Death in High Places - By Jo Bannister Page 0,32

suburb that covered as much ground, though none would have matched it for height. The tower was the highest point, but it was only the size of one fairly small room—the attic room the spiraling steps had brought them through—with a crenellated parapet through whose slits an earlier generation of defenders had ranged their arrows.

The tower was not central but offset to one side so that looking down he could see the leads of another roof, and below it again a wider one that had been turned into a terrace by the addition of a couple of bistro chairs and a table. The main entrance where McKendrick had left his car was on the south side, and there was another in the stone-flagged courtyard to the west, which Horn supposed was Beth’s. He walked round the high parapet, looking for a third, and couldn’t spot it.

And then he did. A dark green station wagon was drawn up against the boundary hedge a quarter of a mile away, all but invisible to anyone who hadn’t a really good reason for looking, totally unmemorable to anyone lacking a really good reason to remember. Horn had such a reason. And that wasn’t the car he’d been forced into six hours earlier. The first thing Hanratty’s man had done after McKendrick interrupted him at his work was change his car. The consummate professional. The thought cheered Nicky Horn not at all.

McKendrick was attaching his mother-in-law’s best supper cloth to the flag halyard with deft movements of his wrists and knots that Horn didn’t recognize. Of course, when Horn tied a knot he was about to trust his life to it, not a nice bit of table linen. “Do this a lot, do you?”

McKendrick grinned. “Not as much as I do it on the boat.”

Horn nodded toward the distant car. “I’m guessing that doesn’t belong to the bird-watching vicar.”

McKendrick peered where he was indicating. “You think that’s our friend’s?”

Horn strove to remain polite. “I’m pretty sure it will be.”

“I still don’t know how the hell he got here.”

“He followed us. He just did it carefully.”

But McKendrick wouldn’t have it. “I’d have known. It’s a two-hour drive, and a lot of it’s on roads that no one else uses, at least not in the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t have kept us in sight without me seeing him, at least from time to time. I’m telling you, there was no one behind us.”

To Horn the answer was obvious. “There must have been. Unless you really did call him when we got here.”

McKendrick bent on him a look of disfavor, declining to dignify the accusation with a reply. He peered at the distant car. “Can you see him?”

“I don’t expect to. Not till it’s too late.”

McKendrick frowned at him. “You’re a pessimistic son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist.”

McKendrick considered for a moment. “You climb, I sail. We’ve both been in more life-threatening situations than most people. We’ve both walked away from situations that could have killed us—that should have killed us. What’s to say this won’t be another one?”

“The sea isn’t trying to kill you,” Horn reminded him, tight-lipped. “The mountains don’t care if you live or die. Him out there: he cares. He cares enough to keep trying until he succeeds. He won’t give up. He’ll keep coming back till he finishes the job.”

“Believe that and you’re as good as dead already.”

“I know,” said Horn, and it was in his eyes and in his voice that while he’d long ago reached the same conclusion, he had never come to terms with it. “Mr. McKendrick, I’ve been a dead man running since Tommy Hanratty realized the law wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction he required. At first it was his own people, heavies off his payroll. It wasn’t too hard staying ahead of them. They’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer—most of them could be out-thought by a rubber duck. When Hanratty realized that as well, he got in a pro. And he’s a whole different ball game. I’m still running. But I know I can’t stay ahead of him forever.”

McKendrick regarded him thoughtfully. “Call me Mack.”

Somehow, that wasn’t what Horn was expecting. “What?”

“Everyone calls me Mack. Even Beth. If we’re going to die together, we might as well be on first-name terms.”

“Fine. Whatever.” It really wasn’t Horn’s highest priority just now. “You can call me…”

“Yes?” A small waiting smile.

“Anything but Anarchy Horn.”

They went back inside, down one flight of narrow