Free Bloody Horowitz by Anthony Horowitz Page A

time,” Harry said at last.
    â€œLet’s go home,” Jason suggested. It had already occurred to him that stealing a car lost much of its point when you didn’t have anywhere to go.
    â€œYeah. We got our very own Beemer!”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWe’ll get it home and then we can trash it.”
    â€œThe tires.”
    â€œThe seats.”
    â€œThe paintwork.”
    â€œWe can drive it into someone’s garden and set fire to it!” Harry whooped.
    The car was still waiting for them where they had parked it. Harry pressed the remote on the ignition key and sniggered as the lights blinked and the locks sprang open. Once again he got into the driving seat. As Jason had thought, there was going to be no discussion about that. The BMW sprang into life at one turn of the key, that lovely, efficient growl of German engineering. And then they were away, knocking over an oil can as they left the parking lot and perhaps damaging the bodywork—but what did that matter? It was nothing compared with what they were going to do when they arrived home.
    But it was a bit more difficult, getting back again. Night had fallen and a slight mist had rolled in from the sea. Neither of them had much sense of direction and it had been years since Jason had found himself in this part of the county.
    â€œTurn the navigation back on,” Harry said.
    â€œDo we need it?” Jason asked. There was something about that old woman’s voice that unnerved him, even though he had laughed about it at the time.
    â€œJust do it,” Harry snapped. He was focusing on the road ahead, watching the beams as they picked out the rushing tarmac. Jason wondered if he had ever driven in the dark before. He probably hadn’t driven much at all. In fact, now that he thought about it, it was quite remarkable that Harry had even learned to drive.
    Jason turned the navigation on and entered his own address—the Kenworth Estate, Sproughton, Ipswich—then punched the button to begin navigation. Almost at once, the voice began.
    â€œAt—the—next—junction—turn—right.”
    Which was strange because Jason was sure they had come the other way. And there, indeed, was the sign, IPSWICH 22 MILES, pointing to the left. But it was already too late. Harry had wrenched the wheel, doing what the voice had said. This was where the streetlamps of Aldeburgh ran out. As they completed the turn, they plunged into the darkness of a Suffolk night.
    Jason thought about arguing but decided against it. They were both tired. Harry had downed four pints before they’d left the pub. And anyway, the navigation system would use lots of information before suggesting a route. Perhaps this was a shortcut. Perhaps there was a traffic jam on the A12. They seemed to be following a fairly narrow country lane and that, perhaps, was a good thing. The last thing they needed to see right now was another police car. It made sense to go back on quieter roads.
    They drove in silence for about seven or eight miles. It really was very dark. The rain clouds had closed in, blocking any sight of the moon or stars, and suddenly there were no buildings around them. Instead, they seemed to be crossing open countryside with undulating fields and low gorse bushes dotted around like crouching soldiers.
    â€œTake—the—second—turning—on—the—right.”
    The high-pitched voice broke the silence. Harry did as he was told.
    Another couple of miles, this time through forest. They had to be on a back road. It was certainly narrower than the road they had just left, with trees jammed together on both sides, forming a tunnel over their heads.
    â€œIn—one–hundred—yards—turn—left.”
    The left turn was even narrower. Now there wouldn’t be room for another car to pass them without pulling off to the side. Not that it looked as if many cars came this way. They had lost sight