Читать книгу The Anarchist - Tristan Hawkins - Страница 14

A small police car tobogganed southbound on the unlit A68.

Through the sullen smog of the storm they saw a large white vehicle standing at an angle that seemed to suggest it had slewn off the road.

They drew up and aimed their headlights at Biddy.

‘Fuck me, it’s moving.’

This was so. The van was literally bouncing on its suspension.

They left the car, peered into the driving compartment and satisfied themselves that it was empty. Then they walked round to the back door.

The wind squealed like a banshee as it forced its way through the Cheviots. Yet above this they heard the rhythmic shrieks of the woman inside. And despite the brutal wash of rain they could nevertheless detect the aroma of alcohol and hashish wending from the hole in the van door.

One of the policemen lifted his fist intending to hammer on the door but the older one took a gentle hold of his arm.

‘They’ll be going nowhere tonight, son. ‘Ippies, I’ll not doubt, but ‘armless enough.’