Hot Seat (21 page)

‘I can do that.'

I expected to haggle. Maybe Customs did have some special skills. ‘Good.'

Claudia looked towards France, now large on the horizon. ‘We'll be arriving soon. Do you 'ave questions?'

‘So how did you end up working for Her Majesty's government?'

‘There was a joint taskforce between French and British authorities. After the case, Barrington put in a request to borrow me for this operation. I accepted. This investigation will be good for my career.'

‘You want to be France's number one cop?'

‘Or 'igher.'

I grinned. It was so damn hard to dislike Claudia.

A horn blared and an announcement followed telling all passengers to return to their vehicles. We followed the crush of people back down to the car decks. Claudia held the door open to my deck and followed me out. On the car deck, the roar of the ferry's diesel engines was deafening. She escorted me back to my car, where Dylan stood waiting.

‘Where are you parked?'

She pointed to her Peugeot four cars back. I shook my head. I hadn't even noticed her when we'd parked. God, I wasn't the man for Barrington's job, or even Andrew Gates'.

‘Don't let it get to you. You were tired and your mind was on your problems.'

She kissed me on the cheek and walked back to her car. Watching her go, something occurred to me.

I called after her: ‘Is Claudia your real name?'

She turned and shook her head.

‘Then what is it?'

She said something, but I couldn't hear it over the roar of the boat's engines.

Daylight flooded the car deck when the bow doors opened and the roar of dozens of car engines bursting into life filled the air. I guided the car off the ferry, fully aware that a satellite was beaming our position to some nameless, faceless person.

Dylan and I passed through French Customs and passport control without incident and picked up the road heading to Reims. I wound up the speed and found a nice groove that ate away at our arrival time display on the sat nav.

‘You looking to pick up a ticket?' Dylan asked.

‘The faster we get there, the faster we're rid of this car and whatever we're carrying.'

‘Good point. Keep your foot down.'

The French countryside whipped past our windows as we ate up the miles. The weather was cool and overcast, but it didn't ruin the view.

‘So Claudia is an undercover British Customs agent,' Dylan said. ‘I didn't see that coming.'

‘That's the point.'

‘I feel like we're the last ones to laugh at a poorly told joke. Do you think we can trust her?'

‘About as much as anyone at this point.'

‘In other words, we can't. Shit, we're really in a hole.'

But I thought if anyone would throw us a lifeline, it would be Claudia. Barrington cared about the win at any cost and Claudia was ambitious, but I felt she was principled. She wouldn't burn us for the success of the case. I hoped for once that I was reading her correctly.

We raced by places I'd only ever seen on a map, eventually stopping in Reims to refuel. I didn't realize how stiff I'd gotten at the wheel until I got out and I was glad of the decision to bring Dylan with me. I tossed him the keys so he could take over driving duties. He didn't get into the car.

‘You know where we are, don't you?' Dylan said.

‘Reims.'

‘And that means we're a short distance from the old grand prix track. We have to see it.'

‘We're on the clock, if you haven't forgotten.'

‘Mate, I know we're under a lot of thumbs, but when are we going to be out this way again?'

‘I don't know.'

‘There you go then. We're ahead of schedule and we can afford to play tourist. We have to go.'

‘You're forgetting that we're being tracked.'

‘And we're not supposed to know that. We're supposed to be on a jolly. If we don't act like it, then someone is going to suspect us.'

Dylan made a good case. Then again, I got the feeling Dylan was going to make any case he needed to get his way.

‘OK, let's go.'

‘Good man.'

Dylan parked the Honda on the start-finish line and we got out. Not much remained of the historic circuit – just the pits and the grandstand. It wasn't surprising, really. Reims wasn't a traditional racetrack. Triangular in shape, it ran on public roads connecting three villages. It had been home to the French Grand Prix in the fifties and sixties. The circuit had been closed for forty years and the rot had set in. Now it was nothing more than a motor-racing ruin. Stonehenge for racers.

Traffic whipped past us as we wandered through the pits. Not all was lost at Reims. Restoration was in progress. The pits had been cleaned up. Names of old sponsors had been repainted on the control tower and all along the pit garages.

‘I want a picture of this,' Dylan said.

We jogged across the road and climbed the grandstand. I sat while Dylan snapped photos with his mobile.

I watched a lorry disappear into the distance and imagined what it would be like to go barrelling down these narrow French roads. Driving on commercial roads must have been dangerous in its day, but it would be lethal in today's cars that need a mirror-flat surface.

Dylan pocketed his phone and sat next to me.

‘This was a good idea,' I said.

‘I have them from time to time.' He smiled at me, then the smile disappeared. ‘You shouldn't have shut me out. I get why you did it, but you still shouldn't have done it.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.'

‘That's all I needed to hear.'

And it was. I wouldn't have to apologize to him again and he would never raise the subject again. Something bigger than my stupidity had to come between us for it to become a friendship-breaking issue.

‘Do you think drugs is what got Jason killed?'

‘Probably. I do wonder if he was aware of it, though. He could have been following up on this cheating angle and walked into something much worse.'

‘Shit. I'm so glad we've got Customs looking out for us.'

I wasn't so sure.

‘I know I've only been working at Ragged for a week, but I'm having a hard time believing that they're drug traffickers,' Dylan said. ‘Nobody is acting like they're hiding something and no one's excluding me.'

I was having a hard time with it too. Barrington liked to tar everybody with the same brush, which was the easy way out. I pulled out the set of keys that Jason had had on him when he died. ‘Anyone asked for their keys yet?'

‘Not yet, they haven't. I'm keeping my eyes open.'

‘Good.' I checked my watch. ‘C'mon, play time is over.'

We hit the road. We kept talking about our situation without coming up with a solid theory, but the conversation carried us all the way into Strasbourg where we stopped for a fuel and food stop. We'd been on the road six hours since driving off the ferry and the car wasn't the only one in need of fuel. We gassed it up and drove around until we found a restaurant that looked interesting. The menu seemed to have more in common with German cuisine than French. Then again, with the German border in spitting distance, we were in that twilight zone where nationalities blended.

We half-arsed ordering a meal in English and bad French, laughing as we went, but we got what we were after – something filling in the form of
Alsatian Choucroute
. It was a heavy meat and potatoes thing consisting of sausages, sauerkraut and lots of root vegetables which made Dylan very happy. Seeing as I was resuming the driving after our meal, Dylan ordered a beer.

Our clumsy attempt at ordering dinner drew a few odd looks from our fellow diners, but I didn't care. It had been a long time since I'd enjoyed myself. Life had gotten so serious since Alex Fanning's murder at the end of last season. I'd gone from that investigation to testifying in multiple trials, then into the driver shootout, which led to my professional driving contract and the fallout from Jason Gates' murder. The simple act of hanging out with my friend as we drove a car across three countries was something I hadn't gotten to do. In the process of all this seriousness, I'd forgotten how to have fun.

After we'd finished, we walked out to the car park, where everything changed. The fun of the day evaporated in an instant as my stomach clenched and the seriousness returned to my life.

‘Oh, shit,' Dylan said.

He couldn't have summed up the situation any more succinctly. The car was gone.

W
ith Mathieu Schöenberger, the restaurant's owner, acting as interpreter, I reported the car's theft to the police. He poured us free coffee while we waited for the cops to arrive. He was very kind under the circumstances, but I think it had a lot to do with the car being hijacked from his car park. There was nothing for us to do but wait.

‘The police will be here within the hour,' Mathieu said.

I checked my watch. That meant in twenty minutes. ‘Thanks.'

Dylan and I stared at my mobile phone on the table in front of me.

‘You're going to have to call Rags,' Dylan said.

I was clinging to the vain hope that the cops would pick up the car thieves in a blink of an eye and Rags wouldn't have to know. It was a delusion I couldn't commit to with any great faith. I sighed and picked up the phone. I scrolled through my directory and was just about to select Rags' number when I stopped. An alternative hit me.

‘Please let it be so.'

‘What?' Dylan said.

‘Stay here a minute.'

I went outside and punched in Claudia's number. She answered on the second ring.

‘The car's been stolen. Did you do it?'

‘What car? The car you're delivering?'

Claudia sounded genuinely surprised, but I couldn't tell for sure. She'd already proved to be an expert liar. I only had Claudia's word there was a GPS tracker on the car. In fact, she could have been the one who'd planted it. I had no idea who to trust anymore.

‘Yes, the car I'm delivering. The one with the tracker you found today. If you took it, just tell me, because if you didn't, I have to call Rags.'

‘Aidy, I didn't take the car.'

‘Don't lie to me. If the theft is your way of getting some time with the car to check it out, I get it. Just don't keep me in the dark.'

‘Aidy, I swear I'm not lying.'

I could hear the truth in her voice. A flicker of panic singed her words.

‘Shit,' I murmured under my breath.

‘Where are you?' Claudia asked.

‘Strasbourg.'

‘When was the car taken?' Claudia asked.

‘We stopped to eat, so I don't know for sure, but it can't be more than thirty minutes ago. I've called the police.'

‘OK, let me take it from 'ere. I'll get back to you. Stay put for now. Call Rags with the news.'

She hung up on me before I could say anything else and left me out in the cold with an unenviable job to do. I dialled Rags. The phone rang and rang and I thought I was going to receive a stay of execution, but he finally picked up.

‘What is it, boy?' he said, sounding jovial. That wasn't going to last.

‘Rags, the car's been stolen.'

‘What?' The word came out as hard as flint.

‘I stopped to eat and when I came out, the car was gone.'

‘You are fucking joking, right?' Rags' voice rose from a growl to a bark.

‘No. I'm so sorry, Rags. The car was locked and we just stopped for a few minutes. I called the police. Hopefully, they can—'

‘Do you like fucking up?'

‘No, Rags.'

‘Do you like screwing me over?'

‘No.'

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘Well, you do a fucking outstanding job of it. You have a fantastic talent for calamity. I give you the simple job of delivering a car to impress a new sponsor and you turn it into the balls-up of the century. That's a talent. I'm sure the UN could use you in the Middle East, because you'd give all the factions a single source of irritation and take the pressure off the rest of the world.'

I listened to the tirade. There was no point interrupting to apologize. I'd just be pouring petrol on the firestorm. I closed my eyes and let him burn himself out while the evening breeze cooled the heat of my shame.

‘You know what's bad about this, don't you? It isn't the loss of the car, which is a pain in the arse all by itself, but that the car belonged to a new sponsor. First impressions count and this is one impression no one is going to forget in a hurry. Is any of this getting through to you?'

‘Yes, it is.'

Rags was silent for a long moment. All I could hear was his exhausted breathing. When he spoke again, resignation replaced the rage. ‘You really have fucked up this time.'

‘I know.'

‘You're damn lucky you're not here in front of me.'

I thought of Nick Ronson dangling by his duct-taped hands from an engine hoist.

‘I'm going to take care of this mess with the sponsor. You could try and impress me by handling things from where you are.' Rags underlined his point by hanging up.

‘I'm in Strasbourg, by the way,' I said to a dead line.

A police car pulled into the car park. I introduced myself in French and took them into the restaurant. One of the officers spoke pretty good English, certainly better than my French, but Mathieu took over the translating duties and it helped speed up proceedings.

But that all ended when we reached the ownership issue. I didn't need Mathieu to translate the shift in body language from sympathetic to suspicious. I didn't have any documentation on the car since everything I had was in the glove box. Driving from England to Germany to deliver a car to a man I didn't know sounded distinctly suspect. Suddenly, I faced a sticky situation. The cops would have to take it on faith that everything I was telling them was on the up and up. I saw that I was talking myself into another jail cell and this time I was dragging Dylan with me.