Then she saw him. He’d found a seat in the north aisle where the golden October sunlight filtering through the eastern windows did not penetrate. He sat hunched forward with his head in his hands. Despite his size he looked strangely vulnerable. Something very serious must be troubling him to require prayer of this intensity.
She sat down a couple of rows behind and waited.
08.12-08.21
When Gina Wolfe’s Nissan pulled out to follow Andy Dalziel’s Rover, fifty yards back a blue VW Golf slipped into place behind her. There were two people in it; in the front passenger seat a man, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, his skull close-cropped in a gingery stubble; alongside him a woman of similar build and feature, her short fair hair packed tight into curls that could have been sculpted by Praxiteles.
His name was Vincent Delay. The driver was his sister. Her name was Fleur. On first hearing this some people were amused, but rarely for long.
She had no problem keeping the bright red sports car in sight along the relatively straight main road. Not that visual contact mattered. On her brother’s knee was a laptop tuned to a GPS tracker. The bright green spot pulsating across the screen was the Nissan that she could see ahead, signalling left to follow the Rover. Fleur turned off the main road too and half a minute later braked to avoid coming up too close behind the red car. It was the Rover driver causing the hold-up. He’d slowed almost to a halt to exchange words with a female pedestrian. It didn’t take long. Now he was off again.
As they passed the woman, Vincent turned his head to stare at her through the open window. She noticed his interest and glared back, mouthing something inaudible.
‘Up yours too, you old scarecrow,’ growled the man.
‘Vince, don’t draw attention,’ said Fleur.
‘What attention? Must be a hundred. Probably deaf as a post and can’t remember anything that happened more than five minutes ago.’