A Spoonful of Luger (31 page)

“You
have
got
an
idea.
Yes,”
she
said
quickly,
observing
my
expression.
“But
they’re
a
mile
apart.”

“Right.
Now
I
want
you
to
show
me
the
way
to
Wolverhampton.”

“But
you’ve
been
there.”

“Show
me,
Anne,
will
you!”

She
shrugged.
“The
fast
way
or
the
old
way?”

“I’ve
been
the
fast
way.”

“Then
turn
right
at
the
island
and
left
onto
the
A
road.”

Which
was
what
I’d
been
hoping
for.
Cleave’s
way
—
the
old
way.

“I
suppose
I
ought
to
apologize,”
I
said
after
a
moment.

“I
can’t
think
why.”

“I
cut
you
off
short
yesterday.
You
had
me
confused,
I
admit
that.
I
couldn’t
understand
why
you
wouldn’t
want
me
to
be
there
when
you
recovered.”

“I’d
have
thought
it
was
obvious,”
she
said
briskly.
“You
just
can’t
see
past
that
blasted
male
ego
of
yours.”

“And
I’m
not
really
sure
now.”
I
was
being
stubborn,
determined
to
understand.

“Left
here.
Left.”

I
slowed
for
the
turn.
There’d
been
plenty
of
time,
and
no
need
for her
urgent
cry.
The
engine
rattled
ominously.

“It’s
nothing
to
do
with
ego,”
I
said,
picking
the
words
carefully.
I
glanced
sideways.
“But
you
said
you
were
glad.
Glad,
Anne,
and
in
such
a
strange
tone.
As
though
I
didn’t
already
know
that.”

She
made
an
impatient
sound.

“As
though
it
was
the
reason
you
were
glad
that
I
didn’t
understand,”
I
went
on.

“And
do
you?”

“I
thought
I
did.
Is
there
another
reason?”

“I’d
need
to
know
yours,”
she
said
defensively.

“Naturally,
you
wouldn’t
want
to
lay
eyes
on
me
again.
You’d
tried
to
take
your
own
life.
If
we’d
been
five
minutes
later
— ”

“
You
George?
You
found
me?”

“Didn’t
you
know?”

And
she
was
silent.

“This
is
the
A
road
is
it?”

When
she
still
did
not
reply
I glanced
sideways
and
she
had
a
twisted
handkerchief
to
her
mouth.

“Anne?”

She
shook
her
head
and
looked
out
of
the
side
window,
so
I
just
had
to
manage
with
signposts,
until
at
last
she
said
quietly:

“You’re
on
the
right
road
now.”

It
was
such
a
small
voice.
I
shouldn’t
have
mentioned
her
suicide
attempt.

When
we
were
five
miles
out
of
town
I
looked
for
a
lay-by
and
drew
in.
“Now,”
I
said
briskly,
not
looking
into
her
eyes,
“we’ll
imagine
what
he
did.
He’s
coming
back
from
Wolverhampton.
It’s
Friday.
Both
girls
disappeared
on
Fridays,
you
know.
Show
me
the
nearest
route
to
his
scrapyard,
Anne.”

“Whose
scrapyard?”
she
asked,
and
I
realized
I’d
told
her
so
little.

But
last
time
I’d
spoken
to
her
it
had
only
been
a
vague
idea.
Now
I
was
certain.
There’d
been
a
pattern,
Cleave
missing
on
a
Friday,
with
a
car
theft
the
Saturday
following.
The first
Friday —
the
day
Annabelle died
—
he’d
been
in
Wolverhampton,
fixing
it
up.
So
obviously,
on
the
day
Dulcie
had
gone
missing,
he’d
been
to
Wolverhampton
again.
That
was
what
I
had,
the
knowledge
of
the
direction
from
which
he’d
approached
the
town.

“Dennis
Cleave,”
I
said.

She
didn’t
like
the
thought,
but
she
gave
me
directions,
and
we
headed
back
the
way
we
had
come.

Of
course,
the
snag
with
my
theory
was
that
Annabelle
and
Dulcie
had
been
picked
up
at
spots
a
mile
apart,
whereas
Cleave,
coming
from
the
same
direction,
could
have
been
expected
to
meet
the
ring
road
at
the
same
place
each
time.
But
possibly
not.
I
slowed.
There
was
a
road
diversion
ahead.

“This
here
two
years
ago?”
I
asked.

“It’s
only
been
going
for
six
months.”

I
was
getting
that
metallic
taste
in
my
mouth,
the
angry,
bitter
taste
of
approaching
success.

“Then
direct
me
to
where
we’d
have joined
the
ring
road
if
the
diversion
hadn’t
been
here.”

“I
don’t
need
to,”
she
said,
as
though
her
mouth
was
dry.
“It
comes
out
where
Annabelle
was
standing
that
night.”

So
there
was
no
point
in
testing
it
out.
I
drove
on,
and
allowed
the
diversion
to
take
me
where
it
would.