“So, now where are we going?” she asked a few minutes later, as Bronson swung the Espace off the A10 and onto the London-bound M11, just south of Trumpington. “I know you want to cross the Channel, but what was all that about a new bathroom?”
“The plods may be trying to find me, but they shouldn’t be after you. And even if they are, hopefully they’ll be looking for a Mrs. Angela Bronson, not a Miss Angela Lewis. We’re going to fill the back of the car with flat-pack furniture and catch a ferry out of Dover. And I’ll be under all the boxes.”
Angela stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. The checks at Dover and Calais are rudimentary, to say the least. This is the simplest way I can think of to get across the Channel.”
“And if they stop me?”
“You deny all knowledge of me. Tell them you haven’t seen me for weeks. Act surprised that anyone’s looking for me. You haven’t heard about Mark’s death, and you’ve recently bought a tumbledown ruin in the Dordogne—just outside Cahors, say—and you’re taking a bunch of B&Q’s finest flat-packs over to refit the bathroom.”
“But what if they steer me into the inspection shed and start unloading the boxes?”
“In that case,” Bronson said, “the moment they find me, you leap out and hide behind the biggest customs officer you can find. You’re terrified, because I’ve forced you at gunpoint to help me escape from Britain. You’re a victim, not a collaborator. I’ll back you up.”
“But you don’t have a gun,” Angela objected.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Bronson pulled the Browning from the pocket of his jacket.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
Bronson explained about the second, failed, burglary at the house in Italy.
“You do know that you could go to prison just for carrying a gun?”
“I do. I also know that the people we’re up against have already killed at least once, so I’m hanging on to this and taking my chances with the plods.”
“You are a plod, remember?” Angela pointed out. “Which makes carrying a weapon even worse.”
Bronson shrugged. “I know, but that’s my problem, not yours. I’ll do my best to protect you.”
Just more than an hour later, Bronson emerged from the B&Q warehouse in Thurrock with a laden cart. He loaded everything carefully into the back of the Renault, making sure that the upturned acrylic bath was in the center.
Then they were off again, crossing the Thames at Dartford and picking up the motorway for Dover. Bronson pulled off at the last service area before the port and parked the Espace in the most secluded section of the car park he could find.
“Time to pack me away,” he said lightly, his tone not entirely concealing his concern. There was no certainty that the police would accept that he had forced Angela to drive him out of the country if his hiding place was discovered. He knew very well that they could both end up as unwilling guests of Her Majesty if it all went wrong.
He climbed into the back of the Espace and slid under the bath. It was cramped, but by pulling his knees up to his chest he was able to make himself fit. Angela stacked boxes over and around the bath until it was covered, then climbed into the driving seat and pulled out of the service area.
At the port, she bought a five-day return ticket at one of the discount booking offices and drove into the Eastern Docks, following the “embarkation” signs. At the British Customs post she proffered her passport, which was swiped through the electronic reader with barely a grunt of acknowledgment. The French passport control officer glanced at the maroon cover and waved her through.
Just beyond the two booths was another “embarkation” sign, but as she accelerated toward it a bulky figure stepped in front of the car and pointed to his left, toward the inspection shed.
Angela cursed under her breath but smiled agreeably at him, and followed the road around into the shed. Inside, she dropped the driver’s door window as one of the officers walked toward her and glanced into the back of the car.
“The French dream?” the officer asked. People who bought goods in Britain to try to renovate French ruins were not exactly a rare sight at Dover.
“Sorry?” Angela replied.
“A little stone house on the edge of a village in Brittany?” he asked with a grin. “In need of some light restoration?”
“Substitute the Dordogne for Brittany,” Angela said, matching his smile, “and you’ve pretty much nailed it. And it’s a town rather than a village. Cahors. Do you know it?”
The officer shook his head. “Heard of it, but I’ve never been there,” he said. “So what’s in the back?”
“Most of the master bathroom, or at least that’s the plan, as long as I can persuade the builders to install it. Would you like to look at it?”
“No, thanks.” He stepped back and waved her forward. “Off you go, then,” he said.
Her heart thundering in her chest, Angela gave him a carefree wave, put the Renault into gear and drove toward the exit door, which opened automatically. They were through.
III
Angela milled about with the other passengers, wandered through the shop and finally sat down in one of the lounges to wait for the ferry to dock in Calais. But despite her appearance of absolute calm, inside she was almost frantic with worry.
What would she do if the French police were waiting for her on the other side of the Channel? Did Chris have enough air? Would she open up the back of the vehicle somewhere in France only to find she’d been accompanied by a corpse? What would she do then?
It was almost a relief when she heard the Tannoy announcement asking drivers to make their way to the car decks. At least the waiting was over.
Two hours after driving the Espace onto the ferry, Angela steered the car down the ramp onto French soil and joined the line of English cars heading toward the autoroute. She saw no police or customs officers, and nobody appeared in any way interested in her or anyone else disgorged by the ferry. Most of the drivers seemed to be taking the A26 Paris autoroute, but Bronson had told her to stay off the toll roads and head for Boulogne on the D940 instead. She was to look for a secluded parking place where he could escape from his pink—their choice of bath had been governed by size, shape and price, not color—acrylic prison.
As afternoon shaded toward evening, Angela drove along the coastal road past Sangatte and on to Escalles. Just beyond the village she found a deserted car park overlooking the sea and Cap Blanc-Nez. She parked the Espace in the corner farthest away from the entrance and checked that she hadn’t been followed before opening the trunk and pulling away the boxes that covered the bath. Bronson gave a low moan as he crawled out.
“Are you OK?” Angela asked.
“I feel like I’ve gone over the Niagara Falls in a barrel,” Bronson said, groaning and stretching. “Every joint and muscle in my body is aching, and I’m as stiff as a board. Have you got any aspirins or something?”
“Men!” Angela teased. “The slightest bit of discomfort and you turn into real moaners.” She opened her handbag and pulled out a cardboard packet of tablets. “I’d take a couple if I were you. Do you want to drive?”
Bronson shook his head. “No way. I’m going to sit in the passenger seat and let you chauffeur me.”
Twenty minutes later, they were heading south on the A16.
While she drove, Angela filled Bronson in on what she had found out before the police showed up at the Internet cafe’.
“It looks to me as if the second inscription could be connected to the Cathars,” she said.
“The Cathars? That’s what Jeremy Goldman suggested, but I’m not sure that makes much sense. I don’t know too much about them, but I’m certain they had nothing at all to do with first-century Rome. They came along about a thousand years later.”