Free Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee Page A

one) of an obsessive badger-botherer.
    “Well,”
said Robby, “it could be, could be. I heard him about again last night, you
know. Woke me, the devil, I was having one of my good nights, curled up a-snore
in my cosy roost. Hadn’t even had to visit the lats. And then crash-blunder
right under my bedroom window. Just before three, when I focussed on the clock.”
(This conformed with the cottage lights having gone on at two forty–five, as
did Robby J’s next statement.) “Put all the lights on, no messing. Didn’t like
the sound of it, all that thumping about, as if he was off his head on drugs,
and/or meant to wake
everybody up. I tell you, I wouldn’t have minded a shotgun and the US shooter culture
to go with it. But you know what it’s like now, if some burglar pillock breaks
in and stabs you, he can sue you for snapping his fucking blade on your ribs.”
    “Did
you see him?” Carver asked, having given the complementary acquiescing nod.
    “No.
That was the odd part, in its way. The racket the chap made, I expected a
grandstand view of him sprawled in the front garden, or what serves for it,
throwing his guts up or eating a squirrel or something. But not a sign. And by
the time I got downstairs it was Silent Night again.”
    “Nothing
looks disturbed outside,” Carver said. It had not.
    “Lucky,
I suppose,” said Robby. ‘‘Y’know, I even wondered if it was old Ted from The
Bell, Book and Candlegrease. Someone told me he’s started seeing fairies in the
woods. Perhaps they were only the old-fashioned kind, the ones with old-school
ties. God,” he said sharply, “my leg’s playing up this morning.’ His face
settled to a wry amused rancour. “Bloody tea makes it worse, I reckon. Too
acid, and I’m addicted to the muck, you know. Ten or twelve mugs a day. Need a
whisky to wash it through. Can I tempt you?”
    “Not
today, worse luck. Work to do.”
    “Oh
well. I’ve got the advantage of ending up a senile old cripple. Something for
you young ones to look forward to, in a hundred years. Take care of yourself,
Car.”
     
     
    The dinner with
Latham at the steakhouse off the Maidstone road, had been a ‘decoy’ meal, one
of a group, involving altogether eleven Mantik employees. Spread out at various
locations, Guildford and Cornwall being the farthest venues, false trails were
laid by two separate pairs, one separate foursome, and three individuals
driving and eating alone. Carver certainly had no idea what strategic meeting
he and Latham, not to mention the rest, had been drawing attention away from.
Obviously, there had been similar outings in the past.
    This
afternoon Carver had to undertake a drive, ultimately heading into Tunbridge
Wells. This also was a decoy run, but was freelance in as much as he might stop
as and when he wanted, if at least twice. The car he must use he would find in
a by-lane near Lynchoak. Returning, there would be a ‘cab’ at Tenterden.
    The
indication was that if any ‘interest’ were shown in him, he should expect it in
the vicinity of Tunbridge Wells. He did not need to try to lose it, of course,
and later the ‘cab’ driver could slough anything that still clung on.
    Carver
drove to Lynchoak, stowed his car, and was in the new vehicle heading south-west
by around five minutes to two. Within six more minutes, long before any mooted
feasible connection, he was very sure a tail had already attached itself.
    It
was a shabby Merc, cadaverous grey in colour.
    This
car seemed to make so little pretence it was not following him that Carver
began to wonder if it was not. It moved behind him along the curving side roads
he had chosen, keeping a barely civilised distance between them. Until,
turning on to a broader thoroughfare, he saw he had lost it. Perhaps naively he
continued to think this until it reappeared, emerging with no warning from a
side-turning, as if it had selected a parallel path solely in order – playfully
– to surprise him.
    From
then on, the