Caroline Minuscule (23 page)

Lee broke the silence with a sound which made Dougal bite his lip to the sudden, shocking taste of blood.

Lee tittered.

T
he titter moved gradually down the vocal register, changing its character until it became a flow of obscenities. The words were terrifying not for themselves, but for the manner in which they were spoken. Lee's face was twitching. His hand squeezed the butt of the pistol. Dougal recognized the make of the gun, now – the knowledge was another legacy from his father, who had a small library on the subject of firearms – a 9-mm. Walther PPK. He couldn't remember how many bullets the magazine held – probably eight. More than enough, in any case.

Lee's voice was as low-pitched and monotonous as usual, but his words seemed to have the cutting edge of madness. Dougal's fear petrified his body, but his mind, fuelled with panic, ran swiftly: Lee had been humiliated and had gone temporarily berserk as a result; so far it had only affected his vocabulary . . .

Suddenly the flow stopped. There was no diminution beforehand – it was as if a switch had been flicked which cut off the current of words as quickly and completely as an electric light. When Lee spoke again, he sounded hoarse.

‘Put your hands on your heads.
Slowly
. Turn around. Hands on that wall to the left of the door you came through. Feet apart. Lean against it.'

It was difficult to tell which came first: the thought that one of them was about to die, the smack of the shot, or the shower of brick and mortar fragments which spurted from the wall between Dougal and Amanda.

‘Too close. Move a yard away from her, Massey.'

Dougal obeyed. His insides churned; he hoped desperately he would not lose physical control of himself. He retained a shred of detachment which allowed him to recognize, but gain no comfort from, the absurdity of worrying about breaking that taboo now. Stiff upper lippery was as obsolete as the Empire which had inspired it. He would have cried if it would have done any good.
Oh God
, he prayed with soundless despair,
if you get us out of this, I swear
. . . hoping beyond reason and belief that some deity would be listening.

His devotions were curtailed by the sound of painful breathing and scrabbling behind him. Lee must be getting to his feet. There was a scrape of metal on stone and a clatter, as the monkey wrench, which Dougal had dropped after hitting Lee, was kicked out of the way. Footsteps came towards them; the sound had a slow, conscious precision which reminded Dougal of a drunk proving he could still walk in a straight line.

‘I'm going to search you. Stand very still. Frisking stiffs is just as easy.'

Dougal felt the pressure of the pistol in the small of his back. Lee's hand methodically emptied the contents of his pockets on to the ground. He found the knife and threw it across the coach house. His fingers wandered over Dougal's clothes in search of concealed objects. Always, Lee's other hand held the gun rigid.

He subjected Amanda to the same process, which made Dougal feel angry and more impotent than he could ever remember feeling. At least Lee wouldn't find the keys of the safe deposit box. Not yet, anyway. They were safe on the
Sally-Anne
– or rather in the water, attached to a length of transparent nylon fishing line, the other end of which was looped unobtrusively round a cleat at the bows.

‘Okay, what have you done with them? The diamonds?' Lee's voice sounded muzzy and venomous.

‘They're down on the boat.' He couldn't think of anything else to say. It must sound plausible enough. He was gambling on the possibility that Lee would need their help to get the diamonds in his present state – that he would defer killing them, and prolong the chance that a miracle might arrive, until he knew that they could be of no further service to him. It was unlikely, surely, that he would send one of them to get the diamonds while he held the other hostage; Lee was on unfamiliar ground, and could not be sure that the one he sent would not fetch outside help. Nor, for that matter, he realized, could Lee be sure that the one he sent wouldn't consider the diamonds well worth the life of the one who stayed. Amateur status might have this small advantage: a professional criminal would automatically assume the worst motives in others. Not that Lee's cynicism was likely to help them in the long run. Nevertheless, Dougal wanted to stay with Amanda.

Lee's footsteps retreated slowly. Dougal's hypotheses vanished, together with the tenuous reassurance they carried. Was Lee going to shoot them now after all? Lee couldn't be entirely sane.

That unnerving titter.

At last Lee began to talk.

‘You're going to help me down to that bloody boat.' The words came slowly, as if each one had to be forced through a screen of treacle. ‘One on each side. And a bullet for each of you, if either of you starts playing heroes.'

‘Right,' said Dougal. He had to say it again, because the first time it came out without any sound attached. Someone had to say something. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Amanda, but she seemed to be staring down at the ground, not at him.

‘Turn round slowly, and come over here. No sudden movements.'

Dougal and Amanda let their hands fall to their sides and moved round to face Lee. He was at the doorway to the yard, leaning heavily against the jamb. His face was grey and lined. In his left hand was a bloodstained handkerchief, with which he must have dabbed the wound on his scalp. He looked almost pathetic; Dougal had the fleeting impression that he had palpably shrunk. But the Walther in his other hand was still levelled steadily in their direction.

Lee gestured to them with the gun and they obediently came over and stood, one on either side of him. He swayed slightly. ‘Take my arms.' He crossed them over his front. Dougal was on Lee's right. The muzzle of the Walther dug into Amanda's side. ‘Now. We walk slowly down to the boat.' Behind them, Tanner's body shifted fractionally as a sudden gust of wind swirled up from the estuary.

They moved forward with united deliberation, like nurses accompanying a geriatric patient on an outing to the television room. With maddening slowness, they crossed the cobbled stable yard and the lane beyond and reached the first field. The exercise seemed to revive Lee: he began to need less of their support. A bad sign. He prodded the gun viciously into Amanda. Dougal saw her wince.

As they followed the footpath, their speed increased. Dougal surreptitiously glanced around him. On one side the field was empty: no help there. On his right was the hedge, a formidable barrier six feet high, which winter had failed to make any less impassable. Dougal's mind shot off on a tangent: the hedge must be old, to be so thick. Couldn't you tell a hedge's age by the number of plants it contained? . . . Anyone on the other side was effectively in another world. Not that there would be anyone.

The line of the hedge altered in the second field, and the estuary swung into view. It looked murky and secretive. Its surface was empty of moving boats, its waters moved in their own unalterable rhythms, oblivious of humans. The picture froze in Dougal's mind – not because he liked it at present, but because this might be the last time he ever saw it.

Dougal tried to think calmly. Lee would probably kill them as soon as he felt it practicable. Would he do it as soon as he knew that they had cheated him over the diamonds? Perhaps, if he found out where the stones really were, he would force them to extend the nightmare into tomorrow and go with them to Cambridge. Equally possibly, his rage – and the intrinsic pleasure of the action – would lead to him killing them on the spot. Which he would have done anyway, if the diamonds had been there. That was the trouble. Lee wanted the diamonds, but he also wanted to kill them. That was the difference between him and Hanbury; the latter, Dougal suspected, had only killed when he felt it to be necessary, not because he enjoyed it.

If they were going to die anyway, Dougal realized that he might as well take any chance, however slim, to overcome Lee. He almost wished there had been no chance left at all – it would have been simpler.

They reached the stile. Lee's face was expressionless as he stared out to the
Sally-Anne
. He climbed over almost unaided. There was a tree stump a few yards away. He lumbered over to it and sat down heavily. The walk might have increased his strength, but it had done nothing to improve his temper.

‘You,' Lee spat at Amanda. ‘You're going to get the diamonds. Your boyfriend stays with me and gets his head blown apart if you try any funny business. And remember, this little toy of mine can reach you too, my love. And will, if necessary.' Rubbish, thought Dougal. The
Sally-Anne
was at least fifty yards away, probably further, and if Lee could make the Walther shoot accurately at that distance he was a bloody genius. ‘Go on. Off you go.'

‘Shall I push her off?' asked Dougal politely. ‘She's not very good with oars and things.'

Lee thought for a moment. It was cold, out here on the estuary, and it suddenly occurred to Dougal that Lee wasn't enjoying waiting around here, either, though not for the same reasons. Lee huddled on the tree stump in his anorak, measuring the distance from where he sat to the dinghy. Dougal glanced at Amanda and felt deluged with helpless tenderness: she looked so pale standing there – not like herself at all, but some poor quality imitation. Dougal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wondering if he looked as ghostly as she did.

‘All right,' said Lee at last. ‘Walk slowly, though, and no talking. When it's done, you' – the gun barrel swung towards Dougal – ‘come and sit in front of me. You' – the Walther turned on Amanda – ‘don't you waste any time, or pop goes lover boy here. Got it?'

Silently they nodded. Dougal was swearing to himself. Lee must have the constitution of an elephant – his voice sounded almost normal now. If only he had had the sense to follow up the blow on the head with a quick thrust of the knife.

Dougal unlooped the dinghy's painter from the stake which served as a bollard. Amanda clambered in and awkwardly set the oars in the rowlocks. As Dougal swung the boat round by the stern, the muddy water splashing greedily up at his hands, he mouthed, ‘Lie on the deck in the saloon. Don't move until you hear me shout
Caroline
. If not, wait till it's dark, and row up with the tide to Albenham, police.'

She looked up, not at him but over her shoulder. Two spots of startling red had appeared in her cheeks. It was impossible to tell if she had understood.

Dougal pushed off the dinghy. Amanda began to row inexpertly towards the
Sally-Anne
by a zigzag route. Dougal turned away. Lee stared impassively at him, and then waved the gun at a spot a couple of yards in front of him. Dougal walked over and sat down, facing the
Sally-Anne
. The damp seeped through the seat of his jeans. No need to worry about rheumatism now. He stared at the diminishing figure of Amanda, as if he was trying to fix her image in his mind forever. His awareness of Lee's presence behind him was like a weight on his shoulders.

Amanda scrambled over the stern of the
Sally-Anne,
leaving the dinghy rocking violently behind. She looked briefly back towards the shore; the distance was too great for Dougal to catch the expression on her face. She vanished down the companionway to the saloon.

Dougal let thirty seconds crawl by to the end of the world. He and Lee were like passengers waiting for a train – terrified to move in case it passed through the station without them noticing. Only the river had motion: the water rubbed and slapped against the mud, its surface movement rocking the boats deserted at their winter moorings in the estuary.

Water.

‘Mr Lee.' Dougal half-turned his head. ‘I've got to piss. May I stand up?'

There was a chuckle behind him, with an undertone of derision, as if the weakness of Dougal's bladder confirmed Lee's overall opinion of him. ‘Yes. Do it where you are. Where I can see you.'

Dougal slowly got to his feet. The muscles in his legs, especially around the knees, shrieked at the change of position. The cold seemed to have permeated every cell of his body. He flexed his fingers and made as if to fumble with his flies. His shoulders were tensed – hunched of their own accord. Would Lee notice?

Three – two – one—

He spun round and flung himself in a dive which was almost horizontal at Lee's right hand. Before impact, he noticed several things so quickly that they blurred into one another in his brain: Lee wasn't even looking at him – he was staring blankly at the
Sally-Anne
as if she was the promised land; the gun dangled from his hand, barrel downwards; and the patch of drying blood on his head glowed somberly against the dull winter background.

Dougal's body hit the frozen ground with a jolt; simultaneously, he grabbed Lee's gun arm with both hands. His momentum toppled Lee from the tree stump. Dougal used his right hand to club the wound on Lee's head – not once but again and again, until his clenched first was smeared with warm blood.

Lee's body went limp, giving Dougal the chance to scoop away the Walther and knee his adversary in the crotch. Then, as before with Cedric, all element of calculation deserted his actions. Dougal found himself on his feet, sobbing helplessly and kicking Lee again and again, anywhere and everywhere. His boots thudded against Lee's torso, deflected to batter that bulbous, badgerlike nose and elicited squeals of pain from lucky shots in the solar plexus and the kidneys. The only coherent thought Dougal was aware of was regret that he wasn't shod with steel.

It was weariness that stopped him. He gave Lee's groin a final kick, but it lacked the frenzied conviction of its predecessors. He found himself shaking uncontrollably as he stood there staring down at Lee and at the mud and the blood which covered him.
Oh, you bastard
, he mouthed at the squirming shape on the ground,
why did you make me do this?
His vision dissolved out of focus. He realized his cheeks were wet with tears.
How long ago since I cried?