A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins

the vodka and within a few minutes was on a marvellous high.

      He checked out the Jaguar in his rear-view mirror. It was already dusk and Bird had turned on his lights. Always a cautious one, Albert thought. Never took a chance if someone else could take it for him and, usually, that someone else was Albert.

      ‘Albert this, Albert that,’ the chauffeur said softly, glancing into the mirror again. ‘I sometimes wonder what the silly old bugger thinks I am.’

      He took another swig from the bottle, then realized, too late, that he was running into a bend. He dropped the bottle and swung the wheel. His offside front wheel mounted the grass bank, collided with a block of granite which had fallen from a low wall. The hearse careered across the road, went straight through a wire fence and ploughed down a slope, uprooting young fir trees on its way, sliding to a halt in a gully below, half on its side.

      Only the seat belt had saved him from going through the windscreen. He got the driver’s door open and pulled himself out. He stood there, slightly dazed, aware of the Jaguar pausing on the road above. Bird appeared at the top of the short slope.

      ‘Albert?’ There was genuine fear in his voice.

      ‘I’m all right,’ Albert called.

      At the same moment he saw that the coffin had smashed through the glass side of the hearse, the lid bursting open so that the corpse hung out, still swathed in the shroud. He dropped to his knees and peered under the vehicle and saw that the bottom end of the coffin was caught underneath.

      Bird scrambled down the slope to join him. ‘Just get him out. We’ll put him in the boot of the Jaguar, but for God’s sake hurry. Someone might come.’

      Albert reached under the hearse. There was a slight, uneasy creaking and it swayed slightly. He jumped back. ‘This damn thing could topple over at any moment and he’s pinned by the feet.’

      Bird stooped and when he straightened he was holding the vodka bottle. ‘Drinking again,’ he said furiously. ‘What have I told you?’ He slapped Albert across the face and threw the bottle into the trees.

      Albert cowered away, a hand raised, a child again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bird. It was an accident.’

      Bird took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. ‘Cut his stitches. Open him up. We’ve got to get that heroin.’

      ‘I couldn’t do that, Mr Bird,’ Albert said.

      ‘Do it!’ Bird cried and hit him in the face again. ‘I’ll get a bag from the car.’

      He thrust the penknife into the chauffeur’s hand, turned and scrambled up the slope. Albert, terrified, dropped to his knees and pulled the shroud away. The boy’s eyes were open, staring at him. He averted his own eyes as best he could and started to hack at the stitches.

      On the road above, Bird got the boot of the Jaguar open and found a canvas bag he used for shopping. He went back to the top of the slope and peered down into the gathering darkness. ‘Have you got it?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Bird.’ Albert’s voice was strained and muffled.

      ‘Put it in this.’

      Bird tossed the canvas bag down and looked anxiously along the road. Thank God it had happened on a side road and the flat farmland beyond the bend meant that he could see some considerable distance. His heart was pounding and there was sweat on his face. What would Smith say? The prospect was too awful to think about.

      He slid down the slope. ‘Are you ready, for God’s sake? Have you got it all?’

      ‘I think so, Mr Bird.’

      ‘Right, let’s get out of here.’

      ‘But they’ll still find the body, Mr Bird. Certain to.’

      ‘Even if they do, they can’t trace any of us. Not in France, not here, and there is such a thing as destroying the evidence. Go on! Get up there and get the car started!’

      Albert scrambled away and Bird unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. Petrol spilled out onto the ground. He took out his handkerchief and soaked it, then went halfway up the bank. He found his lighter, touched it to the handkerchief and tossed it down onto the hearse. For a moment, he thought it was going to go out and then a yellow tongue of flame flickered into life. By the time he reached the top of the slope, the hearse was beginning to burn. He had a glimpse of the corpse’s eyes staring at him accusingly, then turned and got into the Jaguar and Albert drove away.

      Later, at his desk at Deepdene, waiting for Smith to return his call, he sipped brandy and tried to pull himself together. It was going to be all right. It had to be. Smith would understand. The telephone rang as Albert entered the room with the tea things on a silver tray. Bird held up a hand, motioning him to silence, and picked up the phone.

      ‘Smith here.’

      ‘It’s Bird, sir.’ Bird’s hands were shaking. ‘Actually we’ve had a bit of a problem.’

      Smith’s voice didn’t change in the slightest. ‘Tell me about it.’

      Which Bird did, omitting any reference to Albert and his drinking, blaming the entire incident on a steering defect.

      When he was finished, Smith said, ‘Most unfortunate.’

      ‘I know, but accidents will happen, sir.’

      ‘I can’t comment on that, I’ve never had the experience,’ Smith said.

      ‘So what do we do, sir? Will Mr Jago be picking up the stuff as usual?’

      ‘Not necessary this time. I’ll take delivery of the goods tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock precisely. You will leave it in luggage locker forty-three at Victoria Station in London.’

      ‘But the key, sir?’

      ‘Will be in an envelope in your morning mail. I’ll have a duplicate,’ Smith said.

      ‘Right, sir.’

      ‘There had better not be any more accidents, Mr Bird, or Jago will be round to have words, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

      ‘No need for that, sir,’ Bird gabbled.

      ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bird. The young man was a nobody. They’ve all been carefully selected nobodies. No way of tracing him to any of us. With any luck, this should prove to be a temporary inconvenience. Goodnight.’

      Bird replaced the phone and Albert said, ‘What did he say?’

      The older man told him. He was brighter now, relieved and reassured at the way Smith had taken things. ‘He’s right. The kid was a nobody. The hearse was stolen. All the paperwork phoney. The scuffers won’t stand a chance on this one.’

      ‘Scuffers, Mr Bird?’

      ‘Sorry, Albert, betraying my youth there. That’s what we called coppers in Liverpool when I was a lad.’

      Albert nodded. ‘I was thinking, Mr Bird. A locker at Victoria Station. I mean, if I hung around, maybe I could catch a glimpse of him. I did it before, remember, when that Frasconi geezer turned up.’

      Bird shook his head pityingly. ‘Albert, I don’t know how you’ve survived this long. Do you really think someone as big as Smith would be that stupid? If you even tried it that bastard Jago would be on you like a vulture. Miracle you got away with it before. They’d find you floating down the Thames with your dick in your hand, and that would be such a waste. Now what have we here?’

      ‘Tea, Mr Bird.’ Albert poured some from Albert’s favourite silver pot into a delicate porcelain cup. ‘Ceylon, just the way you like it!’

      ‘Lovely.’ Bird took a sip, then gulped it down gratefully. ‘Nothing like a nice cup of tea, as my old mother used to say.’ He glanced up at Albert, reached up and patted his cheek. ‘You’re a good boy, Albert, but a little foolish sometimes.’

      ‘A