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using her to take his mind off the past.
He alighted at Archway and, after a couple of questions,
found Harrington Lane and Pete Cavendish s house. Cavendish
was still in bed, but remembered him. When Reeve apologized
and said what he wanted, Cavendish gave him the key and told
him to bring it back when he was finished. He didn t need to ring
the bell, just stick it through the mail slot.
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Ian Rankin
Thanks, Reeve said. Cavendish nodded and closed the door
again.
It took him a little while to figure out how to access the lane
behind Cavendish s street, but eventually he found a road in and
walked down the lane until he saw what looked like the right
garage, empty cans and bottles and all. He unlocked the garage
door and pulled it up. It took him a few goes, and a few gentle
applications of a half-brick on to the rollers, but eventually the
garage was open. Dogs were barking in a couple of the walled
back gardens, making as much noise as he d done.
Arnie! Shuddup! someone yelled. They sounded fiercer than
any dog.
Reeve unlocked the car, fixed the choke on, and turned the
ignition. It took a while, reconditioned engine or not, but the car
finally started, shuddering a little at first, then smoothing itself
out. Reeve took it into the lane and kept it running while he went
back to shut the garage door. This set the dogs off again, but he
ignored them, relocked the garage, and got back into the Saab.
He drove slowly to the end of the lane, avoiding glass and bricks
and sacks of rubbish. A couple of lefts took him back into Caven-
dish s street, and he left the car long enough to put the garage key
through the mail slot.
He searched for a London street map, but didn t find one.
The glove compartment didn t have one, and there was nothing
under the seats. The car was what he d call basic. Even the radio
had been yanked out, leaving just wires and a connector. Basic
maybe, but not as basic as his own Land Rover, its carcass some-
where in France. A lot had happened this past day and a half. He
wanted to sit down and rest, but knew that was the last thing he
should do. He could drive to Jim s flat; maybe Fliss Hornby
would be there. But he couldn t do that. He didn t want to put
her in any danger, and he d already seen what a visit from him
could do to a woman on her own . . .
The tank was nearly empty, so he stopped in a gas station,
filled up, and added a newspaper to his purchase. He sat flicking
through, looking for a news story from France, finding nothing.
He wondered how long it would take the French authorities to
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Blood Hunt
link the torched car to its owner. He guessed a couple of days
max, which gave him today and maybe tomorrow. Maybe, but
not for certain. He had to get moving.
He only had the one plan: advance. He d tried a tactical
retreat last night, and it had cost several lives, including, for all he
knew, that of Marie Villambard. Now that he knew he was up
against Jay, he didn t want to hide anymore, and didn t think he
could hide not forever. Not knowing Jay was out there. There-
fore, the only tactic left was to advance. A suicide mission maybe,
but at least it was a mission. He thought of Joan and Allan. He d
have to phone Joan; she d be worried about him. Christ, what lies
would he concoct this time? He couldn t possibly tell her about
Marie Villambard. But not to tell her might mean that the first
she d hear of it would be the police knocking at her sister s door,
asking his whereabouts. She d hear their side of it, but not his.
Marie Villambard . . . Marie had said Jim would ve kept copies
of his working notes. He wouldn t have entrusted all his informa-
tion to disks alone. He wondered if Marie herself had kept an
extra set, maybe with another journalist. Would someone else
pick up her baton? A safe place, she d said: maybe a friend s flat or
a bank vault. Reeve turned back and headed to Pete Cavendish s.
Cavendish couldn t believe it.
This is a nightmare, he said. I told you to stick the key
through the letterbox.
I did that, Reeve said, pointing to the spot on the floor
where the key lay.
What then?
It s just, my brother trusted you with his car. I wondered if
you were keeping anything else safe for him.
Such as?
I don t know. Some files, a folder, papers . . . ?
Cavendish shook his head.
Maybe he told you not to tell anyone, Pete, but he s dead
and I m his brother
He didn t give me anything, all right?
Reeve stared into Cavendish s eyes and believed him. Okay,
sorry, he said starting back down the path.
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Ian Rankin
Hey! Cavendish yelled after him.
Reeve turned. What?
How s the motor running?
Reeve looked at the idling Saab. Sweet as a nut, he said,
wondering how soon he could ditch it.
Tommy Halliday lived in Wales, because he thought the air and
drinking water there were better; but he didn t have much affec-
tion for the Welsh, so lived as close to the border with England
as he could while remaining near a funny place-name. Halliday
lived in Penycae; the funny place-name was Rhosllanerchrugog.
On the map it looked like a bad batch of Scrabble tiles, except
that there were way too many letters.
You can t miss it on the map, Halliday had told Reeve, the
first time Reeve was planning a visit. They always like to put
Rhosllanerchrugog in nice big bold letters, just to show what silly
fuckers the Welsh are. In fact, everybody around here just calls
it Rhos.
What does it mean? Reeve had asked.
What?
The word must mean something.
It s a warning, Halliday had said. It says, the English are
coming!
Halliday had a point. Penycae was close to Wrexham, but
it was also within commuting distance of Chester, Liverpool,
even Stoke-on-Trent. Consequently, English settlers were arriv-
ing, leaving the grime and crime behind, sometimes bringing it
with them.
All Halliday had brought with him were his drug deals, his
video collection, and his reference books. Halliday hated films but
was hooked on them. Actually, more than the films themselves he
was hooked on the film critics. Barry Norman was god of this
strange religion, but there were many other high priests: Maltin,
Ebert, Kael; Empire, Premier, and Sight & Sound magazines. What
got Reeve was that Halliday never went to a movie. He didn t like
being with other people, strangers, for two darkened hours. He
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Blood Hunt
rented and bought videos instead. There were probably six or
seven hundred in his living room, more elsewhere in the semide-
tached house.
For Halliday, films were not entertainment. His tussle with
the movie form was like a student tackling some problem of phi-
losophy. It was as though, if Halliday could work out films
why some were good, others bad, a few works of genius then
he would have solved a major problem, something that would
change his life for the better and for always. When Reeve turned
up at the house, Halliday was in a tizzy. He d just found an old
Guardian review by Derek Malcolm panning Tarantino s Pulp
Fiction.
You should see the reviews in Empire and Premiere, he said
irritably. They loved that film.
What did you think of it? Reeve waited in the hall while
Halliday triple-locked the reinforced front door. He knew Halli-
day s neighbors thought the reason his curtains were always closed
was that Halliday was busy watching films. There was a rumor
Halliday was writing a film of his own. Or that he was some En-
glish director who d made a fortune in Hollywood and decided to
retire young.
He looked younger than his years, with thinning short red
hair, a faceful of freckles, and tapering ginger sideburns plus dark
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