Tomorrow's ghost by Anthony Price

Author:Anthony Price [Price, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Colonel Butler’s village there was a big new garage, with a showroom full of gleaming Japanese cars and an unbeatable offer on its petrol.

Frances pulled on to the forecourt, just short of the pumps, and sat thinking for a moment, hypnotised by the empty phone box beyond the car-wash at the far end of the buildings.

All she had to do was to go to that box and lift the phone and dial the number and put the money in, and then say a few words. It would be just another phone call, and even if the Mossad line at the Saracen’s Head was no longer secure it would be untraceable if she was quick.

Except it wouldn’t be just another call, because once she’d made it she’d be more than halfway committed to one side of Paul’s palace revolution and not to the side with the better odds at the moment. Not even, come to that, to the side that had the right on it for certain, notwithstanding her instinct—and William Ewart Hedges’ blessing.

A tousle-headed young man came out of the petrol kiosk and stood staring towards her.

Paul, on the other hand, was hedging his bets with a vengeance. Though (to be fair to him) he’d gone a lot further than she might have expected him to go, with his ambitions, and with the promises of advancement they would have made to him, like those which had been made to her in return for results.

The young man pointed towards her, and then to the pumps.

Mustn’t point at anyone.

What Paul hadn’t done, and what he wasn’t going to do (because of those ambitions), or at least not yet, until he was sure which way the tide was flowing (also because of those ambitions), was to risk disobeying a direct order.

(Good management is finding someone else to take the risks, namely, Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon.)

She rolled the car forward to the five-star pump.

The young man looked at her, and then the car, and then at the pump. And finally back at her. He was young and beautiful, and he wore an incredibly patched pair of jeans which appeared to have been poured on him, and a dark blue sweat-shirt bearing the legend ‘Oxford University’.

Frances looked down at the fuel gauge: it had registered under half-full when Paul had turned over the car to her yesterday, a long way north, but it was still not quite on empty. It was that sort of car.

‘Can I help you?’ He smiled, and was more beautiful, and the accent went with the sweat-shirt.

‘Do you take Barclaycards?’

‘Barclay and Access—not American Express, for some obscure reason. But you won’t get any Green Shield Stamps, they’re only for hard cash, I’m afraid.’ Still smiling, still looking down at her, he tossed his curls towards the great garish poster above his shoulder. ‘It’s all in the small print. Though actually our petrol is cheap at the moment—you’re supposed to come in for our extra special offer, plus

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