Chris rubbed his hand, turning pale. ‘Tossed them,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Overboard?’
Chris nodded.
‘Idiot.’ Ben tucked the Para-Ordnance into his belt. ‘Leigh, get me whatever maps there are of the French coast. As for you,’ he said to Chris, ‘get back in your cabin and don’t let me see your face again, or I swear I’ll strap you to the anchor and leave you at the bottom of the sea.’
Chris retreated quickly towards the master cabin.
‘Oh, and Chris?’ Ben added.
‘What?’ Chris said sullenly.
‘I did see Outcast. And I thought the score was shit.’
It was a lie, but it hit Chris right where he’d wanted it to.
Chris shut his cabin door. He didn’t come out again.
‘You didn’t have to be so hard on him,’ Leigh said, laying a pile of maps on the table. ‘He was just trying to protect me.’
Ben said nothing. He munched a piece of bacon as he spread a map out and studied the coastline.
The Isolde cruised towards the French coast under a clear blue sky as Ben and Leigh brought their things up on deck. Mick the skipper steered the yacht into a deserted little cove a mile or so from Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue, and two hundred yards from shore Ben lowered the dinghy with his and Leigh’s things in it. Then he disappeared down below for a minute as she said goodbye to the skipper on the deck.
‘I don’t know what’s been going on with you and Mr Anderson,’ the sailor said. ‘But good luck, love.’
‘I’ll see you again sometime, Mick,’ she replied, and kissed his bearded cheek.
They climbed down the side and Ben started the dinghy’s outboard motor. He grabbed the tiller and steered the burbling boat away from the yacht. Leigh huddled at the dinghy’s prow, drawing her suede coat around her against the chilly sea breeze. Gulls circled and called overhead.
‘Do you think Chris will call the police now we’re gone?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,’ Ben said, peering towards the shore.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I told him just now that if he did, I’d come back and blow his brains out.’
She frowned and didn’t reply.
A few minutes later Ben was dragging the dinghy up onto the pebbly shore. Across a stretch of beach, beyond some sand dunes, he could see the rooftops and church spire of a coast village. ‘This way,’ he said, grabbing his bag.
They hiked over the dunes and across a piece of rough grassland that bordered onto a golf course. A winding path led them into the heart of the village, and they soon found a little garage where Ben paid cash for a cheap second-hand Citroën.
They set off. Ben didn’t need a road-map. His kidnap and ransom work had taken him to France on more than one occasion, and he knew the country well. He stuck to the back roads. Kept a sharp eye out for police, just in case, but saw nothing.
It was a thirteen-hour drive across the country and into Italy, and they took turns at the wheel. They stopped only for fuel, and ate on the move. It was cold and they kept the car heater on high. They were tired and spoke little.
As they crossed the Italian border in darkness a thick fog was coming down, and Ben drove in silence, concentrating on the tunnel that the headlights carved out ahead. Leigh sat with her thoughts, a little drowsy with the heat of the blower. Then she remembered something. ‘Can I have my phone?’
‘It’s at the bottom of the Channel,’ he said. ‘I told you I had to get rid of it.’
‘Well, can I use yours, then?’
‘Who do you want to call?’
‘Pam.’
‘Your PA? Why?’
‘I’ve been gone for days. She’ll be getting worried. Pretty soon people will be thinking something’s happened to me. I’ve got to tell her I’m OK.’
‘Fine, but don’t say where you are, and keep it quick.’ He reached for the phone in his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
Leigh nodded and dialled.
Pam sounded relieved but agitated. Everybody was going apeshit, she said. Where the hell was she? Her agent was in a panic. She’d missed two interviews. The Magic Flute production in Italy was coming up in five weeks, rehearsals were scheduled to begin soon and nobody had heard from her.
‘I know,’ Leigh reassured her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You’re all over tonight’s papers,’ Pam said. ‘Pictures of you with some guy in Oxford. I’m looking at one here. The headline is “Who’s Leigh’s Leading Man?”’
Leigh tutted irritably. ‘Never mind that.’
‘Good-looking guy,’ Pam said. ‘Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself. You an item?’
‘Leave it out, Pam.’
‘Ask her if everything’s OK at Langton Hall,’ Ben said.
Leigh took the phone away from her mouth. ‘Why?’
‘Just ask. Do it quickly.’
Leigh asked, and Pam said everything was fine there. The builders had gone in that morning to start work on the rehearsal studio.
‘They didn’t find anything…unusual?’ Leigh asked.
‘No,’ Pam said, sounding confused. ‘Like what? Oh, by the way. Nearly forgot. Someone else called.’
‘Who called? Tell me, I can’t talk long.’
A pause. ‘It’s about Oliver.’
Leigh froze. ‘What about Oliver?’
Ben glanced away from the foggy road.
‘Some detective called from Vienna,’ Pam said. ‘I’ve got his name here-hold on-it’s Kinski. Detective Markus Kinski. Wanted to talk to you. What’s this all about?’
‘Did he say any more?’
‘Didn’t want to talk to me. But it sounded important. He left a number to call. Said it was safe to call him. Are you in some kind of trouble, Leigh?’
‘Just give me the number, Pam.’
Pam read it out. Leigh grabbed a pen from her bag and scribbled it. She reassured Pam again then ended the call and switched the phone off. She thought for a minute. ‘Shit.’
Ben looked round. ‘Well, what did she say?’
‘We’re in the papers. Someone at the Sheldonian must have sent in their snap of us hoping to make a bit of money.’
‘The joys of fame.’
‘It has its downsides.’
‘This is why I was concerned about travelling with you,’ he said. ‘You should have gone to my place.’ He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. ‘Never mind. No use worrying about it. What was that about Oliver?’
She told Ben about the call from the detective. ‘What do you think he wants?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe instead of going