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going would get so rough when you hired me. The name of Mark Slade won't
frighten 'em off, that's certain. We'll just have to hope that they won't be
so keen on getting in the way of hot lead from a Browning " Otherwise,
380.
you'd better get ready to call the police in.'
'No,' she said. 'Not that. We'll make it.'
'By the way, the tracking has been removed from the wrecked Chevy.'
'My God!' Her fingernails dug into him. 'How?'
'It has the makings of an inside job. Someone was evidently busy in the
workshop during the night. Any chance of an outsider getting the key from the
hall?'
'They'd have to know where it was kept. The doors are all locked at night.'
'A lock is no obstacle to a trained housebreaker. Where do the team sleep?'
'The west wing. They wouldn't necessarily hear anything. But you surely don't
think. . . '
'That there's a link man?' he concluded. 'Well, it's a possibility that cannot
be overlooked at this stage.
One thing we've got to remember is that we're not up against a bit of
skulduggery and burglary. Whoever fixed your car intended to kill me. He would
have done so if I'd been going flat out as he no doubt assumed I would be. It
was only the fact that I was cruising at between thirty and forty
miles-per-hour below maximum speed that I'm here now.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Well, as I've already told you I'm not going to be very far away from those
cars, and I'm going to check the rebuilding, stage by stage. Wylie and Fogg
won't like that, but I can't take any chances. I think the car will be the
primary target. If they sabotage this one we're really lumbered. That's why
I'm going to mooch about the grounds a bit after dark. I could be a sitting
duck in the workshop. And I'll take charge of the key from this moment on. The
mechanics will probably want to work until ten or eleven each night.
They'll have to, in fact, if we're going to meet the deadline. I'll lock the
shed up then, whether I'm inside or outside. In the meantime I'll turn in and
get some rest. I'll need all the sleep lean get.'
'I'll be around if you want me.' She kissed him and disengaged herself.
Slade went upstairs to his room. His head was throbbing again, and he doubted
very much whether he would sleep much.
Lee Hammerton remained in the study, reclining in the leather upholstered
swivel chair, eyes closed, her thoughts centred on Slade. She was uneasy, a
kind of premonition that something was going to happen.
She wondered if either her father or her brother had felt this way. Or her
fated ancestors.
She started as the door swung open, moving noiselessly on its well-oiled
hinges, expelling her breath in a loud sigh of relief as she recognised the
tail debonair figure of John Clyde.
'Sorry if I startled you.' He moved into the room, leaving the door open
behind him. 'I thought I'd better have a word with you. Slade's been throwing
his weight-around in the workshop. The mechanics don't like it, and neither do
I, for that matter. The last thing we want is an atmosphere of friction if
we're going to get that car ready in time.'
'Well, they'll have to put up with it,' she snapped. 'He's acting on my
orders.'
'He's been telling them he's taking charge of the key, and that he'll be
sleeping in there at nights.'
'That's right.'
'Damn it, he's making a melodrama out of the whole thing. Just because he
crashed. . . '
'He didn't crash. The car was fixed. Sabotaged. Now somebody's nicked the
tracking, making sure that not the slightest trace was left of their crime.
Somebody took the key from the hall, and got in the workshop last night, John!
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How do the explain that except by admitting that somebody's after our blood?'
'The hell they did!' Clyde stroked his angular jaw, and leaned up against the
desk. 'Seamark Cruises aren't pulling any punches. Or maybe it isn't them at
all. Justin was killed through no apparent mechanical fault. . . '
'You don't need to remind me, John.' Lee Hammerton paled. 'So were my
ancestors, Jasper Hammerton and his son. I keep trying to tell myself that
it's Seamark behind it all but too many unexplained things have been happening
lately.'
'I think you made a mistake by bringing Mark Slade here.' Clyde became sullen.
'If he was going to drive for us, then fair enough. But all he seems to be
doing at the moment is attracting trouble and alienating the men.'
'We need him, John. We haven't got time to keep looking over our shoulders.
After all, we don't want to involve the police, do we?'
'No.' Clyde stepped back towards the open door. 'But apart from a couple of
telephone threats nothing happened until Slade arrived. Maybe there's a link.
. . ' The manager's lower lip curled in a leer.
'Meaning?'
'Well, somebody removed that tracking. It was Slade who crashed the car. We've
only his word for what happened.'
'You're being ridiculous, John.' Lee Hammerton's voice carried a note of
anger. Td take his word for anything, no matter what. And he's in charge of
security precautions. Please remember that. You've enough to do with all the
arrangements for Riverside, and, we hope, Daytona. There's an awful lot wants
doing to this place as well. The sooner those contractors move in, the better
I'll like it. God, I'd like to sell up, move somewhere else, shake the
Hammerton dust off my heels.'
'I phoned them this morning.' He half-turned in the doorway. They can't make
it before the spring at the earliest.'
'Well get on to somebody else.'
'I've shopped around. There's no chance of getting anybody any earlier.'
Lee was seething with anger as she listened to the receding footsteps of her
general manager. John Clyde was invaluable, yet at times he could be
exceedingly exasperating. All the same, she needed him. Almost as much as she
needed Mark Slade. But for a different reason.
She rose and went outside. The rain clouds of the previous day had
disappeared, leaving in their wake a blue sky, and sunlight which glinted on
the rich brown foliage of autumn. Dead leaves rustled beneath her feet in the
freshening breeze.
She turned easterly, away from the house, heading in the opposite direction to
the circuit. For once she wanted to divorce herself from the atmosphere of
motor-racing. The giant chestnut trees in the horseshoe-shaped wood dominated
the scene, the remaining leaves a mixture of yellow, golden, and dark brown as
they prepared to surrender to the encroaching winter. Only the tall pines
never seemed to alter, their greenery defying the severest weather, one or two
bent and twisted into grotesque shapes, one in particular bearing evidence of
its stamina, struck by lightning at some time and then, whilst still
struggling to survive, it had been almost uprooted by a freak gale. Yet, it
still lived, a crippled veteran soldier refusing to lie down and die. In a way
it reminded her of Mark Slade, never knowing when it was beaten.
A fit of nostalgia assailed her as she took the winding path beneath the tall
trees. Nobody had come here regularly since her father and Justin had shot
this very covert. Somewhere a cock pheasant shouted as though declaring the
place a sanctuary, mocking her, reminding her of happier times.
She made a detour to avoid a wall of cruel briars, treading a narrow track
which led through some rhododendrons and silver birch, finally arriving back
on the main ride. Wood-pigeons clattered noisily out of the branches above,
alarmed at this intrusion of their daily tranquillity.
Suddenly she stopped, listening. Footsteps. Somebody was following her,
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walking quickly, heedless of clinging brambles and obstructing bracken.
Fear gripped her. Never before had she encountered anybody upon these
infrequent solitary rambles.
There was a disturbing urgency about the other's movements as though whoever
it was had followed her stealthily into the heart of the wood, and now there
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