Running Read online

  ‘Not unless you give me something. Pete?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Tulsa and Arizona said they searched the prisoner. Did they?’

  Pete nodded – his eyes hidden behind their reflective lenses, lean frame lodged against the nearest wall, automatic by his side. ‘I watched. They searched him thoroughly; did a good job.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Sean spat back. ‘Damn! And I thought we were getting somewhere. What a bloody waste of time. Now it’s up to you, Scott.’ He rounded on the boy.

  ‘I keep telling you, I don’t know anything,’ Scott protested.

  ‘Well, if you don’t know anything you might as well forget your dad – you won’t be seeing him again,’ the agent snapped savagely.

  Scott gasped and ran out of the room.

  ‘Nice going, boss.’

  ‘It’s true though.’ Sean Terry passed a hand over the stubble on his chin and sighed wearily. ‘I’ve no time to be nice, Pete – that’s your role. Doesn’t the boy know he’s in danger?’

  ‘I told him. I also happened to mention that you’re one of the good guys. After this, I’m not sure he’ll believe me.’

  Sean stared across at the empty chair, his expression bleak. ‘Hell!’ he said.

  Scott lay on his bed. He’d been crying. He heard a murmur of voices as Sean and Pete talked. He sat up rubbing his eyes, and clicked the intercom.

  That was another thing they didn’t know about. His dad had installed it so they could talk from one room to the other. At the time it seemed stupid. After all, the cottage only had four rooms and you could easily shout from one to the other. Only the studio really needed it. Now he was grateful, the voices sounding as if he were standing next to them. He kept the volume low.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ Pete’s voice.

  ‘Not sure. Not sure neither about Tulsa and Arizona. I’ve sent Midge to check them out.’

  ‘No, boss. They wouldn’t.’

  ‘Someone did or they got careless and missed the cyanide.’

  Scott heard the outside door open and someone enter the house. He heard Hilary’s voice.

  ‘What are you planning to do with Scott?’

  ‘He’s an okay kid, boss,’ Pete added. Scott gave a half-smile, feeling grateful for the compliment. ‘Doesn’t say much. Thinks more. Go easy on him; he’s just lost his dad.’

  ‘He’s almost sixteen, for Pete’s sake, and says he doesn’t know anything? All kids know more than they let on. There’s nothing for it, if he’s only prepared to come up with one answer a day, we’ll be here months. We’ll have to take him in. I can’t afford to waste all that time.’

  Scott gasped aloud, thankful the intercom switch was down – incoming only. He had to get out before he became a prisoner, like his dad.

  Sliding open his dressing table drawer, he pulled out a bankcard and some cash: for emergencies, his dad had said. Well, this was an emergency. He checked his keys – the house, his locker at school, the garage key – same for both front and back doors. Of course he knew they were there – but with so much going wrong, they could easily have gone missing. He’d used the key before, too; after rows with his dad when he wanted to slip out of the house without being seen. Out of the bedroom window, into the garage through the garden door, grab his bike – easy.

  No time for clothes. No time for anything. He caught sight of the photograph of his mother and slipped it into his pocket, staring wildly round the room. Laptop! He needed that. Grabbing it from the drawer, he slid open his window and dropped to the ground. The washing machine gurgled noisily, absorbing the dull thud of his feet landing on the path. He knew the key would open the door okay. Everything his dad used worked properly, but his hands were shaking so much he could hardly turn it. Then he was in the garage, the double-doors to the yard ajar. Closing the garden door quietly behind him, he quickly pulled on his dad’s jacket and helmet. He tugged at the driving gloves, his hands still shaking, his glance constantly flicking towards the yard. The drum from the washing machine began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the machine lurching against its concrete base with Anoise like thunder.

  Rocking the bike off its stand, Scott stepped it to the entrance. The gate stood open, left like that after the black car’s appearance. Praying they were all too busy talking, to notice anything above the throbbing of the washing machine, he switched on the ignition. There was instantaneous contact, followed by a roar as the massive engine burst into life. Now he was committed; no turning back.

  A spur of excitement flashed through him, like an electric shock. He held up one of his gloved hands and smiled. It was no longer shaking. Gunning the accelerator, he tore towards the gate and into the lane, confident that no one could follow him, not even bullets from a machine gun. Then, he was out of range and halfway down the lane.

  TEN

  The Suzuki loved speed and at sixty purred along like a well-fed cat, offering constant reminders that it really would like to go a little faster. Scott resisted the temptation, anxious not to invite attention. The events of that morning continued to replay over and over again, like a damaged groove on a disc repeating the line of a song. He was still wondering, a grin on his face, how on earth he’d pulled a stunt like that – and got away with it – when the suburbs of Falmouth appeared. He throttled back to a gentle thirty, the bike rolling smoothly along the asphalt surface.

  The lending library in Helston had been rejected as being too small; Penzance, the superior by far, was ignored on the grounds that it led nowhere except the Atlantic; Falmouth was part way to wherever the puzzle led him.

  On both sides now appeared lines of elegant bungalows, their neatly-pruned shrubs artistically placed amongst borders of flowering daffodils or dropped into lawns, cut with military-style precision.

  Ahead of him a line of cars were patiently inching forward, waiting to join the traffic circulating round a flower-filled island. Scott neatly side-stepped his way to the front of the queue, searching for a break in the traffic piling in from the right. The driver of the approaching vehicle slowed slightly, as if unsure which way to go. Scott opened the throttle then, with a sudden change of direction, swerved across the bonnet of the car next to him, hearing its horn blast out indignantly. Next moment he was accelerating along the by-pass. Crazy not to have thought about it earlier; Falmouth would be the first place they’d check. He flew the bike past a column of cars heading for St. Austell. There, he would be twice as safe with a choice of roads, north towards Exeter or north-east to Plymouth.

  The miles disappeared, the road only moderately busy with local traffic and the occasional tourist who, braving the variable spring weather, was en route to one of the numerous attractions of south Cornwall. Scott swooped past a curtain-sided artic, plastered with gaudy advertisements for yoghurt, on its way to restock a busy supermarket. Despite wearing his dad’s windproof jacket over a thick sweater, the wind chill factor at sixty was significant and Scott was glad to feel the sun break out from behind the low cloud base.

  Ten minutes more and a proliferation of road signs, multiplying faster than rabbits in a warren, heralded the outskirts to St. Austell. Scott slowed. Moments later the streets of the old town closed in, forcing the bike to slow even further. Nervously, he picked his way into the town’s centre, searching for the main library. Almost directly in front of the library building, he noticed a small space between a large van and an illegally parked car, its bumper sticking out into the roadway. He squeezed the bike into it, trusting to the bulky shape of the van to shield him, only too aware that its sleek lines and brilliant colour made it a magnet for idle eyes, even mums with small children stopping to admire it. Worse, it was illegal. He might have been a competent rider since he was thirteen, but he couldn’t take his test for another six weeks – not till his sixteenth birthday. Still, he looked of age and, so long as he didn’t draw attention to himself, there was no reason for the police to pick him up.

  Overhead a bl
ue metal sign, embossed with black letters, authorised thirty minutes free parking, with no return under one hour. Scott switched off his engine and, placing his feet flat on the ground, bounced the bike strongly back on to its stand. Remaining seated, he removed his gloves, turning round to drop them into the box. Moulded into the framework, part seat and part support for a pillion rider, it had scarcely enough room for a jacket and helmet. His hands were stiff after so long a ride and he flexed them, rubbing at his wrists and forearms to restore their circulation.

  Behind him, the traffic was beginning to back up along the street. Scott threw a pitying glance at the driver of a bus, stationary in front of an impossibly narrow gap, who was making his frustration felt by furiously banging on the steering wheel and swearing loudly. Thank heavens for two wheels. Four would be a nightmare in this town of narrow streets.

  Grinning at the expression on the bus driver’s face, he tugged at the Velcro strap on his helmet. He stopped dead, his hand plastered against the front of his visor. He’d only gone and left his specs in the kitchen. Scott collapsed back against the saddle, picturing his glasses in their holder by the kitchen door. Walking the streets in a visor was a dead cert for anyone trying to get arrested. His hand strayed towards the pocket of his jeans, and he patted it triumphantly, pulling out his dad’s pair. Dismounting, he slipped the keys into an inside pocket and, with his helmet slung over his arm, headed up the shallow stone steps, and pushed open the polished brown door.

  ‘Damon Runyon?’ The woman flicked the screen. She shook her head. ‘Out of date, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is there nowhere I can get a copy?’

  ‘Exeter, most likely. There should be a copy in the Reference Library. Would you like me to check?’

  ‘Please.’ With a sudden spurt of unease, Scott strove his keep his voice calm, not wanting to display his anxiety to a stranger. Had he left home for no reason? If the book was not in print, then why?

  The librarian scrolled down reams of printed text. After a few minutes, she raised her head from the screen. ‘Sorry, it’s not listed.’

  ‘But I need it – for school,’ he insisted.

  She pursed her lips, peering down at the screen again. ‘History or English?’

  ‘History?’ Scott said, with a puzzled frown. ‘Why history?’

  ‘Well, Runyon’s not your contemporary writer, is he? Most of his stuff was written early in the last century, between the two great wars, if I remember correctly. He wrote about prohibition in America. Sue?’

  Her colleague looked up from her computer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Damon Runyon?’

  ‘Who?’ the young woman raised her eyebrows enquiring.

  ‘See!’ The middle-aged woman nodded at Scott, an expression of pleased triumph on her face. ‘Nobody knows about him any more.’

  Someone does, thought Scott. ‘Would there be a biography?’

  ‘Wait!’ More clicks and more screens. ‘Bingo!’ She looked up and beamed, her pleasant face breaking into a wide smile. ‘Have you got a code?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere.’ Scott pulled out his wallet, searching for his library card.

  ‘You can access it from here.’

  The librarian indicated a bank of screens, only one of them in use by an elderly man reading the day’s news, and handed Scott a pencilled slip of paper, the reference already written on it.

  Scott noticed the clock on the wall. Already twenty of his allotted thirty minutes’ parking time had gone. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself by being late. ‘Can I print it out, I’m short of time.’

  ‘There’s six pages.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ He pulled out a twenty-euro note and the librarian pressed the print key.

  Seven minutes later, clutching a handful of change and a-half-dozen loose sheets of A4 paper, he dived out of the library and made for his bike, sneaking a glance at the busy street. Both the bus and the offending car had vanished and been replaced by a white delivery van, its driver in the middle of a heated argument with a motorist, who appeared determined to squeeze his car into a space built for a tricycle. Scott grinned ruefully and, replacing his helmet, started the engine; a brief glance in his wing mirror sufficient to identify the familiar black jacket of the traffic warden, heading purposefully up the street towards him.

  A double-cheeseburger, purchased from a drive-through fast-food restaurant, lay forgotten on his plate while Scott studied the pile of paper. He had parked the Suzuki out of sight of the main road but within view, so he could keep an eye on it; dumping himself down on one of the bench seats, provided for motorists that didn’t want to dirty-up their cars by eating in them. Only a couple were occupied, but no one appeared the slightest bit interested in him, which suited Scott just fine.

  From the moment the librarian mentioned that Damon Runyon wrote his books almost a century ago, Scott guessed there was a riddle waiting to be solved. Anchoring the pages with the fingers of his left hand, he started with the Reuters’ article, the text still insisting that Damon Runyon had been shot, two nights ago, in London. Somewhere, in those precious sheets of paper was a clue – there had to be.

  He sighed, took a bite out of his cheeseburger and began to read. On page four he stopped.

  The musical Guys and Dolls was based on two Runyon stories, “The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown” and “Blood Pressure”. Like all of Runyon’s short stories this play celebrated the world of Broadway in New York City, during the Prohibition era. Runyon spun a tale of gamblers, petty thieves, actors and gangsters; few of whom go by “square” names, preferring instead to be known as “Nathan Detroit”, “Big Jule”, “Harry the Horse”, “Nicely-Nicely”, “Good time Charley”, “ Dave the Dude”, and so on.

  In the film, made in 1955, the Oscar Award winning stars, Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra, played the lead roles of Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit, with Jean Simmons in the role of Sister Sarah.

  He didn’t read on.

  Scott stared into space – his mind a blank. After the shocks of the last two days, this was the worst; learning your dad had, for the whole of your life, been living a lie. He felt sick and knew he looked it, too.

  He read the article again – slowly. There was no mistake. His dad had belonged to an organisation that communicated by means of the Internet, hiding behind characters neatly provided by the American author, Damon Runyon. Only the person using that name had been murdered two nights ago. And if his mum had been Sister Sarah, someone had killed her, too. His dad was Sky Masterson, that’s where the name came from. No wonder he’d never been allowed to use it. So, had Dad been kidnapped or murdered? He was alive, he had to be. Scott repeated the phrase again, refusing to let the nightmarish thought take root.

  But the names? “Nathan Detroit”, “Big Jule”, “Harry the Horse”, “Nicely-Nicely”, “Good time Charley”, “Dave the Dude”. He didn’t know any of them. But then he wouldn’t, would he? His dad had never mentioned he had friends.

  Except …

  Far off a memory lurked. Scott frowned, trying to tug at it and prise it loose. Was it something his dad had talked about when they were having breakfast? Scott thought back to recent conversations – but nothing stirred. Or had he read it? He searched his memory banks, everything he’d read at school and at home. He tried the alphabet trick, ploughing through the letters one by one. Had he seen it? He visualised the cottage, searching through it room by room and into the studio. He felt a blast of recognition, the picture painfully vivid. The silent room, decorated with its two posters, an ominous gap where the processor had once stood – the posters!

  “That’ll do nicely.”

  “So take the High Road.”

  It had been staring Scott in the face all the time. Nowhere in the cottage was there a single picture – only the posters in the studio. Now he came to think about it, they were totally foreign to his dad anyway. He hated anything modern – including pop music. His tastes were classical music and nineteenth-century art. He
would never have had a poster of the bike, never in a million years, however much he loved it. If he’d had a poster at all it would have been Monet’s Water Lilies.

  So all he had to do was take the bike – along a high road – to find a character who presumably answered to the name of Nicely. It seemed simple enough but which high road? There were thousands in England alone. Scott hurried across to his bike and, unlocking the box, pulled out the laptop. Returning to his seat, he flipped open the top and booted it up.

  A waiter appeared clearing glasses and debris from the tables.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could have another milk shake?’ Scott said his voice a little tentative, aware that although waiters might react pretty sharply if an adult asked, they preferred a more direct response to kids; such as: you’ve got legs, haven’t you.

  ‘I don’t want to carry all this lot into the restaurant,’ he explained, pointing to his helmet, gloves and laptop.

  ‘No problem.’ The waiter leant across to pick up his empty glass and plate. ‘Anything else?’

  Scott concealed a grin, cock-a-hoop that the bike and laptop had elevated him automatically into the league of adults. ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He typed in the words High Road then stopped. Too vague. Adding the words Take the , he pressed Search. Twenty-two thousand and thirty-one hits in less than two seconds and he had to go through all of them.

  It wasn’t that difficult to find. By the time he had waded through his chocolate milk shake, sucking up every last drop, the words of the ancient song were printed on the page.

  Oh ye’ll tak the High Road

  An’ I’ll tak the Low Road

  An’ I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.

  But me and my true love will never meet again

  On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.

  He even knew where in Loch Lomond. The website had the same view as the poster; the lake with its snow-capped mountains in the background.

  He searched the route maps, trying to memorise which road led where: motorway all the way to Glasgow, a little over five hundred miles. And if he was followed?