Bleeding Hearts Part 23

'Enjoy the trip.' He nicked his cigarette and put it back in the pack, then got into the van and put some music on. As far as he was concerned, I had already left. : I walked back across to the cafe and got Bel. 'I nearly yelped when I saw him coming out of the shop,' *

she said. 'I knew you couldn't see him. What did he say?'

'Not much. Come on.'

We got into the Escort and drove back the way the Volkswagen had come in. Once we were out of sight, I pulled over again.

'You think it's them?'

'I get that impression. We'll find out.'

So we waited in the car, until the bus announced itself with its high-turning engine. It could put on good speed, which was a relief. I hadn't had much experience in tailing vehicles, but I knew that out here, with so little traffic on the roads outside the town, I'd have trouble keeping my distance from a crawling VW. The thing didn't have side mirrors, which helped, since the driver probably couldn't see much from his rearview mirror other than the heads of his pa.s.sengers. Habitations became spa.r.s.er as we drove, and a sudden heavy shower slowed us down, though the driver didn't seem to worry. At last, the tarmac road ended, we went through a five-barred gate and were driving on a gravel track. I stopped the car.

'What's up?' said Bel.

'If he sees us behind him, he'll know we're headed the same place he is. How many houses do you think are up this road?'

'Probably just the one.'

186.

'Exactly, so we can't really lose him, can we? We'll sit here for a minute, then move at our own pace.'

'What are we going to say when we get there?'

'Nothing, not this visit. We'll just take a look at the place, not get too close.'

I looked in my rearview mirror. Not that I was expecting any other vehicles.

The gate behind us was shut.

I turned in my seat, hardly able to believe the evidence in the mirror.

'What is it, Michael?'

There were figures outside the car. One of them pulled open the pa.s.senger door. Bel shrieked. The figure bent down to look at us. He was big, cold-looking and soaked, with a beard that looked like it could deflect blows.

'Keep on going up the trail,' he said, his accent English.

'It's another mile or so.'

'Can we give you a lift?' I offered. But he slammed the door closed. I counted four of them out there, all of them now standing behind the car. If I reversed hard enough, I could scatter them and maybe smash my way back through the gate. But it looked like a quality gate, and since we were where we wanted to be, we might as well go on.

So I moved forward slowly. The men followed at walking pace.

'Michael ...'

'Just remember our story, Bel, that's all we need to do.'

'But, Michael, they were waiting for us.'

'Maybe they always keep a guard on the gate.' I said this without much confidence. The man hadn't asked us what we wanted or whether we'd taken a wrong turn. It was true, we were expected.

Well, they might be expecting us, but I doubted they'd be expecting what I had in the car-boot.

The MP5.

187.

The commune sat in a glen with a stream running through it. It reminded me of one of those early American settlers'

communities, just before the bad guys rode into town. The houses, little more than cabins, were of wooden construction.

There were a few vehicles dotted about, only half of them looking like they were used, the rest in a process of cannibalisation. Solar heating panels sat angled towards a sun that wasn't shining. A large patch of ground had been cleared and cultivated, and some lean black pigs were working on clearing another patch. I saw goats and chickens and about thirty people, some of whom, all women, were helping unload the VW bus. The VW's driver nodded at us as we stopped the car. I got out and looked at him.

'You want to make an offer on it after all?' he said, slapping the van.

An older man emerged from the largest cabin. He gestured for us to follow him indoors.

The cabin's interior was spartan, but no more so than a lot of bachelor flats or hotel rooms. It was furnished with what looked like home-crafted stuff. On one table sat a lamp.

I ran my hand over the gnarled wooden base.

'You're the carpenter?' I said, knowing now why we were expected.

The man nodded back. 'Sit down,' he said. He didn't sit on a chair, but lowered himself on to the floor. I did likewise, but Bel selected a chair. There was a large photograph of a beneficent Jeremiah Provost on the wall above the open fireplace. He looked younger than in some of the newspaper photos. There was a tapestry on another wall, and a clock made from a cross-section of tree.

'You've been asking about our community here,' the man said, eschewing introductions.

'Is that a crime?' Bel asked. He turned his gaze to her. His eyes were slightly wider than seemed normal, like he'd witnessed a miracle a long time ago and was still getting used to it. He had a long beard with strands of silver in it. I 188.

wondered if length of beard equated to standing within the commune. He had the sort of outdoors tan that lasts all year, and was dressed for work right down to the heavy-duty gloves sticking out of the waistband of his baggy brown cord trousers. His hair was thin and oily, greying all over. He was in his 40s, and looked like he hadn't always been a carpenter.

'No,' he said, 'but we prefer visitors to introduce themselves first.'

'That's easily taken care of,' Bel said. 'I'm Belinda Harrison, this is a friend of mine, Michael Weston. Who are you?'

The man smiled. 'I hear anxiety and a rage in your words, Belinda. They sound like they're controlling you. Their only possible usefulness is when you control them.'

'I read that sort of thing all the time in women's magazines, Mr ... ?'

'My name's Richard, usually just Rick.'

'Rick,' I said, my voice all balm and diplomacy, 'you belong to the Disciples of Love, is that right? Because otherwise we're in the wrong place.'

'You're where you want to be, Michael.'

I turned to Bel. 'Just ask him, Belinda.'

She nodded tersely. 'I'm looking for my sister, her name's Jane.'

'Jane Harrison? You think she's here?'

'Yes, I do.'

'What makes you think that?'

'Because when she ran away, I went through her room, and she'd cut pieces from newspapers and magazines, all about the Disciples of Love.'

'One of them,' I added quietly, 'mentioned yours as being the only British branch of the sect.'

'Well, Michael, that's true, though we're about to start a new chapter in the south of England. Do you know London at all?'

189.

'That's where we've come from.'

'My home town,' Rick said. 'We're hoping to buy some land between Beaconsfield and Amersham.'

I nodded. 'I know Beaconsfield. Any chance that Jane might be there, helping set up this new ... chapter? I take it she's not here or you'd have said.'

'No, we've got n.o.body here called Jane. It might help if I knew what she looked like.'

Bel took a photograph from her pocket and handed it over. I watched Rick's face intently as he studied it. It was the photo I'd taken from the flat in Upper Norwood, the one showing Scotty Shattuck and his girlfriend.

'That's her,' said Bel, 'about a year ago, maybe a little less.'

Rick kept looking at the photo, then shook his head. 'No, I've never seen this woman.'

'She may have cut her hair shorter since,' Bel pleaded.

She was turning into a very good actress.

'Take another look, please,' I urged. He took another look.

'She ran off with her boyfriend, that's him in the photo.'

'I'm sorry, Belinda.' Rick handed the photo back.

'And you're sure she couldn't be helping start off your new branch?'

'They're called chapters, Michael. No, there's no possibility.

We haven't bought the land yet, there's another bid on the table. None of our members are down there at present.'

I saw now that in a corner of the room beyond Rick sat a fax machine and telephone.

'The estate agent contacts you by phone?'

Rick nodded. 'Again, I'm sorry. Bel, why does it worry you that Jane has left home? Isn't she allowed to make her own choices?'

Maybe the acting had proved too much for her. Whatever, Bel burst into tears. Rick looked stunned.

'Maybe if you fetch her some water,' I said, putting an arm around her.

190.

'Of course.' Rick stood up and left the room. When I looked at Bel, she gave me a smile and a wink.

I stood up too and went walkabout. I don't know what I was looking for, there being no obvious places of concealment in the room. The fax and handset gave no identifying phone numbers, but the fax did have a memory facility for frequently used numbers. I punched in 1 and the liquid crystal display presented me with the international dialling code for the USA, plus 212 - the state code for Washington - and the first two digits of the phone number proper. So Rick kept in touch with the Disciples' world HQ by fax. The number 2 brought up another Washington number, while 3 was a local number.

Bel was rubbing her eyes and snuffling when Rick returned with the water. He saw me beside the fax machine.

'Funny,' I said, 'I thought the whole purpose here was to cut yourselves off from the world.'

'Not at all, Michael. How much do you know about the Disciples of Love?'

I shrugged. 'Just what Belinda's told me.'

'And that information she gleaned from magazines who are more interested in telling stories than telling the truth.

We don't seduce young people into our ranks and then brainwash them. If people want to move on, if they're not happy here, then they move on. It's all right with us. We're just sad to see them go. The way you've been skulking around, you'd think we were guerrillas or kidnappers. We're just trying to live a simple life.'

I nodded thoughtfully. 'I thought I read something about some MP who had to . ..'

Rick was laughing. 'Oh, yes, that. What was the woman's name?' I shrugged again. 'She was convinced, despite everything her daughter told her, that the daughter was being held prisoner. None of our missions is a prison, Michael. Does this look like a cell?'

I conceded it didn't. I was also beginning to concede that 191.

Rick had never laid eyes on Scotty Shattuck in his life. He'd looked closely at the photograph, and had shown not the slightest sign of recognition. Meaning this whole trip had been a waste of time.

'Prendergast,' said Rick, 'that was the woman's name.

You know, I wouldn't be surprised if she's done irreparable harm to her daughter. And from what I've read, the daughter is now a prisoner in her home. She can't go out without some minder going with her. So who's the villain of the piece?' Lecture over, he turned to Bel. 'Feeling a little better?'

'Yes, thanks.'

'Good. You've had a long trip from London, I'm sorry it's not been helpful to you. Can I show you around? If Jane is interested in us, it may be that she'll find her way here eventually. I can't promise to contact you if she does ...

that would have to be her decision. But at least maybe I can rea.s.sure you that we won't have her in a ball and chain.'

'We'd like that.'

He led us outside. He stood very erect when he walked, and his arms moved slowly at his sides. I reckoned he'd been meditating this morning, either that or taking drugs.

Outside, the VW driver was resting his hand on the boot of our Escort. I sought his face for some sign that he'd opened it, but I'd locked the boot myself, and he didn't look as handy with a picklock as Bel.

'I'm just going to give Belinda and Michael the tour,' Rick told him. 'Is anyone earthing up the potatoes?'