she was still asleep. When he laid his hand against her cheek it was ice cold. He had to get her somewhere warm as soon as possible.
He studied the estate car. A plastic case was strapped to the roof-rack, and he could see suitcases, rucksacks and sleeping bags piled high on the back seat. Either going, or returning from holiday. A couple with no children who would be annoyed but not life-threateningly inconvenienced. He looked down at his surgical suit. Hardly an inconspicuous outfit to walk across the car park in, and risk being seen from the burger bar.
He gunned the engine and edged forward, pulling up within inches of the driver’s door on the estate car.
Winding down his window he was able to pick the lock under cover of the pounding rain. Climbing in, he slid across the seats and opened the passenger door.
Dropping out on to the ground he slipped beneath the car. A few minutes later he had unscrewed both number plates. There was no alarm. He exchanged the plates with those on the saloon he had stolen in Brighton. It aged the estate car by three years, but it was the model not the year that the police would be looking for.
He transferred Elizabeth from one car to the other, and turned the estate car’s ignition with the scalpel.
The needle on the petrol gauge hovered at maximum.
They must have filled up before turning into the service station. The case on the roof-rack was a giveaway, but he could take the next turning off the motorway and jettison it. A few more miles further on he’d find a secluded parking place where he could search the luggage for food and warm clothing.
The engine was still warm. He turned the heater full on so the fan belched hot air into the interior.
When he saw a brown lettered signpost, he turned off into a wooded country park. Given the dark and the downpour he wasn’t surprised to find it deserted.
Slowing his speed he bumped out of the car park and on to a rough track bordering a river. Under the inadequate shelter of skeletal trees he left the car and opened the box on the roof-rack. It was packed with bottles of French wine. Closing the box he heaved it down and slid it into the undergrowth. Then he unscrewed the roof-rack and threw it into the river.
He carried one of the suitcases from the back round to the front seat. It was filled with clean clothes; jeans, boxer shorts, socks, and a black turtle neck sweater. There was even a pair of trainers, shabby and worn, but comfortable. Stripping to the skin, he threw everything he had been wearing into the river before hurriedly dressing. He found a jacket, not as thick or as warm as the one the man had been wearing, but waterproof and serviceable.
Elizabeth was still asleep, her face flushed in the pale glow of the interior lamp. She felt warmer. He hoped it wasn’t the result of fever.
He discovered more wine in the boot; boxes of the stuff. The couple had obviously been on a shopping trip to France to stock up on Christmas drink – and food. French cheeses, tins of escargots, whole pates, lengths of garlic sausage and cervelat, smoked turkey and duck breast, French bread and pumpernickel, as well as brandy and beer. His mouth watered at the prospect. He’d been hoping to strike lucky, but he’d struck gold.
One small suitcase was full of women’s clothes.
After checking there weren’t any lights, or other signs of human habitation, he shook Elizabeth awake and cut through the bonds on her wrists. The first thing she did was pull the plaster from her mouth.
‘There’s a case of women’s clothes here. You can change in the back of the car, afterwards we’ll eat.’
He turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and opened the estate’s rear door. The vehicle was packed full enough to attract the attention of a passing police car. He lifted out half the cases of wine and dumped them alongside the plastic case in the bushes.
‘Can I get out and stretch my legs?’
‘It’s wet and windy.’
‘I
He studied the estate car. A plastic case was strapped to the roof-rack, and he could see suitcases, rucksacks and sleeping bags piled high on the back seat. Either going, or returning from holiday. A couple with no children who would be annoyed but not life-threateningly inconvenienced. He looked down at his surgical suit. Hardly an inconspicuous outfit to walk across the car park in, and risk being seen from the burger bar.
He gunned the engine and edged forward, pulling up within inches of the driver’s door on the estate car.
Winding down his window he was able to pick the lock under cover of the pounding rain. Climbing in, he slid across the seats and opened the passenger door.
Dropping out on to the ground he slipped beneath the car. A few minutes later he had unscrewed both number plates. There was no alarm. He exchanged the plates with those on the saloon he had stolen in Brighton. It aged the estate car by three years, but it was the model not the year that the police would be looking for.
He transferred Elizabeth from one car to the other, and turned the estate car’s ignition with the scalpel.
The needle on the petrol gauge hovered at maximum.
They must have filled up before turning into the service station. The case on the roof-rack was a giveaway, but he could take the next turning off the motorway and jettison it. A few more miles further on he’d find a secluded parking place where he could search the luggage for food and warm clothing.
The engine was still warm. He turned the heater full on so the fan belched hot air into the interior.
When he saw a brown lettered signpost, he turned off into a wooded country park. Given the dark and the downpour he wasn’t surprised to find it deserted.
Slowing his speed he bumped out of the car park and on to a rough track bordering a river. Under the inadequate shelter of skeletal trees he left the car and opened the box on the roof-rack. It was packed with bottles of French wine. Closing the box he heaved it down and slid it into the undergrowth. Then he unscrewed the roof-rack and threw it into the river.
He carried one of the suitcases from the back round to the front seat. It was filled with clean clothes; jeans, boxer shorts, socks, and a black turtle neck sweater. There was even a pair of trainers, shabby and worn, but comfortable. Stripping to the skin, he threw everything he had been wearing into the river before hurriedly dressing. He found a jacket, not as thick or as warm as the one the man had been wearing, but waterproof and serviceable.
Elizabeth was still asleep, her face flushed in the pale glow of the interior lamp. She felt warmer. He hoped it wasn’t the result of fever.
He discovered more wine in the boot; boxes of the stuff. The couple had obviously been on a shopping trip to France to stock up on Christmas drink – and food. French cheeses, tins of escargots, whole pates, lengths of garlic sausage and cervelat, smoked turkey and duck breast, French bread and pumpernickel, as well as brandy and beer. His mouth watered at the prospect. He’d been hoping to strike lucky, but he’d struck gold.
One small suitcase was full of women’s clothes.
After checking there weren’t any lights, or other signs of human habitation, he shook Elizabeth awake and cut through the bonds on her wrists. The first thing she did was pull the plaster from her mouth.
‘There’s a case of women’s clothes here. You can change in the back of the car, afterwards we’ll eat.’
He turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and opened the estate’s rear door. The vehicle was packed full enough to attract the attention of a passing police car. He lifted out half the cases of wine and dumped them alongside the plastic case in the bushes.
‘Can I get out and stretch my legs?’
‘It’s wet and windy.’
‘I
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