The Ring of Death (22 page)

He felt himself weaken. He
would
tell her about it, even though he could already picture the look of total disgust which would come to her face as he described what had gone on – even though he knew that when he had finished telling her, she would despise him. He would come clean whatever the cost, and maybe, that way, he could find a little redemption.

The phone rang, and he grabbed at it.

‘Yes?' he gasped into the receiver.

‘Have you got the money and the jewellery together?' asked a calm voice at the other end of the line.

‘Yes . . . yes, I have.'

‘How much is it worth?'

‘I don't know. How
could
I know? I'm an accountant, for God's sake, not a jeweller.'

‘You'll get nowhere with that attitude,' the other man said sternly.

‘I'm sorry,' Dunston grovelled. ‘I didn't mean to . . . I only wanted to . . .'

‘You must know how much you paid for the jewellery in the first place,' the caller said. ‘Take an educated guess at what it's worth now.'

Dunston gazed wildly up at the ceiling, as if he expected to find the answer written there.

‘It's probably worth a thousand pounds,' he said finally. ‘Maybe even a little more.'

The man on the other end of the line fell silent.

‘Are you still there?' Dunston asked, as he felt the tears start to run down his cheeks.

‘I'm still here. A thousand pounds, you say? Or maybe even a little more?'

‘Yes.'

Another pause, then the man said, ‘I suppose if that's all there is, it will have to do. Now listen carefully. There's an unpaved lane running along the back of your house—'

‘I know.'

‘I
know
you know. Don't interrupt again!'

‘I'm sorry,' Dunston sobbed, and then, realizing that that could be interpreted as an interruption, said, ‘I'm sorry,' a second time.

‘Be on the lane in two minutes from now,' the caller said. ‘If you're not there when I arrive, I won't wait for you.'

The line went dead.

Dunston picked up his suitcase, and headed towards the back door. Then, seeing his wife huddled in her armchair, he paused for a moment.

‘I love you, Mary,' he said. ‘I honestly do. And I'm
so
sorry.'

‘Will you . . . will you be coming back?' his wife asked.

‘I don't know,' he admitted. ‘I hope so.'

He went through the kitchen, and into the back garden. It had gone completely dark now, but there was a moon, and he could see the path to the back gate quite clearly.

Once on the lane, he stood peering into the blackness. And then he saw the headlights – two shining, bright yellow eyes – moving slowly towards him.

As the vehicle got closer, he could see that it was a six-hundredweight van.

‘A van?' he thought. ‘That's not much of a getaway car.'

And suddenly, he was quite proud of feeling so calm – of being able to make a joke, even if it was only a weak one.

The van came to a halt beside him, and the driver reached across to open the passenger door.

‘Get in,' he said.

Dunston manoeuvred his suitcase over the passenger seat into the back of the vehicle, and then climbed in.

The van pulled off again.

‘Where are we going?' Dunston asked.

‘You'll know when we get there,' the driver replied.

‘Look, I'm paying for this, so I have a right to know now where we're going,' Dunston said, feeling more in control of himself now than he had since he'd seen the police press conference on the television.

‘Where I'm taking you, all your worries will soon be over,' the driver said.

They had turned off the lane, and were on a paved road with street lights. For the first time, Dunston got a real look at his rescuer's face.

‘I know you from somewhere,' he said.

‘Do you?' the driver replied, his voice devoid of interest.

‘Yes, I do.'

But
where
had he seen the man before?

Had they met on a professional basis, perhaps?

Was he one of the company's less important clients, whose account had been handled by one of the junior members of the firm?

Did he work for some other company, that Dunston's had audited?

Had they met in a pub, or at some sort of social gathering?

Or was the link even more tenuous than that?

And suddenly he had it.

‘I know who you are,' he said triumphantly. ‘You're . . .'

‘That's right,' the driver agreed. ‘I am.'

It was as the Vauxhall Victor turned a bend in the narrow lane that Jack Crane saw the patrol car a hundred yards ahead of him. It was parked at an angle – its bonnet pointing towards the drainage ditch on one side of the lane, its boot pointing in the direction of the ditch on the other side – and the flashing light on its roof was sending out demented orange rays in all directions.

It was a roadblock! Crane thought.

It couldn't be anything else.

But why would anybody set up a roadblock on this deserted country lane, at this time of night?

As he slowed his vehicle down, his mind ran through a series of rapid calculations. He was two or three minutes behind Forsyth's vehicle, he estimated – which was just about acceptable in terms of not losing him on a road where there very few turnings. But by the time the patrol car had performed the manoeuvre which would be necessary for him to get past it, he would have lost
another
two or three minutes. And that would make his task much more difficult.

A new – and very disturbing – thought came to his mind.

The patrol car must already have been there when Forsyth passed this way, but it had done nothing to stop him. So why was it blocking the lane now?

He brought the Victor to a halt a few feet from the police car, and wound down the window with one hand, while reaching for his warrant card with the other.

One of the uniforms, holding a torch, ambled over to him as if he had all the time in the world.

When he drew level with the car, he shone the torch directly into Crane's eyes and said, ‘Good evening, sir.'

Squinting, Crane held out his warrant card.

‘I'm following the car that just went through here – the Rover 2000 – and what I need you to do is to get your unit out of the way as quickly as possible,' he said urgently.

‘Have you been drinking, sir?' the uniformed officer asked.

‘Didn't you hear what I just said?' Crane demanded. ‘I'm on a job. I need you to get out of the way.'

The second patrol car officer had joined them. ‘There's no need to be abusive, sir,' he said.

‘I'm not being abusive,' Crane protested. ‘For God's sake, will you
listen
to me? I'm on a job!'

‘And there's no need to shout at us, either, sir,' the first officer said.

Crane took a deep breath.

‘Look, if you don't let me through soon, I'll lose the man I'm tailing,' he said, as calmly as he could.

‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, please, sir?' the first officer asked.

‘I've already explained . . .'

‘If you refuse to obey my instructions, you'll leave me no alternative but to remove you forcibly.'

‘This can't be happening,' Crane thought, as he got out of the car. ‘It simply can't be happening.'

The first officer shone his torch on to the lane. ‘What I'd like you to do now, sir, is to walk in a straight line,' he said. ‘Do it slowly, placing the toe of one shoe against the heel of the one in front, and then . . .'

‘I know how it works!' Crane told him. ‘I was on motor patrol myself for six months.'

‘Then you shouldn't have any difficulty following our instructions, should you, sir?'

Forsyth would be at least
five
minutes ahead by now, Crane thought.

‘When
my
boss tells
your
boss about this, you'll get a real rocket for it, you know,' he said.

‘That's as maybe,' the first constable said. ‘But we can't be concerned about that for the moment. We're just doing our job, and what's required of you is to cooperate with us.'

There was no point in arguing – not with the patrol car parked across the lane. Crane walked the line, as he'd been instructed.

‘What do you think?' asked the first constable.

‘He's definitely under the influence,' replied the second.

‘You've got to be joking,' Crane said. ‘I promise you, I haven't touched a drop for over eight hours.'

‘That's what they all say, sir,' the first constable told him.

It was only now that Crane noticed the badge which was painted on the side of the patrol car.

‘You're not Lancashire police at all!' he said. ‘You're from the West Yorkshire Constabulary!'

‘That's right, we are,' the first constable agreed.

‘So you're way outside your own patch!'

‘That would be quite true, under normal circumstances,' the first constable said. ‘But these circumstances aren't normal at all. We've been drafted in for the night. And we've got the paperwork to prove it.'

‘Then I'd like to see that paperwork for myself,' Crane said.

‘DC Crane would like to see the paperwork,' the second constable said to first.

‘How did you know my name?' Crane asked.

‘It's on your warrant card,' the second constable said.

‘I know it is,' Crane agreed. ‘But
you
weren't here when I showed it to your mate!'

‘Do you want to see the paperwork, or not?' the first constable asked.

‘Yes, I want to see the paperwork,' Crane said heavily.

The first constable went back to the patrol car, and returned with a document on a clipboard.

‘Could you shine your torch on this, Tommy, so that DC Crane can get a proper look at it?' he asked the second constable.

‘I'd be more than glad to,' the second constable replied.

Crane quickly scanned the document. It was written in the usual bureaucratic gobbledegook, but it seemed genuine enough, and the signature at the bottom – George Baxter, Chief Constable – was the clincher.

‘Satisfied?' the first constable asked.

No, he wasn't, Crane thought. But he
was
resigned.

‘My colleague will drive your vehicle to our station, and you will accompany me in the patrol car,' the first constable said. ‘Now if you wouldn't mind putting your hands behind your back . . .'

‘You're never going to handcuff me, are you?' Crane asked incredulously.

‘Drunks can suddenly turn violent, and when there's only one officer in the vehicle with them, it's deemed safest to have them handcuffed,' the first constable said. ‘It's normal procedure in a case like this.'

‘I'm not drunk, and you both bloody know it,' Crane said angrily.

‘What's the point in making this any harder than it has to be?' the first constable asked.

No point at all, Crane thought, putting his hands behind his back and feeling the metal bracelets click into place.

NINETEEN

I
t was the early-morning light, filtering in through the small, barred window of his cell, which probably woke Jack Crane up.

His first thought, as he turned over on an unfamiliar mattress, was that he hadn't been asleep at all. And yet, if he hadn't been, where had the hours gone?

He played back the events of the previous evening in his mind.

His arrest – and being handcuffed like a common criminal.

Failing a blood-alcohol test which he knew there was absolutely no way he
could have
failed.

Being photographed – full-faced and profile – while holding up a card which would later identify him as the subject of a mug-shot.

Having his fingerprints taken by a bored duty sergeant who had no idea how humiliating he found the whole process – and probably wouldn't have cared if he had.

He became aware that someone had entered the cell, and looked up to see a uniformed constable was standing next to the bed, with a tray in his hand.

‘I've brought you your breakfast,' the constable said cheerily. ‘A mug of tea, and a fried egg and sausage sandwich. I bet they don't feed you that well over in Lancashire.' He placed the tray on the small table next to the sink. ‘Oh, and there's this,' he added, dropping a buff-coloured envelope on the bed.

‘What is it?' Crane asked, still half-asleep.

‘It's the record of your arrest, your mug shots, your fingerprints and the police doctor's report,' the constable replied. ‘The duty sergeant thought that you'd like to know that there are no other copies.' He paused for a second. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?'

Crane swung his legs off the bed, and stood up. ‘I'm entitled, by law, to make one phone call,' he said.

‘So you are,' the constable agreed. ‘But didn't you make it last night, when you were brought in?'

‘No, I bloody didn't!' Crane said through gritted teeth. ‘I asked if I could make it, but I was refused.'

‘Oh, that's right!' the constable said. ‘I remember now. The phones were on the blink. Nobody could ring in or out.'

That was bollocks, Crane thought – total and utter bollocks.