And that, thought Bouda, was the simplest thing of all in this whole farcical business. Gavar Jardine misses a breakout taking place right under his nose. And to cover his own idiocy, he starts seeing Skill at work. In a slavetown, no less. Bouda had seen how agitated Gavar was at the thought of using special measures on the prisoner. He’d probably been drinking non-stop from the moment his car left London. Everyone knew about the decanters that nestled in the Jardine Bentley’s back seat.
‘It’s an interesting hypothesis,’ said Lord Whittam, who’d been leaning against the mantelpiece, observing the exchange. ‘But not a necessary one. The stolen vehicle was found abandoned just inside the Peak District, half submerged in a quarry. It’s being recovered now, though it doesn’t seem likely we’ll get much from it. That isn’t the sort of stratagem a Skilled person would resort to.’
‘Do we know who was driving the vehicle?’ she asked Whittam. ‘The fugitive himself, or an accomplice?’
‘Security ran a perimeter chip-check about five minutes after the breakout was discovered. That showed that all microchipped individuals not inside the boundary were absent with authorization, except for the prisoner Walcott. The vehicle passed through several internal checkpoints. The guards at each report that the ID was in order and the driver was a Caucasian female, though their descriptions of her are unhelpfully vague.’
‘Female and unchipped?’ said Bouda. ‘His wife, is she on the outside? Free?’
‘Dead,’ said Whittam impassively. ‘Breast cancer three years ago. Seems to have been what prompted Walcott to start his days.’
‘I’m telling you’ – Gavar was clenching his fists – ‘it was Skill.’
Bouda felt certain that the only Skill that had been used in Millmoor last night was Gavar’s own. Infuriated at being trapped inside the detention centre by a guard who thought Gavar himself was Walcott’s rescuer, he had simply blasted his way out. The max wing of the prison had been reduced to rubble and several individuals inside were seriously injured. It was all rather excessive – albeit a well-timed reminder to Millmoor’s seditionists of the power they sought to defy.
He had then pursued someone through the streets with his beloved revolver, apparently in the belief it was either Walcott or his fleeing accomplice. Gavar Jardine the action hero. She smiled to herself. He was such a little boy.
But she didn’t want Gavar throwing all his toys out of the pram at this early stage. She’d be spending the next two days with the Jardine father and son, after all. Maybe it was time to use a softer tone.
‘What happened to the person you shot at? Whatever tipped you off, Skill, intuition, or a sharp pair of ears’ – she sent Gavar her most mollifying smile, though he seemed sadly immune – ‘your instincts about the rescue attempt were correct.’
‘I didn’t shoot at him,’ said Gavar. ‘I hit him. I heard him yell out.’
Gavar was touchy about his marksmanship. Had been ever since word had got out about the hunting accident – the one that killed the slavegirl mother of his child. Bouda hadn’t found it in her heart to be sorry about that particular incident.
‘But you never found a body, or any blood indicating a wounding, where you believed your target was?’
‘No.’ Gavar shook his head, his tone petulant. ‘I’ve already gone through all this with Father.’
She saw him cast a mute look at Lord Whittam, as if appealing for support. None came. None ever did. It was almost pitiable, really.
‘If Gavar hit the fugitive, well, he’s gone. But if it was an accomplice, he must still be in Millmoor. The clinics should be monitored,’ she told her father-in-law. ‘The healthcare staff questioned. And even if the injury wasn’t grievous and the victim is tending to it himself, managers and foremen should be instructed to keep an eye out. Residential-block staff need to watch for blood on sheets or towels.’
‘Good suggestions,’ said Whittam, and Bouda couldn’t help preening under his approval.
Was it too much to hope that he might recognize how better suited for high office she was than his son? Sadly, it probably was. The only thing Whittam Jardine prized above merit was blood. Still, at least Bouda’s own children would one day benefit from his single-minded devotion to his family’s pre-eminence.
‘So the facts are these,’ Whittam said, in the tone he used to conclude official meetings, including those at which the Chancellor was present. ‘The criminal Walcott broke out of the detention centre with the aid of two males, possibly Skilled.’
He inclined his head towards his heir in a condescending fashion. Could he not see, Bouda wondered, the resentment in his son’s eyes? Gavar was like a brutalized dog that knows exactly how long its chain is and waits for the day its master forgets.
‘We believe that either one of the accomplices or the prisoner was then shot and injured. We do not know the current whereabouts of the accomplices. However, the prisoner subsequently left Millmoor in a vehicle driven by an unidentified and unchipped female. Correct?’