...'
'Discreetly,' Therese said. 'Under a tree. With the keys
in.'
'Yes,' he said inadequately.
She opened her door to the pavement, looked scornfully
back at him. 'Because it wouldn't do anything for you. Your whole life's been
tidy and discreet. I'm trying to help you, Shaw.'
His fingers felt numb as he turned the key in the
ignition.
A car slowed behind them.
'What if there's somebody in the bus shelter?'
Therese shrugged, got out, slammed the car door. Shaw dug
into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handful of tissues and began feverishly to
scrub at the steering-wheel and the gear-lever and the door-handle and anything
else he might have touched.
He'd been doing this for a couple of minutes when a
wetness oozing between his fingers told him he was now using the tissue he'd
employed to clean himself up after Therese had finished with him. And they
could trace you through your semen now, couldn't they, DNA tests... genetic
fingerprinting ... oh, no ... Banging
his forehead against the steering-wheel... . no ...no ... no ...
The passenger door clicked gently open.
The police. The police had
been surreptitiously following them for miles. That car going slowly, creeping
up ... He'd be destroyed.
Shaw reacted instinctively. He flung open his door, threw
his weight against it, hurling himself out into the middle of the road, a heavy
lorry grinding past less than a couple of feet away.
Across the roof of the Saab he looked not into a police
uniform but into Therese's dark, calm eyes.
'I'll be listening out,' she whispered, 'for the sound of
breaking glass.'
CHAPTER
III
Matt Castle was standing on
the pub steps with an arm around the shoulders of Lottie, his wife. Looked a
bit awkward, Ernie noticed, on account of Lottie was very nearly as tall as
Matt.
Lottie Castle. Long time since he'd seen her. By 'eck,
still a stunner, hair strikingly red, although some of that probably came out
of a bottle nowadays. Aye, that's it, lad, Ernie encouraged himself. Think
about sex, what you can remember. Nowt like it for refocusing the mind after a
shock.
How had she known? Was the bogman part of the Bridelow
tradition? Was that it? By 'eck, it needed some thinking about, did this.
But not now.
'I'll stand here.' Matt Castle was smiling so hard he
could hardly get the words between his teeth. 'So's you can all hear me, inside
and out. Can you all hear me?'
'What's he say?' somebody bleated, to merry laughter,
from about three yards in front of Matt. Ernie noted, rather disapprovingly,
that some of this lot were half-pissed already.
'Yes, we can,' Ernie called helpfully from the edge of
the forecourt.
'Thank you, Mr Dawber.'
Ernie smiled. All his ex-pupils, from no matter how far
back, insisted on calling him Mr Dawber. When they'd first met, he was a
baby-faced twenty-one and Matt Castle was eleven, in the top class. So he'd be
fifty-six or seven now. Talk about time flying ...
'I just want to say,' said the new licensee, shock-haired
and stocky, 'that... well... it's bloody great to be back!'
And of course a huge cheer went up on both sides of the
door. Matt Castle, Bridelow-born, had returned in triumph, like the home team
bringing back the cup.
Except this was more important to the community than a
bit of local glory. 'Looks well, doesn't he?' Ernie whispered to Ma Wagstaff,
who didn't reply.
'Always wanted a pub of me own,' Matt told
'Discreetly,' Therese said. 'Under a tree. With the keys
in.'
'Yes,' he said inadequately.
She opened her door to the pavement, looked scornfully
back at him. 'Because it wouldn't do anything for you. Your whole life's been
tidy and discreet. I'm trying to help you, Shaw.'
His fingers felt numb as he turned the key in the
ignition.
A car slowed behind them.
'What if there's somebody in the bus shelter?'
Therese shrugged, got out, slammed the car door. Shaw dug
into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handful of tissues and began feverishly to
scrub at the steering-wheel and the gear-lever and the door-handle and anything
else he might have touched.
He'd been doing this for a couple of minutes when a
wetness oozing between his fingers told him he was now using the tissue he'd
employed to clean himself up after Therese had finished with him. And they
could trace you through your semen now, couldn't they, DNA tests... genetic
fingerprinting ... oh, no ... Banging
his forehead against the steering-wheel... . no ...no ... no ...
The passenger door clicked gently open.
The police. The police had
been surreptitiously following them for miles. That car going slowly, creeping
up ... He'd be destroyed.
Shaw reacted instinctively. He flung open his door, threw
his weight against it, hurling himself out into the middle of the road, a heavy
lorry grinding past less than a couple of feet away.
Across the roof of the Saab he looked not into a police
uniform but into Therese's dark, calm eyes.
'I'll be listening out,' she whispered, 'for the sound of
breaking glass.'
CHAPTER
III
Matt Castle was standing on
the pub steps with an arm around the shoulders of Lottie, his wife. Looked a
bit awkward, Ernie noticed, on account of Lottie was very nearly as tall as
Matt.
Lottie Castle. Long time since he'd seen her. By 'eck,
still a stunner, hair strikingly red, although some of that probably came out
of a bottle nowadays. Aye, that's it, lad, Ernie encouraged himself. Think
about sex, what you can remember. Nowt like it for refocusing the mind after a
shock.
How had she known? Was the bogman part of the Bridelow
tradition? Was that it? By 'eck, it needed some thinking about, did this.
But not now.
'I'll stand here.' Matt Castle was smiling so hard he
could hardly get the words between his teeth. 'So's you can all hear me, inside
and out. Can you all hear me?'
'What's he say?' somebody bleated, to merry laughter,
from about three yards in front of Matt. Ernie noted, rather disapprovingly,
that some of this lot were half-pissed already.
'Yes, we can,' Ernie called helpfully from the edge of
the forecourt.
'Thank you, Mr Dawber.'
Ernie smiled. All his ex-pupils, from no matter how far
back, insisted on calling him Mr Dawber. When they'd first met, he was a
baby-faced twenty-one and Matt Castle was eleven, in the top class. So he'd be
fifty-six or seven now. Talk about time flying ...
'I just want to say,' said the new licensee, shock-haired
and stocky, 'that... well... it's bloody great to be back!'
And of course a huge cheer went up on both sides of the
door. Matt Castle, Bridelow-born, had returned in triumph, like the home team
bringing back the cup.
Except this was more important to the community than a
bit of local glory. 'Looks well, doesn't he?' Ernie whispered to Ma Wagstaff,
who didn't reply.
'Always wanted a pub of me own,' Matt told
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