I must parry, I must parry. I must go back to the car rental shop. The boxes of stuff and docs are one thing, two things, but the keys are quite another. They are potential proof, of where I’ve been, what I’ve done – me, Luke, whoever – and they will speed our descent. Maybe now, even now, DC Huhne is with a sly and slow grin putting the keys in Ally’s lock and turning, turning. She will still be able to smile, because she won’t have received my picture. No daughter to distract her, just a forensics team dusting for prints on the keys, which I so carelessly left, thinking it was my trophy, my keepsake for all time. And DS Pearce patting her on the back. Why didn’t I put them in the box, with the rest of the treasure, with book three? Or just post them through the letterbox of the apartment block? Or throw them in the Thames?
I run with all the running that I have learnt back to the car rental shop. The boxes of armour swing by my sides. Maybe, when Prakesh interrupted me, I didn’t leave the keys on the box. Maybe, just maybe, they are on the counter. Maybe when I get to the shop, I will see them, glinting on the counter, ready for me to reclaim.
I push open the door of the shop. The bell tinkles merrily – or perhaps funereally, because I see no keys on the counter.
Steve stares at me. Maybe I am red and hot. Maybe I look guilty. I try to be normal.
‘Steve, mate. I think I left my keys here. You seen them?’
Steve shakes his head. ‘Nah, mate. Sorry. Prakesh!’ he shouts into the back room. ‘Dan’s here. Says he left some keys. Seen them?’
Prakesh sticks his head out of the backroom.
‘No, sorry, I haven’t,’ he says.
Maybe the keys fell off the box lid on the way to the car. I consider getting on my hands and knees to search the carpet. But that might arouse suspicion, of the importance of the keys. Because usually, if it’s your own house, you call the locksmith, right? You don’t crawl around on the floor. I don’t want Prakesh and Steve to remember me doing this.
And besides, I’m wasting time. If it’s inevitable I’m caught, I must get on, I must progress. I leave the shop, staring intently at the carpet as I go, scanning my eyes back and forth like a metal detector. I do the same on the pavement outside, but nothing. There’s a chance nothing will happen. There’s a chance DC Huhne, or whichever of her minions collected the boxes, will just think, Oh, here are some keys on this box, I’ll return them to the shop. Or they might have fallen inside the box, and therefore just be part of whatever Pot Noodle clutter there is inside it. But if DC Huhne wants to make DI, they will be checked.
Forget walking. I run to the bank. There is a poster of Luke pinned to one of the walls. DC Huhne is doing her job well. I do not acknowledge Luke. Instead, I head straight for an available window. The teller tells me I can pay the money into the account rather than getting cash. But I want cash. Who knows what they do with your bank accounts, when they catch you. This is my money, my project money. I will use what I need today. The rest can nestle safely with book three, in my treasure box. They won’t let me take that with me, to jail – they don’t let you take anything, none of your possessions, it’s insane. I will only have what is in me, my brain, and what I can create while I’m there.
And I must act. I must continue the plan. First, I must perfect my fencing. Then I must get the violin, and I must visit Nicole.