The Dead Can Wait by Robert Ryan Page B

them.
    He buttoned himself up and continued down the rough path to the door of the cottage. He had two bottles of Mackeson with him, one in each of his jacket pockets. He took them out and allowed the pair to clink together, a sound that would raise any serious drinker from the deepest slumber. Then he tapped on the door with a knuckle.
    ‘Jimmy?’ he hissed.
    Nothing.
    ‘Jimmy? It’s Bradley Ross. I’m a friend of Cyril’s. He said you liked a drop of Mackeson.’ An ‘old woman’s drink’ the gnarled Cyril had called it, but Ross left that part out. ‘I’m just going to leave them here, outside. By the bootscrape. OK?’
    He walked away, ears alert for any sounds coming from the cottage. There were only the noises of the night, the soft sighing of leaves, the rustle of the fields. He walked fifty yards down the lane and halted. A horse neighed nearby and restless insects sent out scratching and chirping calls. He stepped through a gap in the hedgerow, crouched down and lit a cigarette.
    Squatting came easy to him. It had been a punishment at school, forced to crouch with hands on head until pins and needles rippled through your limbs. Later, such practised immobility had been useful when he had learned to hunt. He allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation and felt some of the tension ease from his neck and shoulders.
    There was something interesting happening at Elveden, he was sure. He felt it in his waters. The only fly in the ointment was that young lieutenant, Booth. He hadn’t liked the way he had looked at him in Miss Pillbody’s garden. The man wore no regimental badge, which suggested he might be Intelligence. There were bound to be some of those around on a secret project of this size. And they all looked at you like that. Just like policemen. But Booth was a callow boy, not some wily old operative. Ross was sure he could dodge anything thrown at him by Lieutenant Booth. He had begun his book, The Good War , on the ruthless aggression of Germany and its barbarism in Belgium. If Booth should search his cottage, he would find nothing to suggest Ross was more interested in teasing out the secret of Elveden than Allied propaganda.
    The cigarette had burned down to his fingers. He stubbed it out in the soil and stood, listening once more for any stray sounds. A fox called in the distance, strangulated and forlorn. Ross retraced his steps back to the cottage, careful to keep in the shadows. He stood at the base of an elm, a few yards from the cottage door, staring into the darkness until he could be certain. Yes, the two bottles of the milk stout had gone. The bait had been taken.

THIRTEEN
     
    Coyle had half turned when the first of the bullets sang past his ear and raised a whorl of dust from the masonry behind him. The flash had come from the back seat of the Shelsey. He cleared the Smith & Wesson revolver from his belt and fired two rounds in return, while all the time heading for the shelter of a parked car.
    How dare they? he thought. In broad daylight. In the heart of the city. He fired again, and this time he was aware that two shots had been sent in reply. They weren’t sharpshooters, but both attempts had come close enough to snap the air like a ringmaster’s whip. He risked a look up the street. Harry was there, out on the pavement, also raising his pistol. Bystanders had frozen or ducked into shop doorways. Coyle heard a woman scream. A police whistle sounded, hoarse and feeble at first, now finding its fluting voice.
    Coyle had made it to the Austin parked nearby and crouched down beside it. The windscreen shattered, but the glass imploded harmlessly into the car. He had three shots left. He thought about reloading, but now he heard the crunch of gears and an engine revving.
    They were speeding off.
    He stood and, bracing his right hand by cupping the butt of the S&W, he loosed the remaining bullets at the fast-disappearing motor car. Its rear window vanished in a glistening shower of