‘Come on, let’s get going.’
Ian McNab was surprisingly small, a grey-haired man of fifty, wearing a black tracksuit and trainers, with a broken nose and a pleasant, Highland voice.
‘A great pleasure, Miss Browning. I was in Glasgow on business last year and saw you do that Tennessee Williams fella’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Citizen’s Theatre. Wonderful, you were.’
Lang said, ‘Plenty of judo mats in the barn, Ian.’ They left the house and walked across the yard. ‘The thing is, Miss Browning was attacked by a mugger last week. Shook her up badly. Luckily someone drove by, but it occurred to me that you could help her. Your special course. The seven moves.’
‘Of course, Captain.’ McNab shook his head. ‘The terrible times we live in.’
They went into the barn and he and Lang got a number of judo mats from a pile in the corner and laid them out together. McNab turned to Grace. ‘Right, miss. My system is special and it’s only to be used in extreme situations.’
‘I understand.’
‘You see, I can show you seven things to do which will always cripple, but may also kill. You follow me?’
‘I think so.’
‘For example, if you extend your knuckles in the right hand – you are right-handed, I take it?
‘Yes.’
‘Good. If you extend a punch under the chin at the Adam’s apple, then even a sixteen-stone rugby player will go down. You can also do it with stiffened fingers. The trouble is, he could choke to death. That’s why I call it my special course with extreme prejudice.’
‘I see.’
‘There’s another. The kneecap is one of the most sensitive parts of the human body. Again, let’s imagine our sixteen-stone rugby player. If you raise your foot in a struggle and stamp down on his kneecap you’ll dislodge it and he’ll go down. You won’t kill him, but you’ll cripple him and very probably for life.’
‘I see. Extreme prejudice again.’
‘That’s right. No offence meant, miss, but there’s then the question of your attacker’s private parts.’
Grace laughed out loud. ‘There always is with men, Sergeant Major.’
Lang laughed and McNab smiled. ‘Too true, miss. Then there’s the reverse elbow strike. Very lethal, that.’
She turned to Rupert. ‘Are you an expert in all this?’
‘Now do I look the physical type, darling?’ he said. ‘I’ve got phone calls to make. Give her the works for an hour, Sergeant Major. I’ll see you later.’
He went out and McNab turned to Grace. ‘Right you are, miss, let’s get started.’
Just before midnight she came down in her dressing gown and found Lang in the drawing room, examining some faxes.
‘Problems?’
‘Government business, my love, particularly the Irish mess. Never goes away. Nightcap?’
‘All right.’ He poured two Bushmills and gave her one. ‘What about the Sergeant Major?’ she asked.
‘Thought you very promising. He has a gym in Soho. He’d like to see you there when you can manage it.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I’m having the Navajo take him back to Gatwick tomorrow. It will return late afternoon, bringing Tom and Yuri Belov.’
‘That should be interesting.’
The wolfhound dozed in front of the fire. ‘He’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Why do you call him Danger?’
‘Well, he can be pretty ruthless when roused.’
There was a portrait of a Regency buck over the fireplace. He wore a tailcoat, light buskins and top boots. He bore an extraordinary resemblance to Lang.
‘Who is that?’ she asked.
‘An ancestor of mine. He was a Rupert, too. He was the Earl of Drury and a great friend of the Prince Regent. The title was lost in the eighteen sixties when the male line died out. I’m descended from the female side.’
‘What a shame – you could have been Earl of Drury.’
‘True.’
‘He looks very arrogant, and there’s a restlessness to him. I sense it in you, Rupert.’
‘He killed two men in pistol duels. Once faced up to the Duke of Wellington, who shot him in the shoulder.’
‘You’d rather have been him than you?’ she said with sudden insight.
‘Yes, why not? Action, colour, excitement. I mean life’s such a bore, politics a joke:’
‘But what about when you were in the Army? That must have had its moments?’
‘Not real soldiering, Ireland. A sordid, bloody mess. Woman poured a chamberpot full of urine over me once from a bedroom window – but enough of that.’
Rupert poured more whiskey and sat sprawled beside her, gazing into the fire. He took her hand. ‘This is nice.’
‘Very pleasant,’ she agreed.
‘As I’m not into women and you don’t exactly go for men in that way, I’d say we have a perfect relationship.’
She kissed him on the cheek and snuggled close. ‘I love you, Rupert Lang.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a shame?’
The following morning she was on her own on the Montesa, high above the forest, enjoying herself. Amazing how expert she had become in so short a time. She paused to have a cigarette, sitting astride the bike, and looked up at a grey sky that threatened rain. There was a droning in the distance and far away through a break in the clouds she saw the Navajo.
She finished the cigarette and took off, driving quite fast, following the track, then turning across the moor, bumping over tussocks and scattering a flock of sheep. She skidded to a halt, searching for a gap in the dry-stone wall, and there was an angry shout. She turned, still astride the bike.
The man hurrying towards her wore an old tweed suit and cap and heavy boots. He looked about fifty, with a brutal unshaven face, and carried a shepherd’s crook.
‘And what in the hell is your game?’ he demanded. ‘Frightening my sheep. You’ve run pounds off them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Sorry, is it? You need seeing to, you do.’
He lunged with the crook, catching the front wheel. The bike toppled and went over. As she scrambled sideways her helmet came
