Watchman (novel) by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin [Rankin, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780752859156
Publisher: Orion
Published: 1988-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

HE HAD TO BRUSH LATE autumn leaves off the bonnet and the windscreen of the Jag. It had lain dormant for some time. The front bumper had been dented slightly, perhaps by some car trying to squeeze out of its tight parking space. No one, however, had put a brick through the front window, and no one had strapped a radio-controlled nasty to the wheel arches or the underbelly.

The drive, however, was not enjoyable, and this thought sent Miles jolting away from one particular set of traffic lights. He had always enjoyed driving his car, always. But something about the relationship seemed to have changed. Oh no, not you too, he wanted to say. The sounds of the engine, the change of the gears, the fascia, the leather that supported him, all seemed involved in a conspiracy of estrangement. He was just not right for the car anymore. “Divorce” was the word that came to mind. He would sell the car and buy something more austere, or—why not?—would travel everywhere by public transport. Too often he had used his car as if it were a womb or a protective shelter of some kind. Well, he was ready to face the world now.

And he was ready, too, to face whatever awaited him in Partridge’s office. The car behind was too close. If he braked at all it would bump him. Why did anyone risk that kind of accident? Maybe the driver was Italian. The car wasn’t: it was German, a Mercedes. And it had been behind him for some time.

“Pass me if you want,” he said to himself, waving one hand out of the window. But the car slowed to keep with him, and Miles, his heart suddenly beating faster, took a good look in his rearview mirror at the driver. Maybe foreign; hard to tell behind those unseasonable sunglasses. Oh Jesus, it’s a tail. Of course it was a tail. What was happening to him? Slow, Miles, far too slow.

He pushed the car up to thirty-five, forty, forty-five, passed a couple of vehicles with an inch or two to spare, heard them sounding their horns, but his concentration was on the mirror and the Mercedes. It was like a shark after its prey: content to sit on his tail, to ride with him until he grew tired or panicked himself into the wrong action. Fifty, fifty-five: near suicide on these central city roads. He took a roundabout too quickly, and suddenly there was another car in the chase, its headlights on full, siren blaring. Miles didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Merc signaled and turned into a side street, leaving the police car to do its duty. Miles signaled and pulled into the pavement. The car wedged itself in front of him and stopped.

Never mind. He had the telephone number ready.

A gun pointed at him through the window, ordering him to come out slowly. Four of them, none uniformed, all with handguns. Miles opened the door as though it were a surgical operation.

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