It wouldn’t be long now. A distant clock chimed the quarter past midnight. He’d have to look slippy. Any moment now the police might be looking for him. He sent the cab whizzing up Fitzjohn’s Avenue, and in a few moments he was on the Heath.
A bright moon hung in the sky, lighting the trees and the scrub, throwing heavy black shadows. The place seemed completely deserted. He kept on until he saw a large clump of trees standing by the roadside, then he reached forward and cut the ignition. The engine died with a splutter and the cab coasted towards the trees, finally coming to a standstill in the deepest shadows. George sat for a moment, screwing up his nerve, then he climbed down stiffly onto the road.
The girl poked her head out of the window.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked. “Is there anything wrong?” She seemed quite calm and mildly interested.
George pulled his hat farther down over his eyes.
“Petrol,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, miss; I thought I’d filled up.”
“What a bore!” she exclaimed, opening the cab door. “Now, I suppose I’ll have to walk. Well, it’s not so far. What are you going to do?” George was startled that she should think of him. It was not what he expected from the upper classes.
“I’ll manage,” he said, his hand on the cold butt of the gun.
“If you like to walk along with me,” she said, “I’ll give you a tin of petrol. You’ve got miles to go hack.”
He wished feverishly that she hadn’t been like this. He wished she had flown into a temper and had upbraided him. It would have been so much easier. Now she was making him feel like a rat. His mind flew to Cora. He had to go through with it. He couldn’t return to the flat empty handed. He eyed the girl’s clothes furtively. They were expensive and well cut. He was sure they would fit Cora. He could imagine her face when she saw them: that thought decided him.