous, but the guy at the garage didn't look dangerous. He almost appeared to be asleep on his feet.
Lomas studied the figure on the forecourt. Perhaps it was Ratcliffe who had got it wrong. Maybe the whole thing was a wild-goose chase. Ratcliffe could be a real asshole sometimes.
Lomas shrugged to himself. But so what? He had a job to do. His instructions were to reconnoitre the location and report back with a recommendation on the resources the surveillance would require. And Ratcliffe had been insistent that the surveillance would have to be discreet. Even if it meant losing contact with Richardson, it was imperative that Richardson didn't realise he was being watched.
Lomas turned to Johnson.
'So what's Richardson been doing? What's his routine?'
Johnson shrugged.
'The guy got up very early and went into the workshop. Then he went back into the bungalow for about an hour. Presumably that was for breakfast. Then as I said, he serviced the Volkwagen. At about nine o'clock a car stopped and he served some petroL Then he sold a can of oil to someone in a pickup. Including the car that's just left, only three vehicles have stopped - the garage isn't exactly doing a thriving business.'
'What about the boy?' asked James. 'When did he arrive?'
'About eight-thirty. Doesn't seem to have a lot to do, Just generally helping out. There has only been one other caller. An old geezer passed by with a stick, probably came from one of the cottages near the garage although I didn't see which one. He looked a bit dotty to me. Richardson was on the forecourt and the old man waved his stick in the air and yelled something at Richardson. Then he hobbled off towards the centre of the village, cackling to himself as if he had just cracked the funniest joke in the world. Richardson just ignored him. But as I said, the old man looked a bit dotty.'
Johnson shrugged. 'That's all really, except that about ten o'clock Richardson went up into the village leaving the boy in charge. He came back about an hour later with a loaf of bread.'
'An hour? Just to get a loaf of bread?'
Johnson nodded his head towards the garage.
'Well, just look at him. He's not exactly a live wire. And of course, there's a café in the village. He could have gone there. Mind you, he did get up early, so maybe he's not as lazy as he looks.'
Lomas studied the man on the forecourt. Richardson's hair was long and unkempt, as if the thought of a haircut never crossed his mind. And he was sure that was a patch on the guy's jeans. Who the hell patched-up old jeans these days?
Lomas adjusted the binoculars to improve the focus. Ratcliffe had said Richardson was believed to be connected with a terrorist organisation, but the man on the forecourt looked all wrong. Terrorists dressed anonymously. They took care to blend with their surroundings. Terrorists didn't advertise themselves by driving a Microbus and wearing old patched-up jeans like a freaking hippy dropout.
The man on the forecourt was strolling towards the doors of the repair shop. At the doors he turned round, his head turning leisurely in the direction of the wood.
Lomas focussed his binoculars on the man's face. The man was too far away for the features to be clear, but suddenly Lomas had an impression of the man's eyes. They seemed to be sweeping the landscape, cold, flat eyes without a trace of emotion. For a moment they appeared to focus on the undergrowth at the edge of the wood, and a shiver ran through Lomas' body.
He lowered the binoculars slowly.
He was definitely watching the right man.
up