Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

it then. Instead he had notedthe slight disturbance created by animals and birds, and further along one ofthe pub returnees, who had piddled up a tree then lost his footing and brokensome branches, leaving a thread from trousers or jacket snagged there. The ground,aside from the area by the peed-on tree, was unmoist, and had taken no imprintof footware. Leaves were down everywhere also, covering and artisticallyblending. Even where the male figure had stood immobile for such a long while,over twenty-five minutes, no notable impression marked the earth. Nor had he broken a singletwig. Not even with that one impressive step that sequentially and utterly hidhim.

RobbyJ was up and making tea in his kitchen.

“Hi,Car. Can I offer you some of this disgusting brew? No. Wise choice. Christknows what they put in these T-bags now. Dung and senna pods from the taste.”

Carverrelayed the edited version of last night’s vigil, and the verdict (hardly ‘AnyJudge’s Main’ one) of an obsessive badger-botherer.

“Well,”said Robby, “it could be, could be. I heard him about again last night, youknow. Woke me, the devil, I was having one of my good nights, curled up a-snorein my cosy roost. Hadn’t even had to visit the lats. And then crash-blunderright under my bedroom window. Just before three, when I focussed on the clock.”(This conformed with the cottage lights having gone on at two forty–five, asdid Robby J’s next statement.) “Put all the lights on, no messing. Didn’t likethe sound of it, all that thumping about, as if he was off his head on drugs,and/or meant to wakeeverybody up. I tell you, I wouldn’t have minded a shotgun and the US shooter cultureto go with it. But you know what it’s like now, if some burglar pillock breaksin and stabs you, he can sue you for snapping his fucking blade on your ribs.”

“Didyou see him?” Carver asked, having given the complementary acquiescing nod.

“No.That was the odd part, in its way. The racket the chap made, I expected agrandstand view of him sprawled in the front garden, or what serves for it,throwing his guts up or eating a squirrel or something. But not a sign. And bythe time I got downstairs it was Silent Night again.”

“Nothinglooks disturbed outside,” Carver said. It had not.

“Lucky,I suppose,” said Robby. ‘‘Y’know, I even wondered if it was old Ted from TheBell, Book and Candlegrease. Someone told me he’s started seeing fairies in thewoods. Perhaps they were only the old-fashioned kind, the ones with old-schoolties. God,” he said sharply, “my leg’s playing up this morning.’ His facesettled to a wry amused rancour. “Bloody tea makes it worse, I reckon. Tooacid, and I’m addicted to the muck, you know. Ten or twelve mugs a day. Need awhisky to wash it through. Can I tempt you?”

“Nottoday, worse luck. Work to do.”

“Ohwell. I’ve got the advantage of ending up a senile old cripple. Something foryou young ones to look forward to, in a hundred years. Take care of yourself,Car.”

The dinner withLatham at the steakhouse off the Maidstone road, had been a ‘decoy’ meal, oneof a group, involving altogether eleven Mantik employees. Spread out at variouslocations, Guildford and Cornwall being the farthest venues, false trails werelaid by two separate pairs, one separate foursome, and three individualsdriving and eating alone. Carver certainly had no idea what strategic meetinghe and Latham, not to mention the rest, had been drawing attention away from.Obviously, there had been similar outings in the past.

Thisafternoon Carver had to undertake a drive, ultimately heading into TunbridgeWells. This also was a decoy run, but was freelance in as much as he might stopas and when he wanted, if at least twice. The car he must use he would find ina by-lane near Lynchoak. Returning, there would be a ‘cab’ at Tenterden.

Theindication was that if any ‘interest’ were shown in him, he should expect it inthe vicinity of Tunbridge Wells. He did not need to try to lose it, of course,and later the ‘cab’ driver could slough anything that still clung on.

Carverdrove to Lynchoak, stowed his car, and was in the new vehicle heading south-westby around five minutes to two. Within six more minutes, long before any mootedfeasible connection, he was very sure a tail had already attached itself.

Itwas a shabby Merc, cadaverous grey in colour.

Thiscar seemed to make so little pretence it was not following him that Carverbegan to wonder if it was not. It moved behind him along the curving side roadshe had chosen, keeping a barely civilised distance between them. Until,turning on to a broader thoroughfare, he saw he had lost it. Perhaps naively hecontinued to think this until it reappeared, emerging with no warning from aside-turning, as if it had selected a parallel path solely in order – playfully– to surprise him.

Fromthen on, the Merc continued to favour this type of manoeuvre. It wouldindiscreetly hug him, then slip aside and vanish for miles – before abruptlyresurfacing out of some often unexpected turning or lay-by, so displaying anenviable SatNav, or personal acquaintance with the map of local roads. Carverhimself kept doggedly on, as if he was either too dumb to have noticed, or toostoical to struggle. He had attracted the tail and might as well keep it busy.

Hestopped the first time by driving into the small car park of a pub. The Mercsailed by and vanished at a twist of the lane. But Carver was ninety-five percentconvinced once he had drunk the non-alcoholic lager, got back in his car andset off again, the Merc would rejoin him, which indeed it did, at a handy T-junction,shambling out on to the road with bumpy clumsy enthusiasm.

Thereseemed to be only the driver in the vehicle. He was blank-faced andnondescript, dressed in some sort of woolly jumper, death-grey to match thecar.

Theyplayed this match all that short late-year afternoon, driving between fields,along narrow, bad, lumpy tracks, past leaning old barns and ruined fences. Nowand then Carver gave them a turn on a trim motorway. He also stopped twice morebefore they reached Tunbridge Wells, once at another pub, and once at a farmshop,