Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,80

convey the subtleties in John Smith’s attitudes, nor could he himself possibly have imitated the voice. John Smith might be someone trying to snatch the reward without any goods to deliver; he might be a fraud, I thought, but not a deadly danger.

My house felt cold and empty. I opened all the letters that had accumulated there since Monday, took the ones that mattered, and dumped the junk into the dustbin along with several unread newspapers. I leafed through the present Sunday’s papers and found two or three mentions, both as general news stories and as special paragraphs on the sports pages, about Col being shot. All the stories recalled Cascade and Cotopaxi, but raised no great questions of why, and said who was still a complete mystery. I hadn’t seen Beatrice reading any English newspaper since she’d arrived, and just hoped to hell she wouldn’t start that morning.

I collected a few things to take with me; clean clothes, the cash, some writing paper, a pocket-sized tape recorder, spare cassettes and a few photographs sorted from a disorganised drawerful.

I also loaded into the car the video-recorder I’d used to make parts of the film indicting Maynard, and some spare tapes and batteries for that, but more on an ‘in case’ basis than with any clear plans for their use: and I picked up from the kitchen, where I kept it, a small gadget I’d bought in New York that started cars from a distance. It worked by radio, transmitting to a receiver in the car which then switched on the ignition and activated the starter-motor. I liked gadgets, and that one was most useful in freezing weather, since one could start one’s car from indoors and warm up the engine before plunging out into snowstorms oneself.

I checked my answering machine for messages and dealt with those, repacked my sock with new ice cubes and finally set off again to Bradbury, arriving in the small country town with ten minutes in hand.

The King’s Head, I found, was a square smallish brick building, relatively modern and dedicated to beer. No old world charm, no warming pans, oak beams, red lampshades, pewter mugs: no car park either. The Bradbury Arms, across the road, looked plentifully supplied with everything.

I parked in the street and went into the King’s Head public bar, trying that first, and finding a darts board, several benches, low tables, sisal matting and an understocked bar.

No customers.

I tried the saloon bar, genteelly furnished with glass-topped tables and moderately comfortable wooden armchairs, in one of which I sat while I waited.

A man appeared behind the bar there and asked what I’d like.

‘Half of mild,’ I said.

He pulled it, and I paid.

I laid on the glass-topped table in front of me the large brown envelope which contained Lord Vaughnley’s file photograph of Nanterre. The envelope currently bulged also with the tape recorder, four more photographs, two bundles of banknotes in small separate envelopes and some plain writing paper. All that I needed for John Smith was ready, but there was no sign of John Smith.

A few local people well known to the innkeeper came into the bar, ordering ‘the usual’ and eying me, the stranger. None of them carried a newspaper. None of them, I noticed with surprise, was a woman.

I could hear the thud … thud … thud of someone playing darts in the public bar, so I picked up my envelope and beer and walked back there to look.

There were three customers by that time; two playing darts and one sitting on the edge of a bench glancing at his watch.

Beside him on the bench lay Saturday’s Sporting Life, the bold-printed advertisement uppermost.

With a great sigh of relief I went over and sat down on the bench, leaving the newspaper between him and me.

‘Mr Smith?’ I said.

He jumped nervously, even though he’d watched me walk across to join him.

He was perhaps in his fifties, wore a zip-fronted fawn jacket and had an air of habitual defeat. His hair, still black, was brushed in careful lines across a balding scalp, and the tip of his nose pointed straight downwards, as if someone had punched it that way long ago.

‘My name’s Christmas,’ I said.

He looked at me carefully and frowned. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I brought your money … Would you like a drink?’

‘I’ll get it,’ he said. He stood up with alacrity to go over to the bar, and from that distance studied me doubtfully. I put a hand