Personal (Jack Reacher, #19)(88)

FORTY-SEVEN


THE ROLLS-ROYCE FELT exactly like it should, given the things people like to say. It was very hushed, and it was very smooth. The rear bench was built like an armchair in an officers’ club. It was deep, and wide, and soft. Next to me Charlie White was still belted in. His body was facing front, but his head was turned, and he was staring at me. A strand of his hair had fallen out of place. Up close his nose was like most of an avocado pear. But overall he looked exactly like a gang boss. He was full of power and strength and confidence.

I said, ‘Are you armed, Charlie?’

He said, ‘Kid, you know you just signed your own death warrant, right? Please tell me you’re clear about that. No one does what you just did.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing.’

I said, ‘There’s always something, Charlie.’

‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?’

‘So much I should cut my losses and shoot you in the head and walk away while I still can?’

He said, ‘You could do that. Or you could get a stay of execution just long enough to get out of town. That’s what I’m offering. But I only ask once, and I take your first answer, so you’d better put your thinking cap on, kid, about what comes next, about how hard it’s going to be, and how hard it’s going to be every day for the rest of your life.’

‘What do you want us to do in exchange for that?’

‘Get out of my car.’

‘Wrong answer, Charlie. My question was, are you armed?’

‘I’m on my way to a memorial service. Of course I’m not armed.’

‘Is that an elaborate courtesy?’

‘What?’

‘Do you have a portable phone in your pocket?’

‘Do I look like the kind of man who makes his own telephone calls?’

I said, ‘Strictly speaking, you were on your way to a memorial service. Now you’re on your way someplace else. I’m going to have to tape your wrists. No way around that. And it would be better for me if I taped your mouth, too. But to be frank with you, Charlie, I’m concerned how well you breathe through that nose.’

‘You’re concerned what?’

‘You could suffocate if I taped your mouth.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my nose.’

‘Good to know. That’s settled, then.’

He said, ‘Exactly what is it you’re trying to do here?’

I said, ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re just collateral damage.’

‘From what? I have a right to know.’

From the front seat Casey Nice said, ‘No, Mr White, you do not. As a matter of fact you have no rights at all. Legislation is not on your side. Your associate Joseph Green is harbouring men who would be called terrorists by any court in the world.’

‘I don’t know anything about Joey harbouring anybody.’

‘He has guests.’

‘Friends of his, I expect.’

‘You’re responsible for what he does.’

‘He hasn’t done anything.’

I said, ‘But he will,’ and Nice slowed the car, and took the turn for Chigwell.

We passed the pub, which we both remembered, and we did our best to follow the turns we had taken on foot, the huge car more at home there than in Romford, until we came to the board fence, with the yard-wide gap before the next fence began. Nice pulled over and stopped, and I made Charlie White take his seat belt off, and I made him squirm around with his back to me, and I taped his wrists, and his elbows, and his mouth, around and around, and then I leaned over and opened his door, and pushed him out, and followed after him, and hauled him into the mouth of the alley.

Nice drove on a hundred yards and parked equidistant from five opulent houses, compared to any one of which a gap in a fence a hundred yards away was invisible. She jogged back, fast, a little up on her toes, not relaxed at all, and she bundled into the alley after us, and then squeezed past us and led the way. I kept old Charlie moving behind her, with the old guy huffing and puffing, whether from indignation or lack of condition I couldn’t tell, but either way he was proving himself an honest man when he said there was nothing wrong with his nose.

We made it into the grit clearing, Nice first, glancing left and right, then Charlie, stumbling, his best pants flapping, and then me, checking our backs, checking left, checking right, checking the wooden hut ahead, with Bowling Club over the door. Nice ducked down and moved the stone and stood up again and said, ‘There’s no key.’

Charlie White stood there, breathing hard.

I said nothing.

She said, ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s the right stone.’

I said, ‘Did they change the lock back?’

‘Why would they?’

I didn’t answer. A shed made of wood, built way back before I was born. Take it up with whichever carpenter died fifty years ago, Bennett had said. A good craftsman, probably, but working with poor postwar materials, plus sixty or so summers and sixty or so winters, which meant the shed would be strong, but not very strong. I took three long strides and smashed my heel through the lock and caught the door on the bounce.

The binoculars were gone.

The kitchen stools were gone, and the tripod stands were gone. The clear lane in front of the windows was completely empty.