Murder in Adland by Bruce Beckham

Author:Bruce Beckham [Beckham, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lucius
Published: 2012-10-18T06:00:00+00:00

28. TWITCHING

It is Saturday, 5:20 a.m. Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and stops to sniff the early morning air. He carries in one hand a smart black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather worn green army-surplus rucksack, matching his fatigues. Satisfied there are no lurking threats, and jangling a bunch of keys, he hurries across towards a row of dew-covered vehicles on the opposite side of the dismal cul-de-sac. There is a resonant squawk, and the flash of the hazards of a new-looking crimson roadster. He drops his luggage into the passenger footwell, rounds the bonnet and slides into the low-slung driver’s seat. The engine fires into life, wipers flick a film of condensation from the windscreen, and tyres protest as the car snakes out onto Pentonville Road.

Had Grendon Smith been inclined to clean his mirrors or rear screen, he might now note that a predator of sorts is indeed on his tail. Keeping its distance, but following the roadster’s every move, is a shabby but deceptively powerful estate, inconspicuous but for its aerial, which is fashioned from a wire coat hanger into the shape of a fish.

Squinting, Skelgill lowers his visor and reaches for his sunglasses. They are heading due east. The sun slants over the rooftops and makes everything look either black or orange. There is some respite at Angel as they turn north, but soon they begin to veer eastwards again, bringing the sun back into play. At this time of day there are few cars on the road, and keeping a low profile is difficult in light traffic. Skelgill’s dilemma is compounded by Smith’s penchant for overtaking anything that gets in his way, forcing him to complete the same unpopular manoeuvres. At one point Smith gets himself into a race with a gang of youths in an old BMW – and for a while Skelgill knows his quarry’s attention is elsewhere – but after some sparring the gang spins off into a housing estate and Smith is freed of the distraction.

Not long after, he takes the slip for the M11, and Skelgill might now reasonably speculate that his destination is Norfolk once again. Indeed, their course proves almost arrow-straight (the exception a small dog-leg at Cambridge), and in due course the Fens flatten out before them. Above these agricultural levels Ely cathedral towers like a great gothic spaceship that has landed from another time, and Skelgill must wonder at how folk live in this land of lonesome horizons, with not even a hillock for company. Joining the A10 they skirt Downham Market, and reaching King’s Lynn Smith holds his northwards course as he crashes through amber lights at a large island. The route is now signposted for Hunstanton – Skelgill recalls mention of the name in Smith’s statement.

A couple of miles shy of this cliff-top resort, 115 miles into their journey, the red roadster takes an abrupt left, towards the adjoining holiday village of Heacham.

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