"Smith, Guy N - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

It was midday before he finally roused himself, went through to the kitchen, and performed a few perfunctory ablutions. His headache persisted, the kind which one awoke with and endured for the remainder of the day. He stepped outside, and stood looking at the scenery again. Sheer magnificence. It had a kind of hypnotic effect upon him, as though he could stand and view it, day after day, for the rest of his life without tiring. The steady hum of distant tractors providing soothing background music, like a documentary film on television without the accompaniment of a human voice.

He remembered that the Cortina was still parked on the forestry road. The thought of driving it into the garage did not appeal to him. It could stay there until he needed it again, or somebody requested him to move it. He envied those farmers on their tractors. No speed, no competitive atmosphere. They probably assisted each other with mechanical repairs when one of the machines broke down. That spirit did not exist in the racing world. It never had, and it never would. It was every man for himself. Worse. A dog-eat-dog attitude. Survival of the fittest.

He turned his attention to the garden. It would need tidying up before the winter set in. There were some tools in the shed at the bottom of his land where the apex of the triangle terminated in a half-grown Scots pine, a tree that had weathered a decade of winters. It would still be there in three or four decades time, bigger, stronger. Slade wondered where he would be then.

The idea of winter appealed to him. The snow would drift up in these hills, blocking the narrow lanes, perhaps for weeks at a time. Total isolation. Even Seamark and Stern would not be able to reach him then. Today he would give instructions for the disconnection of the telephone.

His headache had subsided a little by the time he went back indoors. He boiled the kettle and made some coffee, hot and black, the way he had always been used to it. Little things like that would remain unchanged. He could do just as he liked. He felt more at peace with the world now than he could ever remember. He decided it would work out after all. No effort would be needed; just drift, let everything sort itself out.

The telephone rang. Slade tensed, his fingers tightening around the mug of coffee, threatening to crush the pottery. The harsh jangling continued. Stern or Seamark? Probably the latter, he decided. They wouldn't give up.

He crossed the room, carrying the coffee in one hand, ignored the incessant ringing, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. The noise which had disturbed his pleasant reverie was muffled now. He walked on down the narrow path, and stopped only when he was beyond the patch of soft fruit bushes. A partially rotted rustic garden seat was set back on some broken paving slabs. Slade wondered if it would bear his weight. Hesitantly he lowered his body onto it. It creaked and swayed slightly, but held.

He sighed, sipped his coffee, and looked across at the mountains again. Only the hum of tractors came to his ears. He sensed that the phone was still ringing, but he could not hear it. That was all that mattered.

The sun was well past its zenith, moving slowly towards those western mountain peaks. It was too late to make a start on the garden now. The Cortina was still blocking the rough road leading up to the Forestry Commission plantations. But there was always tomorrow. Slade decided that that was a philosophy which he must adopt. Never do today what can be done tomorrow. A total contrast to everything which he had known hitherto. No scurrying, no mechanics working throughout the nocturnal hours in order to complete a specification to meet a deadline.

He stayed there until dusk, even then reluctant to go inside again. The total silence returned, a few lights appeared in the distance. At last he retraced his steps in the direction of the conservatory. A feeling engulfed him which he could not at first determine. It had been creeping up on him this last hour. Fear. Of what? He paused, and thought about it. Then he realised what it was. Nothing to do with cars or racing. Not directly, anyway. It was a kind of terror that emanated from one single invention of rapid communication. The telephone. Alexander Graham Bell had inflicted a curse upon certain people. Slade was one of them. He knew it would ring again. He should have phoned the engineers and insisted upon an immediate disconnection. Already he was practising his chosen philosophy. Tomorrow would do. Hell, this was one task that should have been done today. But it was too late now. Tomorrow, definitely.

9.15 pm. The telephone rang again. This time he did not even tense. It was almost a relief to hear it. Ignore it. Five minutes later it was still ringing. Maybe if he lifted the receiver, replaced it, then took it off altogether it would solve his problem. So easy. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. He stood up. Something caught his eye. That photograph. A faint hope flickered within him. No, it couldn't be. Even if Yvonne had heard of his decision, changed her mind, she wouldn't know where to contact him. Unless Seamark had worked on her, and was using her. No, she couldn't be bought at any price. Nevertheless. . .

Slade yielded to the persistent ringing, curiosity now predominating. His hand reached out, closed over the receiver, but did not lift it immediately. He had never cursed Seamark in his life. Few men had dared. A faint smile. Mentally he consulted his vocabulary of four-lettered words. He would use them all. A spate of the foulest language. Tell him what a bastard he was. He'd make Mister Big himself ring off. Victory.

Mark Slade smiled. He wished that he had not delayed. He could have settled it hours ago this way. He lifted the receiver.

'Mark Slade?'

There are times in the life of every man, however determined or verbose, when he finds himself at a total loss for words. This was one of them.

Slade had braced himself for the thick nasal tones of Seamark. His reply was building up in his own vocal chords, ready to insult the multi-millionaire, cutting off the first demand in mid-sentence. Instead, he heard the soft, cultured sound of a female voice. And it most certainly was not Yvonne on the other end of the line. Husky, sophisticated.

He caught his breath, dispelled his prepared speech, sought vainly for another to replace it.

'Mark Slade?'

'Yes . . . speaking. . . '

He sensed already that he was at a disadvantage. The element of surprise had caught him off his guard. Scores of women used to phone his Hampstead flat. Mostly teenage fans, the sound of his voice temporarily satisfying their quest for idol worship. Many rang again. More mature women had ulterior motives in contacting him. That was the part Yvonne had hated most. Now it was beginning all over again.

'My name is Lee Hammerton. I'm sorry if I've called at an inopportune moment. I tried to ring earlier in the day but there was no reply.'

'Oh, that's all right. I wasn't doing anything in particular. . . '

He realised subconsciously that he was already pandering to her. His mind was confused, dazed by the unexpectedness of it all. Lee Hammerton? The name was familiar. He should have known. Somewhere in racing circles . . . damn racing! All the same. . .

'I don't know if my name is familiar to you. Possibly you knew of my late father, Craig Hammerton. . . ?'

It clicked. Two years ago. One of the only unsponsored British teams. Riverside. They hadn't qualified. Neither machine nor driver had been quite up to standard. Good, but not good enough. Hammerton's son had been at the wheel. There had been some trouble a few months afterwards. Hammerton junior had been mixed up in some kind of scandal. Drugs. Slade couldn't recall the details. The son had tried to get back into Formula One racing. He'd been killed in an accident at Le Mans recently. The old man ... a horrific farming accident; he remembered the newspaper headlines. Fortunately, Slade had a good memory. Vague recollections just at this moment, though, trying to piece them together.