Loch Lomond
8- 45 a.m.
April 17th
Martin Wheeler had enjoyed the Honda’s responses to the highland roads. The bike really kicked and he had lost himself in the rollercoaster adrenaline experience of a fast bike on empty open roads. The south bound route he took went over a short stretch of the Grampians. The empty mountain scenery flashed by in his peripheral vision. At those speeds, even with a couple of stops he knew he’d be in Glasgow in two or three hours. He pulled the hot bike over, ticking and sizzling in the drizzle, at guest house on the northern shores of Loch Lomond. The cooked breakfast, with Scottish sausage rolls, firm pork patties with a distinctive flavour in heavy rolls, washed down with hot sweet tea, took him a good half hour to enjoy. He felt good and the thrill of being the killer amongst the low chatter and clatter of forks and plates in the rest house dining room brought sharpness to the day and the business in hand. He enjoyed the feeling of being the outsider, the mission man, amongst the everyday people.
Well fed he went back to the bike and his race to the London meeting point. His thought was that it was all too easy. He slipped into traffic on the eighty-two and twisted back his wrist. The bike and the money pulled him south. Dewey’s alert had the motorbike registration listed as a wanted vehicle; stop on sight being the instruction.