‘Sure and I could race her at Brooklands if they were still racing at Brooklands,’ Ryan grinned.
Mary was sitting in the back of the van reading a book as usual. ‘Are you all right back there?’ Devlin asked her.
‘I’m fine.’
‘We’ll stop for a cup of tea in a while.’
In Maidstone, Ryan drove round the centre of the town until he found a cycle shop. Devlin went in and bought half a dozen standard bicycle lamps with fresh batteries.
‘I’ve cleaned him out,’ he said when he returned. ‘Told him I wanted them for my church Scout troop. There’s no doubt about it, this collar comes in useful on occasion.’
‘And why would you want those?’ Mary asked.
‘An aeroplane coming in through the darkness at night is like a lost bird, girl dear. It needs a welcome. A little light on the situation, you might say.’
On the other side of Ashford they pulled in at the side of the road and Mary opened a Thermos flask and they had tea. There was a track leading to a little copse. It had stopped raining, but was still very damp. The sky was dark and threatening all the way to Romney Marsh and the sea in the distance. Mary and Devlin strolled along the track and stood under a tree, taking it all in.
He nodded at her book. ‘What this time?’
‘Poetry,’ she said. ‘Robert Browning. Do you like poetry?’
T had some published once. What’s called in the trade a slim volume.’ He laughed. T could make the stuff up at the drop of a hat and then I realized one day just how bad it was.’
T don’t believe you. Make something up about me.’
He stuck a cigarette in his mouth. ‘All right.’ He thought for a moment then said: ‘Mystery girl, who are you? Hurrying nowhere in your tight skirt and frizzled hair, legs heavy with promise.’
There was a look of mischief on his face and she struck him lightly with her clenched fist. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘I warned you.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘Good poetry says it all for you in a few lines.’
‘All right, what would sum me up?’
‘Easy. “Now Voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find”.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ she said. ‘Did you write that?’
‘Not exactly. A Yankee fella called Walt Whitman thought of it first.’ It started to rain and he put a hand on her elbow. ‘But I wish I’d written it for you. Let’s get moving,’ and they hurried back to the van.
At the apartment over the Astoria Jack Carver was sitting at the table by the window having a late breakfast when Eric came in. His ear was heavily bandaged, tape running diagonally up across his forehead holding the dressing in place. He looked terrible.
‘How do you feel?’ Carver asked.
‘Shocking, Jack, the pain’s bloody awful. Aziz gave me some pills, but they don’t seem to have much effect.’
‘He tells me George is in a bad way. That bullet splintered the bone. He could be left with a permanently stiff arm, as well as the leg.’
Eric poured coffee, his hand shaking. ‘That little sod, Jack. We’ve got to get our hands on him. We’ve got to.’
‘We will, son,’ Jack said. ‘And then it’ll be our turn. I’ve put his description out all over London. He’ll turn up. Now drink you’re coffee and have something to eat.’
Using the road map, Ryan found Charbury easily enough and an enquiry at the little village store led them to Shaw Place. The great rusting iron gates at the end of the drive stood open. The drive, stretching towards the old house, had grass growing through the gravel.
‘This place has seen better days,’ Ryan commented.
Devlin stepped out, opened the van doors and got the radio and the bag of cycle lamps out. ‘You can leave me here,’ he said. Til walk up to the house.’
‘What time shall we call back?’ Ryan asked.
‘Give me four hours and if I’m not here, just wait. Go and have a look at Rye or one of those places.’
‘Fine,’ Ryan said. ‘Take care, Liam,’ and he drove away.