In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,73

may say, a little frantic. Over the top of the mountain and down this side. At the bottom of the hill the road swings round to the left and we could see from the map that it follows the coastline round a whole lot of bays and eventually ends up right back in Wellington.’

He started the car, turned it, and rolled gently ahead. Naked to the waist, wet from there down, and still with beads of blood forming and overflowing, he looked an unorthodox chauffeur. The beard, above, was undaunted.

‘We went that way,’ Sarah said. ‘There was nothing but miles of craggy rocks and sea.’

‘I’ll paint those rocks,’ Jik said.

Sarah glanced at his face, and then at me. She’d heard the fervour in that statement of intent. The golden time was almost over.

‘After a bit we turned back,’ Jik said. ‘There was this bit of road saying “no through road”, so we came down it. No you, of course. We stopped here on this spot and Sarah got out of the car and started bawling her eyes out.’

‘You weren’t exactly cheering yourself,’ she said.

‘Huh,’ he smiled. ‘Anyway, I kicked a few stones about, wondering what to do next, and there were those cartridges.’

‘Those what?’

‘On the edge of the road. All close together. Maybe dropped out of one of those spider-ejection revolvers, or something like that.’

‘When we saw them,’ Sarah said, ‘we thought…’

‘It could have been anyone popping off at seabirds,’ I said. ‘And I think we might go back and pick them up.’

‘Are you serious?’ Jik said.

‘Yeah.’

We stopped, turned again, and retraced our tyre-treads.

‘No one shoots sea-birds with a revolver,’ he said. ‘But bloody awful painters of slow horses, that’s different.’

The quarry came in sight again. Jik drew up and stopped, and Sarah, hopping out quickly, told us to stay where we were, she would fetch the bullet cases.

‘They really did shoot at you?’ Jik said.

‘Greene. He missed.’

‘Inefficient.’ He shifted in his seat, wincing. ‘They must have gone back over the hill while we were looking for you round the bays.’ He glanced at Sarah as she searched along the side of the road. ‘Did they take the list?’

‘I threw it in the sea.’ I smiled lopsidedly. ‘It seemed too tame just to hand it over… and it made a handy diversion. They salvaged enough to see that they’d got what they wanted.’

‘It must all have been a bugger.’

‘Hilarious.’

Sarah found the cases, picked them up, and came running back. ‘Here they are… I’ll put them in my handbag.’ She slid into the passenger seat. ‘What now?’

‘Telephone,’ I said.

‘Like that?’ She looked me over. ‘Have you any idea…’ She stopped. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you each a shirt at the first shop we come to.’ She swallowed. ‘And don’t say what if it’s a grocery.’

‘What if it’s a grocery?’ Jik said.

We set off again, and at the intersection turned left to go back over the hill, because it was about a quarter of the distance.

Near the top there was a large village with the sort of store which sold everything from hammers to hairpins. Also groceries. Also, upon enquiry, shirts. Sarah made a face at Jik and vanished inside.

I pulled on the resulting navy tee-shirt and made wobbly tracks for the telephone, clutching Sarah’s purse.

‘Operator… which hotels have a telex?’

She told me three. One was the Townhouse. I thanked her and rang off.

I called the Townhouse. Remembered, with an effort, that my name was Peel.

‘But, Mr Peel…’ said the girl, sounding bewildered. ‘Your friend… the one with the moustache, not the one with the beard… He paid your account not half an hour ago and collected all your things… Yes, I suppose it is irregular, but he brought your note, asking us to let him have your room key… I’m sorry but I didn’t know you hadn’t written it… Yes, he took all your things, the room’s being cleaned at this minute…’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘Can you send a telex for me? Put it on my friend Mr… er… Andrew’s bill.’

She said she would. I dictated the message. She repeated it, and said she would send it at once.

‘I’ll call again soon for the reply,’ I said.

Sarah had bought jeans for us, and dry socks. Jik drove out of the village to a more modest spot, and we put them on: hardly the world’s best fit, but they hid the damage.

‘Where now?’ he said. ‘Intensive Care Unit?’

‘Back to the telephone.’

‘Jesus God Almighty.’

He drove back and I called the Townhouse. The girl