The Way to Dusty Death. Alistair MacLean

James?’

      ‘Now?’ MacAlpine smiled faintly. ‘I’m going to see Mary. I think by this time they might let me in to see her.’ He glanced briefly, his face seemingly impassive, around the pits, at Harlow lifting his glass again, at the red-haired Rafferty twins looking almost as unhappy as Dunnet, and at Jacobson, Tracchia and Rory wearing uniform scowls and directing them in uniform directions, sighed for the last time, turned and walked heavily away.

      Mary MacAlpine was twenty-two years old, pale complexioned despite the many hours she spent in the sun, with big brown eyes, gleamingly brushed black hair as dark as night and the most bewitching smile that ever graced a Grand Prix racing track: she did not intend that the smile should be bewitching, she just couldn’t help it. Everyone in the team, even the taciturn and terrible-tempered Jacobson, was in love with her in one way or another, not to mention a quite remarkable number of other people who were not in the team: this Mary recognized and accepted with commendable aplomb, although without either amusement or condescension: condescension was quite alien to her nature. In any event, she viewed the regard that others had for her as only the natural reciprocal of the regard she had for them: despite her quick no-nonsense mind, Mary MacAlpine was in many ways still very young.

      Lying in bed in that spotless, soullessly antiseptic hospital room that night, Mary MacAlpine looked younger than ever. She also looked, as she unquestionably was, very ill. The natural paleness had turned to pallor and the big brown eyes which she opened only briefly and reluctantly, were dulled with pain. This same pain was reflected in MacAlpine’s eyes as he looked down at his daughter, at the heavily splinted and bandaged left leg lying on top of the sheet. MacAlpine stooped and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

      He said: ‘Sleep well, darling. Good night.’

      She tried to smile. ‘With all the pills they’ve given me? Yes, I think I will. And Daddy.’

      ‘Darling?’

      ‘It wasn’t Johnny’s fault. I know it wasn’t. It was his car. I know it was.’

      ‘We’re finding that out. Jacobson is taking the car down.’

      ‘You’ll see. Will you ask Johnny to come and see me?’

      ‘Not tonight, darling. I’m afraid he’s not too well.’

      ‘He – he hasn’t been – ’

      ‘No, no. Shock.’ MacAlpine smiled, ‘He’s been fed the same pills as yourself.’

      ‘Johnny Harlow? In shock? I don’t believe it. Three near-fatal crashes and he never once – ’

      ‘He saw you, my darling.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll be around later tonight.’

      MacAlpine left the room and walked down to the reception area. A doctor was speaking to the nurse at the desk. He had grey hair, tired eyes and the face of an aristocrat. MacAlpine said: ‘Are you the person who is looking after my daughter?’

      ‘Mr MacAlpine? Yes, I am. Dr Chollet.’

      ‘She seems very ill.’

      ‘No, Mr MacAlpine. No problem. She is just under heavy sedation. For the pain, you understand.’

      ‘I see. How long will she be – ’

      ‘Two weeks. Perhaps three. No more.’

      ‘One question, Dr Chollet. Why is her leg not in traction?’

      ‘It would seem, Mr MacAlpine, that you are not a man who is afraid of the truth.’

      ‘Why is her leg not in traction?’

      ‘Traction is for broken bones, Mr MacAlpine. Your daughter’s left ankle bone, I’m afraid, is not just broken, it is – how would you say it in English? – pulverized, yes I think that is the word, pulverized beyond any hope of remedial surgery. What’s left of the bone will have to be fused together.’

      ‘Meaning that she can never bend her ankle again?’ Chollet inclined his head. ‘A permanent limp? For life?’

      ‘You can have a second opinion, Mr MacAlpine. The best orthopaedic specialist in Paris. You are entitled – ’

      ‘No. That will not be necessary. The truth is obvious, Dr Chollet. One accepts the obvious.’

      ‘I am deeply sorry, Mr MacAlpine. She is a lovely child. But I am only a surgeon. Miracles? No. No miracles.’

      ‘Thank you, Doctor. You are most kind. I’ll be back in about say – two hours?’

      ‘Please not. She will be asleep for at least twelve hours. Perhaps sixteen.’

      MacAlpine nodded his head in acceptance and left.

      Dunnet pushed away his plate with his untouched meal, looked at MacAlpine’s plate, similarly untouched, then at the brooding MacAlpine.

      He said: ‘I don’t think either of us, James, is as tough as we thought we were.’

      ‘Age, Alexis. It overtakes us all.’

      ‘Yes. And at very high speed, it would seem.’ Dunnet pulled his plate towards him, regarded it sorrowfully then pushed it away again.

      ‘Well, I suppose it’s a damn sight better than amputation.’

      ‘There’s that. There’s that.’ MacAlpine pushed back his chair. ‘A walk, I think, Alexis.’

      ‘For the appetite? It won’t work. Not with me.’

      ‘Nor with me. I just thought it might be interesting to see if Jacobson has turned up anything.’

      The garage was very long, low, heavily skylighted, brilliantly lit with hanging spotlights and, for a garage, was remarkably clean and tidy. Jacobson was at the inner end, stooped over Harlow’s wrecked Coronado, when the metal door screeched open. He straightened, acknowledged the presence of MacAlpine and Dunnet with a wave of his hand, then returned to his examination of the car.

      Dunnet closed the door and said quietly: ‘Where are the other mechanics?’

      MacAlpine said: You should know by this time. Jacobson always works alone on a crash job. A very low opinion of other mechanics, has Jacobson. Says they either overlook evidence or destroy it by clumsiness.’

      The two men advanced and watched in silence as Jacobson tightened a connection in the hydraulic brake line. They were not alone in watching him. Directly above them, through an open skylight, the powerful lamps in the garage reflected on something metallic. The metallic object was a hand-held eight millimetre camera and the hands that held them were very steady indeed. They were the hands of Johnny Harlow. His face was as impassive as his hands were motionless, intent and still and totally watchful. He was also totally sober.

      MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’

      Jacobson straightened and tenderly massaged an obviously aching back.

      ‘Nothing. Just nothing. Suspension, brakes, engine, transmission, tyres, steering – all OK.’

      ‘But the steering – ’

      ‘Sheared. Impact fracture. Couldn’t be anything else. It was still working when he pulled out in front of Jethou. You can’t tell me that the steering suddenly went in that one second of time, Mr MacAlpine. Coincidence is coincidence, but that would be just a bit too much.’

      Dunnet said: ‘So we’re still in the dark?’

      ‘It’s broad daylight where I stand. The oldest reason in the business. Driver error.’

      ‘Driver error.’ Dunnet shook his head. ‘Johnny Harlow never made a driver error in his life.’

      Jacobson smiled, his eyes cold. ‘I’d like to have the opinion of Jethou’s ghost on that one.’

      MacAlpine said: ‘This hardly helps. Come on. Hotel. You haven’t even eaten yet, Jacobson.’