At five in the morning, Elina Kossoff drew up in the Morgan 4-4, and parked in the centre of a perfect English village, close to the church, away from the cluster of houses that made up the heart of the community. Marfield had told her that if she lined up the village sign on the green with the church spire, then Longrow Cottage would be in the street directly to her right. The whole place was asleep. Just as it should be an hour and a half before dawn on a dark Monday morning.
She didn’t like this. It might be quiet here, but the houses were close together. It would be much easier if Longrow Cottage was isolated. She had options, though. The question was which one was best. And then she heard the sound she had hoped for – the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of bottles. The milkman.
Elina sank down in her seat but it was still dark and the milk float passed her by, the horse walking the route it had walked a thousand times before. Like a pit pony, it didn’t need light, and nor did the milkman.
Half an hour later, still dark, the sound of the hoofs and the bottles receded and the float finally left the village on its way to the next hamlet or town. People would be getting up soon. There might even be those who woke to the sound of milk bottles arriving on their doorsteps. No time to waste.
Elina was wearing black plimsolls. She wore a long dark overcoat with its collar turned up, and her hair was concealed beneath a man’s hat. It wasn’t meant as a disguise, more as camouflage.
For a few moments, she stood outside Longrow Cottage. It was lovely if you liked that sort of thing, with its roses around the porch, just like a Victorian watercolour of a perfect English cottage.
Silently, she made her way through the open gate, up the front path to the door. Two pint bottles stood on the doorstep. By perching the flashlight in a nook inside the porch, she had enough light to see what she was doing, and picked up one of the bottles. With a long, sharp fingernail she prised the gold foil top half off, put the bottle down and did the same to the second bottle.
She reached into her pocket and took out a syringe and a small vial – no more than one inch high by one inch diameter – of clear liquid. Removing the vial’s lid, she dipped the needle into the poison. Stealthily she drew up the deadly liquid into the syringe, then quickly plunged it into first one, then the other milk bottle. She tried to make it even between the bottles. The needle was long and she deliberately pushed it through the thick cream that topped each pint.
The empty syringe and vial went back into her pocket. Then, unhurriedly, she replaced the gold foil lids on the bottles, smoothing them down carefully.
She smiled to herself. Had the milkman not come, she would have had to find a way into the kitchen and inject the poison into a foodstuff or drinks bottle. Thallium, in the heavy dosage she had administered, should be quick, and certain. With luck, the link to Cambridge would never be made and the deaths would be dismissed as a family tragedy. One of those murder–suicides the newspapers mentioned on the bottom of page two.
*
Wilde was soaked to the bone, cold and shivering. He had been crawling through mud and water and sedge for over an hour. Crawling an inch at a time, so slowly he could barely hear the whisper of the reeds as he pushed them aside. Occasionally, he thought he heard Marfield’s footfalls or his breathing, and then he stayed still and shrank as deep as he could into the sludge.
He couldn’t be more than a couple of hundred yards from the windpump, but perhaps Marfield didn’t know that; perhaps he thought Wilde had got clean away. The horizon was lightening by the minute. Soon the sun would rise and then he would be visible. Now had to be the time to make his break. Please God, his pursuer had already gone.
At least there was a little light to guide him. He was in the shelter of a watery wood, criss-crossed by paths. Thus far, he had remained away from the paths, fearing that Marfield would patrol them in his hunt. Now Wilde would make use of them himself.
With an effort, he dragged himself out of the sludge onto the path. His left wrist was still cuffed and he held the open cuff tight in his fist to stop it clanking. He turned right – west, away from the rising sun. It was a gamble. He began to walk slowly, then ran. If he was to be shot in the back, he might as well not make it easy.
The wood wasn’t large. Within a few minutes he was out of the trees and onto typical fenland fields. Black fertile clay and drainage ditches, rich with a harvest of full-grown cabbages. The pungent aroma aroused a distant memory of school corridors mid-morning when the vegetables stewing in the kitchens seeped into every corner of the building. He loped through the crop, across the field, then alongside a straight watercourse, known in these parts as a lode.
Ahead of him was a river that had to be crossed if he was going to carry on in this direction. There was no bridge, so he would either have to swim, or change direction and go south. He was more likely to find a proper road if he crossed the river, but intuition told him that was also the way he was most likely to meet Marfield.
To hell with it. He needed to find some semblance of civilisation, and sooner rather than later. He lowered himself down the riverbank and plunged into the water. It was deep enough and wide enough that he had to swim. A couple of minutes later he was lying on the far bank, panting from the exhaustion and the cold.
Crawling up the bank, he stared into the distance. Perhaps a half-mile away he saw something that brought hope to his heart. Some sort of vehicle – he couldn’t see whether it was car or truck or wagon – was trundling northwards along what surely must be a regular road. The path to freedom.
*
Lydia hadn’t slept and nor had Eaton. They had waited half the night in her sitting room, listening for the telephone. How long had it been now since the police told them what they had found at Histon, and described their futile chase into the fens? Eight hours? Nine maybe?
Eaton had brought a pistol, concealed beneath his jacket. He had told her the police had found no one at Claire Marfield’s house, but that they knew someone had been there because, curiously, a projector was set up on the first floor, and it was burning hot.
The police had searched the house thoroughly, and the garden. No one had noted Mr Wilde’s motorbike, which was parked across the road. But they had thought to leave a car parked nearby for a short while, just in case the intruder – or intruders – were to reappear. It had been a good move; but sadly the motorbike was a great deal quicker than the police vehicle.
Not for the first time, Eaton cursed his injuries. All he had been able to do was call Detective Inspector Tomlinson all night and demand that they find Wilde and Marfield at all costs. At first Tomlinson had been polite and accommodating, but by the early hours, his cooperation was wearing thin. ‘If you were to at least give me some idea where they might be heading, Mr Eaton, I would be able to look for them. For the moment, though, we have nothing to go on.’
‘They can’t be far.’
‘That’s simply not true, sir. They could be a hundred miles away by now – in any direction. They could have found an airfield and flown away or reached King’s Lynn and taken to the sea. They could be in London. So where do I look?’
Eaton had no answer.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Tomlinson said with a sigh so heavy it might have been a yawn. ‘I’m leaving the station in the hands of my desk sergeant and going home to get a few hours’ sleep. Good night to you.’
‘Good night, Inspector.’ Eaton had put the phone down and looked at his watch. Good morning, in fact.
He returned to the sitting room. Lydia, still dressed, was curled up on the sofa, awake but heavy-lidded. Eaton looked at her for a few moments then went off to see if he could find a blanket to put over her. Of course, he understood Detective Inspector Tomlinson’s point of view; the problem was he didn’t believe Marfield and Wilde had gone far from Cambridge. Nor did he believe that Wilde would be kept alive long. His big fear was that it was already too late.
*
Before he could get to the road, Wilde had an eight-foot-deep dyke to traverse. It was too wide to leap across, so he slid down its steep sides, then grasped at weeds, grass and nettles, dragging himself inch by inch upwards. His arms burned with the effort, his feet scrabbled for non-existent footholds, but his strength held and he slumped on the top at the very edge of the road.
He got to his feet and looked both ways. The road was dead straight in both directions and there was no sign of any traffic, not even a farm cart. And then he found himself laughing. Almost opposite him stood a telephone kiosk, bright red in the first glow of day.
He pulled the door shut after him and picked up the handset. Miracle of miracles, a dialling tone. All he needed now were some coins for the slot. He dug his hands into his soaking pockets and his prayers were answered again. Four shillings and eleven pence in loose change. He called the Bull Hotel, but was told there was no answer from Mr Eaton’s room. ‘I believe he was called out a few hours ago,’ the concierge said. ‘Can I leave a message, sir?’
Wilde put the phone down and rang Lydia. After a few rings, a familiar voice said, ‘Hello.’
‘Eaton, is that you?’
‘Good God, Wilde, where the devil are you?’
‘Somewhere in the middle of the Fens. Did the police tell you what happened?’
‘Yes. Are you OK?’
‘A bit damp and one of my wrists is shackled, but I got away from the bastard.’
‘Do you know exactly where you are? We’ll get help to you.’
‘I’m in a phone kiosk. There’s no address in here, but there’s a phone number. You should be able to trace my location through the Post Office.’
‘I’ll get on to it.’
‘I’m worried about Lydia. Marfield has made threats against her. I’ll explain all when I see you, but for God’s sake don’t let her out of your sight. You’re armed, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘One more thing. I didn’t see it, but I’m as certain as I can be that Marcus Marfield has harmed a police officer out here. He was looking for a phone. Very isolated little house. There was a scream, then nothing . . . I don’t know what happened, but I fear the worst.’
‘The police will find him. Help will be with you very soon. Stay exactly where you are.’
‘Dry clothes would be appreciated.’
*
The NAAFI canteen beckoned. Breakfast of porridge with syrup, plenty of sugary tea and lovely fatty bacon. Standing out here on the parade ground at first light, surrounded by Nissen huts, the squaddies couldn’t bear the thought that they weren’t going to get anything to eat until they had marched fifteen miles.
Lance Corporal Edwin Elphick felt as bad as the six men in his squad, all raw recruits. He had realised very early on in his army career that he was not cut out to be a soldier. ‘Just get on with it, Elphick,’ the sergeant had said when he tried to suggested that others might be better suited to promotion. Of course he understood that men were being promoted fast and well beyond their meagre talents. With the army expanding at this rate, it was bound to be so. And having joined up on a whim (in drink, of course) at the time of Munich, Elphick was seen as someone with at least a little bit of experience.
This morning he had to take these six reluctant men across country carrying rifles and full packs, with only an Ordnance Survey map and compass to guide them. ‘No breakfast until you get back, so no hanging about, lance corporal.’
‘But sir . . .’
‘Don’t you know there’s a bloody war on? Get on with it, Elphick.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘At the double. And don’t cut any corners. You and your men will be heading to France to give the Hun a good bashing soon, so chin up and shoulders back.’
Now, just two miles out from camp barracks, on a wide road bordered by poplars, the men were already complaining bitterly. ‘Couldn’t we at least get a cup of tea somewhere, lance corporal? My rifle’s ever so heavy.’ Elphick, weighed down by his own rifle and 60lb pack, tried to ignore them. He stopped and consulted the map. Where the sodding hell were they? There was supposed to be a footpath to their right, but there wasn’t. Not only that, the map said there should be a water tower directly ahead, and that wasn’t there either.
*
Wilde had no intention of staying exactly where he was: he was far too visible and he had no idea where Marfield had got to. He crossed back over the road, slid into the ditch with his elbows on top so that he could peer in both directions for oncoming traffic and instantly disappear if need be.
Twenty minutes later, he heard the sound of an engine to his left. A vehicle was approaching – from the south-west, he assumed, given the rising sun at his back. It must be coming from the Cambridge direction.
The vehicle was slowing down and Wilde let out a sigh of relief. The man at the wheel had the reassuringly urbane face and hat of Guy Rowlands.
Wilde crawled up from the ditch, dusted some of the mud off his damp, filthy clothes and strode across the road. He held up his hand in greeting as the car came to a halt.
Rowlands braked, wrenched up the handbrake, left the engine running and stepped out. He had half a cigarette in the side of his mouth, which was fixed in something akin to a smile.
‘Well, well, Professor Wilde, you have got yourself into a pickle.’
‘Mr Rowlands, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to see you.’
‘Well, you’re in good hands now,’ Rowlands said, pulling a revolver from his pocket. ‘This will keep us safe.’