Run for Home Read Online Free PDF

he noted grimly as he switched off. My best climbing boots were in that caravan.
    Wednesday night then, he thought afterwards, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. That was what he had wanted to establish. The bastards had certainly moved fast. Even before he was back in the country.
    Firing the caravan had saved them time, as well as denying him the use of whatever he might have had in it. Searching it instead could have taken them hours, as well as making them visible.
     
    He parked outside one of the two pubs in the tiny hamlet of Nether Wasdale. Then he took a stroll. It would be better to find Callerton’s cottage himself, rather than leave someone with the memory of him asking where it was. By now, he had given up worrying that he might be being overly cautious. In his position, there was no such thing as too much caution.
    He soon found the cottage. It was a few minutes’ walk from the pub, down a lane that seemingly led nowhere verymuch. He smiled. Typical of Cally! Leaving London hadn’t been enough. He had sought obscurity and isolation – and found them both.
    It was a grand spot, he reflected, as he stood at the gate a moment and gazed around. Perfect; the fells, the lake, the ancient sycamores gnarled and twisted by wind and snow. Well deserved, too. Callerton had done his bit for Queen and Country, and then some.
    He opened the gate and walked up the path towards the open front door. The old man would be ready for him. He always had been big on time keeping. Coffee would be ready, too, probably. Nothing alcoholic yet, though. Unless his habits had changed in retirement, that wouldn’t happen until lunch was on the table.
    He used the heavy door-knocker and eased the door further open, calling a greeting. There was no reply. Smiling, he paused, listening. Nothing. The silence continued. He called again, louder this time. Still nothing.
    Alarm bells began to ring in his head. He frowned and stepped back. He brought out the Glock he had brought from Prague and checked it.
    Cally wouldn’t do this, he was thinking. The old man wouldn’t fail to respond to a visitor’s greeting. He wouldn’t not be in either, not when an arrangement had been made and his visitor was exactly on time. He would be here, ready and waiting. Something was wrong.
    He moved along the side of the house and looked through a window into what seemed to be the main living room. No one there. He moved on. Round the next corner was the kitchen window. He looked through it, winced and felt sick. He closed his eyes for a moment.
    Callerton was there. He was slumped over the kitchentable, immobile, in no position to receive visitors ever again.
    The back of his head was a mess. Even from the window he could see that. A bullet, almost certainly, and whoever had fired it had been standing right behind him.
    So they’d got here before him. Christ, they’d been quick off the mark – again!
    It couldn’t have been Jackson and Murphy, though. They hadn’t had time to get off Orkney and down here, even if they had known this was where he was coming. Someone else, then. Another team. Or just one man. Less suspicious. The arrival of a team might have alerted Callerton.
    The question was, where was the gunman now? Here still? If not, then not long gone. There hadn’t been time. Quite possibly still around, waiting for him to arrive.
    He glanced back round the corner of the cottage. No one had appeared to seal off his exit route. He hesitated, weighing up his options. They were limited and straightforward: either he left immediately or he took a look inside first.
    He thought quickly. There was just a faint chance the old man might have prepared something that might help. So he’d better chance it, and look inside before he left.
    He wiped his face with his sleeve and checked the gun again. Then he headed back to the front door and stepped into the front porch, calling out as if he was unaware anything was wrong.
    The cottage was small.