2.35pm. Wednesday, 8th November
Fangfang hacked the flight manifest but there was no trace of Honor. The Board had to be watching the train station. Watching the buses. Watching the roads in case she tried to thumb another ride. Hire companies. Fangfang crashed the mainframe to pull up the CCTV at the train station. Spooled backwards. He missed her the first time. Had moved on to service stations. Went back.
On the concourse of the central station, a hunched over figure in ugly shoes and a shapeless anorak, pulled along a huge tartan case. The woman stopped to have a word with the guard. Asking the platform number? Shuffled through the ticket barrier and on to the platform, head down as she waited on the bench, as if she was dozing or daydreaming.
Waiting as the train pulled in. Gathering herself. Smoothing down the A-line skirt. Lifting the suitcase first – climbing on board.
The train. Cash. No names. What had she done? Found a charity shop? Bought a case? An old handbag? Changed her walk. Greased down and tied back her hair. Streaked too much face-powder and grey eye-shadow over her face. Playing at looking older just like she did when she was 16. Honor was adaptable. He’d give her that.
The London train took three hours and she had left two hours ago on the 12.30 service. There was no way he could make it in time even if he stole a car. Honor. Who thought JP Armitage was her best ally and hope.
The blue light didn’t register though it was on. He was walking away from the Oriental Dragon, back into the City, still considering which car to steal and how fast to drive it down to London, when the police car swerved up on to the pavement in front of him.