5
WELCOME TO WALES
This was it. Gripping the
steering wheel with my left hand, I reached down beneath my seat and retrieved
the Glock and slipped off the safety catch.
I pictured what was most likely
to happen next. Sean Boyd’s killers, passengers in the Mercedes, would pull out
and pass me. And, just as it came alongside, a sawn-off shotgun or an Uzi would
poke its nose out of the passenger window and it would be the last thing I’d
ever see.
The car behind pulled out. Taking
a deep breath, I pressed the open-window button until the glass was fully down.
I could feel the roar of a breeze on my cheeks, tearing at my hair.
Still accelerating, I lifted the
gun and pointed it through the window. The Mercedes drew level.
I’ll never forget the look of
terror in the eyes of the woman in a fur-trimmed coat in the passenger seat.
She stared at my gun and began to scream.
Then, as suddenly as it started,
it was over. The German car accelerated away into the distance as I slowed,
trying to release the tension, aware that the innocent car driver whom I’d
threatened with a gun might, right now, be reporting me to the police.
But thankfully nothing happened
after that. I pulled into a service station to freshen up and have something to
eat. The bulletproof vest felt uncomfortable and bulky, and, I suspected, made
me look mildly ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
Why on earth hadn’t I told my
mystery phone caller that I was giving up on Hero or Villain? They’d
find out eventually I was lying, but it would at least have bought me time. But
in the shock of the moments after I’d answered the call, I hadn’t reacted fast
enough to think on my feet.
I phoned Cecile, but the line was
busy. And anyhow maybe it was wrong to bother her at such a time. So I grimly
got on with what I had to do.
The interview with Annie Marie
Molloy’s widowed father in his semi-detached house in a suburb of Gloucester
was about as grim as I’d expected it to be and it had taken much longer than
I’d planned, because the poor old man kept reminiscing about the murdered
woman’s mother, his stepson Arthur, and Arthur’s failings. I hadn’t the heart
to hurry him and indeed it had been difficult making my escape, so that it
wasn’t until ten in the evening that I was on the road from Hay-on-Wye and over
the border into Wales.
After stopping and consulting
Ann’s handwritten map several times, I finally found the turn-off for the
village, and the road widened slightly, and I passed the tiny SPAR grocery
store and church that seemed to be the sum total of Bryn-y-Gare. Beyond the
village the road climbed higher, into the mountains. I missed the turning the
first time, but, after turning back and searching twice more, I saw the small
insignificant signpost that said ‘Evans Quarry’.
What had Ann said? You need a
four-wheel-drive vehicle to make it up the Bryn-y-Gare pass.
The rough road alongside the
quarry seemed to last forever, the land on either side rising up, as if I was
in a deep valley between twin mountains, or, more likely, slag heaps. The
signpost to Llantrissant Manor was on the far side of the quarry. I parked and
looked up.
In the fading light I could see
the road to the Manor rising practically vertically up the mountainside. It
looked muddy and slippery, and I seriously wondered if it was going to be
possible to make it. Another car stopped behind me. I tensed, reaching for the
gun beneath my seat, then relaxed as I saw the middle-aged man in a flat hat
and battered Barbour jacket and Wellington boots, striding towards me.
“Lost are you?” he asked, leaning
into the window I’d opened.
“I must be.” I got out of the
car. “I’m looking for Llantrissant Manor.”
“Go up the top and down the other
side, then it’s a couple of miles beyond that.”
“Up there?” I pointed in
amazement at the almost sheer cliff face in front of us.
“Done any off-roading, have you?”
He smiled the smile of the
WELCOME TO WALES
This was it. Gripping the
steering wheel with my left hand, I reached down beneath my seat and retrieved
the Glock and slipped off the safety catch.
I pictured what was most likely
to happen next. Sean Boyd’s killers, passengers in the Mercedes, would pull out
and pass me. And, just as it came alongside, a sawn-off shotgun or an Uzi would
poke its nose out of the passenger window and it would be the last thing I’d
ever see.
The car behind pulled out. Taking
a deep breath, I pressed the open-window button until the glass was fully down.
I could feel the roar of a breeze on my cheeks, tearing at my hair.
Still accelerating, I lifted the
gun and pointed it through the window. The Mercedes drew level.
I’ll never forget the look of
terror in the eyes of the woman in a fur-trimmed coat in the passenger seat.
She stared at my gun and began to scream.
Then, as suddenly as it started,
it was over. The German car accelerated away into the distance as I slowed,
trying to release the tension, aware that the innocent car driver whom I’d
threatened with a gun might, right now, be reporting me to the police.
But thankfully nothing happened
after that. I pulled into a service station to freshen up and have something to
eat. The bulletproof vest felt uncomfortable and bulky, and, I suspected, made
me look mildly ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
Why on earth hadn’t I told my
mystery phone caller that I was giving up on Hero or Villain? They’d
find out eventually I was lying, but it would at least have bought me time. But
in the shock of the moments after I’d answered the call, I hadn’t reacted fast
enough to think on my feet.
I phoned Cecile, but the line was
busy. And anyhow maybe it was wrong to bother her at such a time. So I grimly
got on with what I had to do.
The interview with Annie Marie
Molloy’s widowed father in his semi-detached house in a suburb of Gloucester
was about as grim as I’d expected it to be and it had taken much longer than
I’d planned, because the poor old man kept reminiscing about the murdered
woman’s mother, his stepson Arthur, and Arthur’s failings. I hadn’t the heart
to hurry him and indeed it had been difficult making my escape, so that it
wasn’t until ten in the evening that I was on the road from Hay-on-Wye and over
the border into Wales.
After stopping and consulting
Ann’s handwritten map several times, I finally found the turn-off for the
village, and the road widened slightly, and I passed the tiny SPAR grocery
store and church that seemed to be the sum total of Bryn-y-Gare. Beyond the
village the road climbed higher, into the mountains. I missed the turning the
first time, but, after turning back and searching twice more, I saw the small
insignificant signpost that said ‘Evans Quarry’.
What had Ann said? You need a
four-wheel-drive vehicle to make it up the Bryn-y-Gare pass.
The rough road alongside the
quarry seemed to last forever, the land on either side rising up, as if I was
in a deep valley between twin mountains, or, more likely, slag heaps. The
signpost to Llantrissant Manor was on the far side of the quarry. I parked and
looked up.
In the fading light I could see
the road to the Manor rising practically vertically up the mountainside. It
looked muddy and slippery, and I seriously wondered if it was going to be
possible to make it. Another car stopped behind me. I tensed, reaching for the
gun beneath my seat, then relaxed as I saw the middle-aged man in a flat hat
and battered Barbour jacket and Wellington boots, striding towards me.
“Lost are you?” he asked, leaning
into the window I’d opened.
“I must be.” I got out of the
car. “I’m looking for Llantrissant Manor.”
“Go up the top and down the other
side, then it’s a couple of miles beyond that.”
“Up there?” I pointed in
amazement at the almost sheer cliff face in front of us.
“Done any off-roading, have you?”
He smiled the smile of the
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