gns.theplutopact-第22部分
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related； but we've got to solve 'em 。 。 。 even if the victims were only a couple of slags。 It's getting like bloody Jack the Ripper round here。'
'Well； all the road…blocks are set up。' There was a note of pride in McLane's voice。 'Shouldn't be too difficult。'
'Except that he's got eighteen hours or so start on us；' Rollason muttered。 'But we'll pick him up； all right。 He's no hardened criminal on the run。 Just one scared yobbo。'
They were interrupted by a knock on the door。 A young uniformed constable entered； a manila envelope clutched in his hand。
'The post…mortem； sir。'
'Thank you； Watkins。 That will be all。'
The constable withdrew； and Roltason's podgy fingers tore at the envelope； like a pools winner eager to see the cheque； wondering whether or not his expectations will be realised。
Three separate sheets of paper…typewritten。 Lakin first： fractured skull； multiple injuries。 Regan； the whore： strangulation； also a cracked skull。 Rupert Copeland 。 。 。
The Superintendent's hand shook。 The papers fell on to the desk amidst another shower of cigarette ash。 His face was white。 The other two had never seen him react in that way before。 Death was death to him。 Only the means； the motives mattered。 Personalities never entered into it。
'Is 。。。 is there something wrong； sir？' McLane stepped forward； but he would not risk the chances of promotion by reaching across for the reports without permission。 It all had to e from the Super himself。
'Wrong？' Rollason's cigarette bobbed up and down。 'That is something of an understatement； Inspector。 The youth died from radioactive poisoning。 Oxide； it would appear。'
He reached for the telephone and asked for a number。 Clicking his tongue； he fidgeted with impatience till he got through to the reprocessing plant。 'Hold； please。' He swore under his breath。 Minutes passed。
'Mr Dyne is in conference； sir。 Would you care to speak to 。 。 。 '
'No； I would not；' he barked。 'This is Chief Superintendent Rollason speaking。 Will you fetch Mr Dyne out of the conference at once； please。 I wish to speak with him concerning a matter of the utmost gravity。'
Three minutes later he was talking to Winston Dyne。
The pain was being worse every second。 Richard Coyle slowed his machine to a mere 20 m。p。h。 God； he wished that he'd risked the motorway； but the police would have picked him up there for sure。
The old winding road through the Lakes。 The full moon and clear skies helped。 He was totally blind in one eye now。 The agony in his genitals was so great that he was forced to half stand for long periods。 That made his course even more erratic； and when the muscles in his legs could no longer stand the strain； he relapsed back into the saddle。 It was almost as though his machine had a will of its own； deliberately singling out every pothole and bump in the narrow twisting road； an instrument of sadistic torture。
His stomach burned。 He retched and vomited…the spew blowing back on to him。 But still he kept going； not daring to stop even though his instincts told him to abandon the machine； and crawl away into one of the adjacent Forestry mission thickets。 Like a fox； a beast of the chase； licking its wounds in some hole before it finally died a lingering death。
Lake Windermere on his right。 The large expanse of water shimmering in the moonlight was tempting。 It would cool his burning body。 Death by drowning was said to be pleasant。 Just hallucinations； one's whole life returning in those few moments 。 。 。 Instead he increased his pressure on the throttle。
Dawn。 The pain was no worse。 No better； either。 Kendal。 He rode slowly through the town； passing a parked police patrol car。 The two officers were enjoying a quiet smoke。 They scarcely glanced at him。
Full daylight。 The agony was not so intense now； though it was spreading to other parts of his body。 He felt it on his chest and back…bringing back memories of early childhood when his mother had rubbed him with Vie ointment。 An unrelenting smarting sensation…only this time it came from within。 His thoughts turned again to VD。 Surely that poxy wench couldn't have given him all this。
He glanced down at the petrol gauge。 More than half…full。 Got to keep going。 Anywhere。 Just keep going…away from it all。 He thought about chancing the M6； but decided against it。 That was the route they'd expect him to take。
Still heading south。 Not much traffic。 They all used the motorways nowadays。 The towns presented few problems。 One just followed the main roads straight through them。 Too many traffic lights； mostly he found them on red； and that was the worst part…the waiting。
The day was clear； dry and sunny。 No spray from other vehicles。 Lancaster。 Preston。 The big towns attracted him； but somehow he could not bring himself to stop。 As long as there was petrol in the tank 。 。 。 Just keep going。
The pain remained constant…no better； no worse…all over his body。 Once； whilst he waited for a set of traffic lights to change； he felt his face。 The skin was rough； like emery paper。 No growth of beard； though he had not shaved for the past two days。
Manchester。 On； across the Ship Canal。 Wigan。 He had often wondered about the mythical pier； but this was certainly no time to investigate。 Warrington。 The sun was well past its zenith。 Under normal conditions he would have been a hundred miles further on by now。 However； time had ceased to matter any more。 And 30 m。p。h。 was the most he could manage with one good eye。
The petrol was low in the tank； which worried him。 Now he began to think seriously about the ing night。 Lichfield； its three spired cathedral looming on his left； a place of sanctuary。 He cursed himself for even thinking about it。 He wasn't going to turn back to God now。 That would be a return to his childhood； the enforced church services。 He'd make it on his own； but now all thoughts of death had deserted him。 A fever of some sort； perhaps not even the clap。 His spirits rose。 But he had killed the girl。 There was no getting away from that。
Then he saw the signs for Birmingham。 He had been there once before； and they shone like weling beacons。 The teeming masses； and young people sleeping rough in the subways。 He would simply be another drop…out。 He'd make it。 It would be much the same as London。
The last lap was the most difficult。 The ing dusk； the sprawling suburbs； the blindness in one eye and the burning in his body。
He recognised Spaghetti Junction； but was forced to skirt it。 It would be ironical to be picked up by the law now。 He branched off to the left…towards Aston。 Some youths were idling on the pavement。 West Indians。 They shouted something at him。 He yelled back viciously； but the Norton drowned his stream of abuse。
A huge roundabout。 Confusing。 He went round twice； then chanced his exit。 He knew he was lost now。 Another island。 His engine coughed； spluttered； picked up again。 He took an inconspicuous side road。 A Salvation Army hostel on his left； an office…cleaning firm next…door； then a small car park。 No barrier or gate； the attendant's hut boarded up。 Two cars were parked over on the far side。 They probably belonged to businessmen staying late at the office for the sole purpose of screwing their secretaries； he decided。 It reminded him of his father； and he laughed aloud。 Then the engine petered out altogether。
He began wheeling his machine on to the tract of open ground。 It was as much as he could do to move it； as though every vestige of strength had deserted his burning body。 He leaned up against the wall； fighting for his breath； surveying his surroundings in the falling darkness。
He did not relish the idea of approaching the Salvation Army。 Then his gaze was drawn towards a church…like building on the opposite side of the road。 He watched two nuns cross towards it； their dark robes swishing as they moved。 Some rough ground adjoining the building； long grass pressed flat by the bodies that lazed their days and nights aw
