? ? ?
Miles got off the bus at Sevenoaks. The final stop was opposite the train station, and there was a cab rank in front of it. Time was against him, so he would have to take a risk. He crossed the road and got into the back of the first taxi.
‘Where to, guv?’
‘Luton airport.’
The cabbie looked surprised and delighted.
‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Miles, ‘but don’t break the speed limit.’
? ? ?
‘Start by checking out the airports, train terminals and bus stations within thirty miles,’ said William. ‘We can’t afford to let him escape a second time.’
‘We just don’t have that many coppers available,’ said Ross. ‘It’s a Saturday afternoon and most of them are already out policing football matches.’
‘You can be sure he’ll have taken that into account,’ said William, ‘and built it into his escape plan.’
? ? ?
The taxi came to a halt outside Luton airport just as the crowds were streaming out of football grounds all over the country.
Miles handed the cabbie two twenty-pound notes and didn’t wait for the change. The first thing he did as he walked into the concourse was check the departure board. He was interested only in flights departing in the next hour. There were just three: one to Newcastle at 5.40, another to Moscow at 8.30 and the final one to Brussels at 6.10. He opened his briefcase, checked the three passports and selected the Canadian one: Jeff Steiner, Company Director. He walked across to the checkin desk, booked a ticket and paid in cash. Mr Steiner didn’t have a credit card, only cash and a passport.
He boarded the plane thirty minutes later. After taking his seat, he considered the worst possible scenarios as he waited for the stewardess to pull the exit door closed. At last, the engines began to turn and the aircraft taxied towards the runway. Another interminable wait before it finally took off. As the plane rose high into the sky, he looked out of the tiny window at a green and pleasant land, and wondered when he’d see England again.
He sat back and began to go over the next part of his plan.
Once the plane had touched down in Brussels, he ditched his Canadian passport in favour of a French one, in the name of Thierry Amodio, architect. During the two-hour stopover, he visited an airport barber, who was surprised by his request.
Thirty minutes later, a bald-headed man made a phone call before he joined a small queue of passengers waiting to board the flight for Barcelona. This time he presented a Dutch passport to the immigration official. Ricardo Rossi, dress designer. Once Rossi had fastened his seatbelt, he skipped the plastic meal, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The plane landed in the Catalonian capital just after midnight. The start of another day. Miles was pleased to see his Spanish driver waiting for him by the exit barrier.
‘Good evening, se?or,’ he said. ‘I hope you had a pleasant flight.’
‘Several,’ Miles said, as he climbed into the back of an anonymous black Volvo.
Another forty minutes passed while he was driven deep into the Spanish countryside, until they reached a recently acquired property that even Booth Watson didn’t know about. A smartly dressed butler had opened the front door before he reached the top step. ‘Good evening, Mr Faulkner,’ he said.
‘Good evening, Collins,’ he replied. ‘Some things never change.’
CHAPTER 9
‘YOU DID WHAT?’ SAID THE commander.
‘I lost him, sir.’
‘Then you’d better find him, or I might have to lose you.’
William was about to ask The Hawk what he had in mind, when it became a rhetorical question.
‘Remind me, Chief Inspector Warwick’ – not a good sign; ‘William’ would have suggested he was in with a chance – ‘do you still have another week’s leave?’
‘Yes, I do, sir.’
‘Then you’ve got seven days to find Faulkner. Should you fail to do so, Chief Inspector, that will give me more than enough time to appoint a replacement as the team’s new SIO, and to decide what your next job will be, and the appropriate rank to go with it.’
The phone went dead.
‘That didn’t sound too friendly,’ said Danny.
‘It could have been worse,’ William responded. ‘He might have addressed me as Constable Warwick.’
‘Then I wouldn’t have to call you “sir”，’ quipped Danny.
‘But until then,’ said William, ‘you can take me home.’
‘Yes, sir.’