The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

I saw her to the door and then walked through to Duffy’s office, where everyone there abruptly sat down. Like all good assistants, they had been listening at the door.

“Right,” I said, looking at the large map of Swindon stuck to the wall in that office, “let’s see what Bunty and Smite Solutions are up to.”

Duffy, Geraldine and I plotted the places that were listed on the memo’s distribution list. There were about sixty in total, and it looked as though Bunty were visiting companies and private residences on a swath a half mile wide leading from the financial center toward Wroughton, a few miles south-southeast of the city. It looked like a corridor of sorts—and if Smite Solutions planned on luring the smiting away, it had to be drawn away to somewhere.

I tapped the map at the disused airfield in Wroughton. “Something’s going on here,” I muttered.

“Any idea what?” asked Duffy.

“None—but I aim to find out.”

“Chief Librarian?” said Geraldine, the other assistant.

“Yes?”

“Your son is waiting in reception. About a trip to the Kemble Timepark.”

I asked her to tell him I’d be straight down, then asked Duffy to cancel all appointments for the rest of the day. He looked faintly annoyed but agreed—and then reiterated how important the budget meeting was the following morning.

“That’s the one where we learn how much our budget is cut?”

He nodded.

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

26.

Wednesday: Wroughton

The decidedly unsporty Griffin Sportina, like all cars built in the Welsh Socialist Republic, had a projected design life of a century, or 5 million miles. With a chassis designed for a dump truck and with a body of heavy-gauge steel, the car was almost indestructible—and hard to drive. Newcomers to Sportina driving were excused for thinking the steering lock was on when it wasn’t, and an hour of clutch and gearshift selection exceeded the surgeon general’s minimum daily exercise recommendations for a week.

Euan Lloyd, Griffin Motors: Cars for Eternity

“So why are we heading up here?” asked Friday as we drove up and out of the Wroughton village and toward the disused airfield.

“Goliath has a company named Smite Solutions, and I don’t like the sound of them. We’ll have a quick look and then do your thing over at the timepark. Is there something wrong with the gearbox? It’s making a lot of noise.”

“It has to,” he said, “or you’d be annoyed by the incessant whirring coming out of the back axle.”

Friday drove a Welsh-built 1967 Griffin Sportina. He loved it despite its many strange idiosyncrasies, such as a better drag coefficient when in rain and the Pencoed V8 engine that could run on anything from high-quality aviation spirit to powdered anthracite. Although the car had done over five hundred thousand miles, it was only just considered broken in.

We topped the hill and came within sight of the deserted airfield. I sank lower in my seat.

“Drive past the gates, slowly the first time.”

Friday did as I asked, and I stared out the window in a bored fashion so as to not attract attention. The front entrance of the disused airfield, usually just chained and padlocked, was being guarded by two Goliath security personnel. I tried to make out what was happening on the airfield itself, but the land rose ahead of the runway and it was difficult to see anything.

“Turn around and go past again,” I said.

“I’d prefer to find a roundabout,” he murmured. “Only bodybuilders and ex–tank drivers attempt three-point turns in a Griffin.”

“Tank drivers? Then let me try, you great big soft baby, you.”

“You drove armored personnel carriers,” said Friday, smiling. “Hardly the same thing.”

“It had tracks and a V12,” I said, “so do as you’re told or I’ll stop doing your washing.”

“Okay, turning around.”