Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)
“That’s assuming we win today,” said Knowles.
* * *
Once Sebastian had escaped the rush-hour traffic and turned on to the A40, he checked the clock on his dashboard. He still had a couple of hours to spare, but he didn’t need any more holdups. At that moment a red light on the dashboard came on and the petrol indicator began to flicker, which meant he was down to his last gallon. A road sign informed him the next service station was 21 miles away. He knew there was something he’d meant to do last night.
He moved across to the inside lane and maintained a steady fifty miles an hour so he could eke out every last drop of what was left in the tank. He began to pray. Surely the gods weren’t on Mellor’s side?
* * *
“Who are you calling?” asked Harry as he zipped up his overnight bag.
“Giles. I’d like to see if he agrees with Ross or Seb. After all, he’s still the largest shareholder in the company.”
Harry wondered if he should unpack.
“And don’t forget your overcoat,” said Emma.
“Sir Giles Barrington’s office.”
“Good morning, Polly. It’s Emma Clifton. Could I have a word with my brother?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Clifton. He’s abroad at the moment.”
“Somewhere exciting, I hope?”
“Not exactly,” said Polly. “East Berlin.”
* * *
Seb began to relax when he came off the motorway and drove up the ramp into the petrol station. Once he’d filled up, he realized just how close it must have been. He handed over a ten-pound note for the twelve gallons, and waited for his change.
He was back on the motorway at nine thirty-six. The first sign to Bristol read 61 miles, so he was confident he would still make it with time to spare.
He moved into the outside lane, pleased to see a long stretch of open road ahead of him. His mind drifted from Dr. Wolfe, and what could possibly be urgent enough for her to phone him, to his mother, and how she would vote, to Desmond Mellor and what last minute tricks he would stoop to, and then back to Samantha. Was it possible …
When he heard the siren, he assumed it was an ambulance and quickly moved across to the inside lane, but when he looked in his rearview mirror he saw a police car with lights flashing bearing down on him. He slowed down, willing it to shoot past, but it drew up alongside him and the driver indicated that he should pull over onto the hard shoulder. Reluctantly, he obeyed.
The police car pulled up in front of him and two policemen climbed out and walked slowly toward him. The first was carrying a thick leather notebook, the second what looked like a briefcase. Seb wound down the window and smiled.
“Good morning, officers.”
“Good morning, sir. Were you aware that you were traveling at almost ninety miles an hour?”
“No, I wasn’t,” admitted Seb. “I’m very sorry.”
“Could I see your driving license, sir?”
Seb opened the glove compartment, took out his license, and handed it to the policeman, who studied it for some time before saying, “Would you be kind enough to step out of the car, sir.”
Seb got out as the other policeman opened his briefcase and extracted a large yellow balloon-like bag attached to a tube. “This is a Breathalyzer, sir, and I have to ask if you are willing to be tested to see if you are above the legal limit.”
“At ten o’clock in the morning?”
“It’s standard procedure for a speeding offense. If you choose not to do so, I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the nearest police station.”
“That won’t be necessary, officer, I’m quite happy to take the test.”
He carried out the instructions to the letter, well aware that he’d only had two Campari and sodas the previous night. Once he’d blown into the tube twice—evidently he didn’t blow hard enough the first time—the two officers studied the orange indicator for some time, before one of them pronounced, “No problem there, sir, you’re well below the limit.”