gns.theplutopact-第15部分

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ing　through　the　rest　of　his　loins。　Maybe　it　was　a　different　type　of　pox。
　　
　　He　would　head　south！　The　thought　came　to　him　in　an　instant。　The　petrol　tank　of　the　Norton　was　almost　full…enough　to　get　him　to　London；　maybe。　He'd　been　there　once　before。　Guys　and　girls　slept　rough。　Nobody　bothered　them。　They　queued　up　at　the　VD　clinics。　Nobody　would　give　him　a　second　glance。　That　also　went　for　most　of　the　major　cities：　Manchester；　Birmingham；　and　such。
　　
　　'I　stayed　in　this　fucking　place　one　day　too　long。'　He　did　not　look　back　as　he　let　himself　out。　'Should've　moved　out　months　ago。'
　　
　　He　winced；　almost　cried　out　aloud；　as　his　genitals　came　in　contact　with　the　saddle。　Burning；　blinding　pain　seemed　to　be　eating　away　his　lower　regions；　as　if　they　were　being　consumed　by　fire　。　。　。
　　
　　He　kicked　the　starter；　it　fired　first　time。　Swaying　precariously；　mainly　because　one　eye　was　now　totally　sightless；　he　hunched　over　the　handlebars；　and　roared　off　into　the　early　autumnal　night。　The　journey　south　had　begun。
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　6
　　
　　'Richard　didn't　e　in　at　all　last　night。　His　bed　hasn't　been　slept　in。'　Bob　Coyle　barely　glanced　up　from　the　morning　issue　of　the　Sun；　and　replied　with　his　mouth　full　of　toast：　'So　what？　He's　old　enough。　Sleeping　rough　probably。'
　　
　　'More　likely　with　that　whore。'
　　
　　'Well；　I'm　not　going　down　to　the　police　station　to　list　him　as　a　missing　person。　He'll　e　home　when　he　runs　out　of　money　and　gets　hungry。　Kids　his　age　are　doing　the　same　all　over　the　country。'
　　
　　'And　meanwhile；　you'll　pursue　this　obsession　of　yours　about　the　world　being　blown　up　because　some　ancient　wizard　put　a　curse　on　Craiglowrie。　Fathers　all　over　the　country　aren't　taking　that　tine；　thank　God。'
　　
　　'That's　just　the　trouble　with　the　British。'　He　pushed　his　empty　plate　away；　stood　up；　and　reached　for　his　coat。　He　wanted　to　be　out　of　the　house　before　Sarah　came　down。　One　bickering　woman　was　enough　at　that　time　of　the　morning。'
　　
　　'Going　out　early　aren't　you？'　There　was　resentment　in　Jane's　voice；　a　hint　of　suspicion；　too。
　　
　　'I've　a　lot　to　do　today。'
　　
　　'Which　means　you'll　be　late　home。'
　　
　　'Yes；　I'm　afraid　so。'　He　averted　his　eyes　from　her　searching　gaze。　'Don't　fix　anything　for　me。　I'll　eat　out　tonight　。　。　。　if　I　get　time。'
　　
　　'Sometimes　I　almost　think　it　would　be　better　if　you　had　another　woman；'　she　snapped。　'At　least　it'd　make　you　more　human。　Work；　work；　work。　And　by　the　way；　this　boyfriend　of　Sarah's　who　keeps　on　lavishing　all　these　clothes　and　things　on　her…why　doesn't　she　bring　him　home？　We　don't　even　know　his　surname。　Just　David。　What　are　his　intentions？'
　　
　　'Why　don't　you　ask　him？'
　　
　　'How　the　hell　can　I；　when　I　don't　know　who　he　is。　I　reckon　he's　a　married　man。　Maybe　Mrs　Bean　will　have　heard　something。'
　　
　　'The　town's　prophet　of　doom；'　Coyle　called　back　as　he　went　out　the　door；　hastening　at　the　sound　of　Sarah's　footsteps　on　the　landing　above。　'You'll　never　hear　glad　tidings　from　that　source。'
　　
　　The　printers　and　typesetters　were　surprised　to　see　Coyle　arrive　so　early。　He　nodded　to　them　as　he　passed　through　the　workshops；　and　flung　himself　into　the　battered　old　chair　in　his　tiny　office。　Anne　would　not　be　here　for　another　three…quarters　of　an　hour。　God；　how　he　needed　her；　just　her　pany。　He　pulled　the　much　depleted　bottle　of　whisky　from　the　cupboard；　and　poured　some　of　it　into　the　unwashed　glass。　He　needed　time　to　think。　It　was　too　early　to　make　any　phone…calls。
　　
　　Something　had　definitely　gone　wrong　up　at　Holocaust。　Maybe　it　was　just　a　repetition　of　what　happened　to　Wind…scale's　pilot　oxide　plant　in　1973。　That　meant　contamination；　however　slight。　He　wished　Sarah　didn't　work　up　there。　Christ；　there　were　obstacles　at　every　turn。
　　
　　Anne　arrived　promptly　at　nine；　in　time　to　catch　him　draining　the　last　of　the　whisky　from　the　glass。
　　
　　'My　God！'　There　was　concern　on　her　face。　'You　look　bad；　Bob。　Domestic　or　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Both；'　he　sighed。　'Something's　definitely　gone　wrong　up　at　the　new　plant。　I'm　afraid　it's　going　to　be　one　helluva　day；　today；　one　way　or　another。'
　　
　　'Ajid　it's　still　going　to　be　one　helluva　night　tonight。'　She　leaned　over　him；　kissing　him。　'God；　I　wish　we　were　both　away　from　here。　Just　the　two　of　us。　Anywhere。　Away　from　it　all。'
　　
　　'That　may　be　the　answer；'　he　replied；　staring　unseeing　at　the　wall　in　front　of　him；　'but　only　for　us。'
　　
　　But　she　knew　that　Bob　Coyle　would　never　break　and　run。　He　would　stay　and　fight；　whatever　the　odds；　until　the　bitter　end…victory　or　defeat。
　　
　　At　10。15　a。m。　Coyle　tried　to　phone　Dyne。　The　telephonist　at　the　other　end　asked　him　to　hold。　At　10。30；　when　she　requested　him　to　hold　again；　he　replaced　the　receiver。　His　next　call　was　in　quest　of　Stafford；　representative　of　British　Nuclear　Fuels。　The　same　number；　just　a　different　extension。　The　same　telephonist。　'Please　hold。'　But　a　couple　of　minutes　later　he　was　through　to　Stafford。
　　
　　'A　technical　hitch。'　There　was　a　hesitancy　about　the　other's　tone　which　was　in　contrast　to　the　man's　character。　'I've　got　the　reports　here　on　my　desk；　but　I　haven't　had　a　chance　to　go　through　them　yet。　I've　been　away　on　a　couple　of　days　leave。　Look；　Coyle；　if　there's　anything　in　them　that　might　present　a　local　or　national　threat；　I'D　phone　you　back。　OK？'
　　
　　Coyle　was　used　to　promises　to　ring　back。　On　average　twenty…five　per　cent　of　such　calls　materialised。　He　knew　this　one　would　not；　simply　because　there　would　not　be　anything　of　a　hazardous　nature　in　those　reports。
　　
　　He　tried　Tyler；　representative　of　Britain's　Hazardous　Materials　Group。　He　got　through　almost　immediately。
　　
　　'Of　course；　we　can't　give　any　details　at　this　stage；'　the　answer　came　just　too　smoothly　for　Coyle's　satisfaction。　'The　lay…off　is　merely　precautionary。　In　fact；　it　is　doubtful　if　anything　is　amiss　at　all。　Until　a　thorough　investigation　has　been　pleted；　we　cannot　ment。　Naturally；　we　wouldn't　conceal　anything　of　a　hazardous　nature。　However；　in　all　probability　this　is　something　entirely　technical　which　will　not　be　a　breach　of　security　at　all；　a　purely　internal　business。'
　　
　　Back　to　square　one。　Coyle　slammed　the　receiver　down。　The　patient　has　just　undergone　a　critical　operation；　and　a　well…meaning　relative　has　been　fobbed　off　with　hints　of　a　grumbling　appendix。
　　
　　He　tried　Kent　next。　But　it　was　2。30　p。m。　before　the　controversial　journalist　returned　from　a　liquid　lunch　at　the　Cheshire　Cheese。　Coyle；　himself；　had　not　yet　eaten；　and　the　whisky　bottle　now　reposed　empty　in　the　wastepaper…basket。　Since　its　disposal　Anne　had　been　plying　him　constantly　with　cups　of　black　coffee。
　　
　　'You　should　have　stayed　on　Fleet　Street；'　Kent's　speech　was　slightly　slurred。'　Life　hums　constantly　around　one　。　。　。'
　　
　　'It's　humming　here；　too。'　Coyle　came　to　the　point。　'Did　you　know　that　they've　closed　down　part　of　the　new　nuclear　disposal　plant？　Purely　technical；　I'm　told；　no　need　for　concern　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'The　devil　they　have！'　Kent's　speech　lost　its　slur；　and　Coyle　could　visualise　the　old　gleam　in　those　grey　eyes；　the　tightening　of　the　mouth。　'Smells　fishy　to　me。　No　doubt　you've　made　some　enquiries？'
　　
　　Tried　to；'　Coyle　replied。　'The　usual　negative　answers　one　expects　when　dealing　with　officialdom…particularly　at　this　level。　Of　course　the　unions　have　bined　to　restrict　my　own　personal　views　being　expressed　in　the　Herald。'
　　
　　'Fuck　the　unions。'　Kent　was　always　conveniently　forgetting　to　pay　his　subscription。　'Tell　you　what；　there's　nothing　to　hold　me　here　at　present。　I'll　drive　up　through　the　night；　and　see　you　tomorrow　morning。'
　　
　　Coyle　replaced　the　receiver　with　mingled　relief　and　apprehension。　Relief　that　Kent　might　be　going　to　throw　a　few　spanners　into　Dyne's　reprocessing　works。　Apprehension　that　。　。　。　well；　the　London　journalist　had　an　uncanny　nose　for　trouble。　In　the　past；　when　they　had　worked　together；　there　had　been　so　many　reports　that　had　seemed　scarcely　worth　the　trouble　of　investigating；　yet　the　little　Fleet　Street　man　had　unearthed　veritable　。　。　。　holocausts！
　　
　　Linda　Lakin's　body　was　discovered　at　approximately　three　o'clock　that　same　afternoon；　in　effect；　shortly　after　Coyle　had　finished　speaking　to　Kent。　It　was　4。10　p。m。　when　the　police　visited　the　premises　of　the　Herald；　a　plain…clothes　Chief　Superintendent　acpanied　by　two　CID　officers。
　　
　　Coyle　was　well　acquainted　with　all　three　of　them。　Rollason；　the　Superintendent；　rarely　smiled；　possibly　on　account　of　the　eternal　cigarette　which　smouldered　between　his　thick　lips；　depositing　ash　at　intervals　down　his　worn　brown　waistcoat。　He　had　small　eyes　buried　beneath　fleshy　sockets；　which　rarely　disclosed　his　innermost　feelings。
　　
　　McLane；　the　inspector；　was　not　so　stolid　as　his　superior；　his　clean…cut　features　an　admirable　advertisement　for　some　brand　of　after…shave。　He　was　a　man　destined　to　climb　to　the　heights　of　his　chosen　profession；　and　he　would　be　ruthless　in　that　quest。
　　
　　Sergeant　Conniston　stood　respectfully　behind　them。　Retirement　was　his　goal　in　life　now；　and　his　toothbrush　moustache　was　reminiscent　of　an　era　when　local　policemen　manded　the　respect　of　the　entire　munity。　That；　too；　had　gone。
　　
　　A　mixed　bunch；　Coyle　decided。　The　Superintendent's　expression　conveyed　that　he　had　a　matter　of　a　confidential　nature　to　discuss。　Coyle　nodded　to　Anne。　She　understood；　smiled　and　withdrew；　closing　the　door　behind　her。
　　
　　It　was　cramped　in　the　tiny　office；　and　there　were　not　sufficient　chairs　available。　Coyle　pushed　a　sheaf　of　papers　aside。
　　
　　'And　what　can　I　do　for　you；　gentlemen？'
　　
　　'Your　boy；'　Rollason　came　straight　to　the　point。　'Any　idea　where　he　is？　He's　not　at　work；　nor　home。　We　checked　。　。　。　'
　　
　　The　ringing　of　the　telephone　interrupted　them。　Coyle　lifted　the　receiver。　Anne's　voice　came　over　the　internal　line；　'Your　wife　wants　to　speak　to　you。'
　　
　　Tell　her　I'll　call　her　back。'
　　
　　'I've　already　told　her　that。　She　says　it's　urgent；　and　she　refuses　to　ring　off。'
　　
　　'Oh；　all　right。　Put　her　through。'　He　placed　a　hand　over　the　mouthpiece。　'Excuse　me；　it's　my　wife。　I　won't　keep　you　a　minute。'