Quick (31 page)

Ooh, did I graze it with the rear left?

Then flat chat onto the start-finish straight.

Fuck.

He lets the car run, takes the short moment of rest to gather his thoughts. He is exhausted, his left leg numb and trembling, his still-blistered hands stinging inside his gloves, his back wet with perspiration—and he couldn’t be happier. Then it strikes him, something he’d not considered before this moment: maybe that old bastard Dieter was right.

Maybe I am quick.

He immediately checks himself. He’s only completed one lap so he’s not going to get carried away. The last time he did that he rolled a Holden Commodore eighteen times and they seriously considered amputating his legs.

Thorne’s voice buzzes over his radio: ‘Okay, not bad for an out lap, now let’s see what you can do on a flyer.’

‘Cool beans.’ Billy crosses the start line and begins again.

~ * ~

21

The ice bath in the Iron Rhino motorhome is excruciatingly cold. The Australian slowly lowers himself into the metal tub and hopes the freezing water will soothe his left thigh muscle, if just a little.

He takes a breath and reflects on the past few days. He drove one hundred and forty-seven laps over the three practice sessions, which well and truly made him eligible for a Super Licence. He then drove another ten laps in qualifying. Overall, he spent three hours on track, but after all of that time and effort he’s only just starting to understand the Iron Rhino car. As far as unlocking its full potential, well, these machines have so many variables, can be tuned in so many ways, everything from wing angles to suspension height to tyre pressure, that he may never find the perfect set-up.

He dials his iPhone. It rings and is picked up.

‘
Oui
?’ It’s Claude. There’s a lot of background noise.

‘Where are you?’

‘On the road.’

‘Why?’

‘After qualifying Juan headed across the Alps. I’m following him.’

‘Righto. He’s not on the way to get some more frozen yoghurt, is he?’

‘Ha ha. He’s been driving for about fifteen minutes. I’ll let you know when I’m heading back.’

‘Then I’ll take over.’

‘You sure will. I’m sick to death of this dork.’

They hang up. It’s true, with the amount of work involved with practice and qualifying, the Frenchman has been doing more than his fair share on the case. Billy has been doing nights, but that’s easy because the guy’s been asleep. The Australian would take over tonight at the ball, which all the drivers attend.

The ice water seems to be numbing the pain in his thigh, thankfully. It better, because he’ll be spending another seventy-eight laps in the car during the race tomorrow.

‘You look terrible.’

Billy turns, sees Dieter at the doorway. ‘And yet it’s so much better than how I feel.’

The old German approaches as a wide smile breaks across his face.

‘What?’

‘What do you mean “what?” Fifth. You qualified
fifth.’

‘Yeah, fourth loser.’ Billy’s not impressed with the position.

‘That’s the first time we’ve been in the top ten in —’ He makes a quick mental calculation, ‘eighteen,
nineteen
months!’

‘I know but —’

‘You’re telling me that five days ago, on my plane, if I had said you’d be
fifth
in qualifying at Monaco, behind only the Red Bulls, the Ferraris and a Merc, that you wouldn’t have been happy?’

Billy nods. ‘Sure, but now I know there’s more there.’

‘Bloody drivers. Never happy.’

They turn to see Thorne enter, a grin on his face too. Billy knows the Brit is right. Unless you have just set a lap record while winning a race that wrapped up the world championship, you are always dissatisfied as driver. Or at least you should be. You want more, always more, from the car, from the team, from yourself.

Thorne approaches. ‘That was just, well,
stonking
.’ He extends a hand.

Billy shakes it, knows that from a Brit ‘stonking’ is high praise indeed. ‘I gotta say I’m loving that attitude.’

‘You win that race tomorrow and I’ll be happy to adjust it anyway you want.’

They share a smile. Billy thinks about going for the open fly joke again but decides against it, doesn’t want to embarrass the guy in front of his boss. He quite likes Thorne now, knows that without this Englishman he wouldn’t know how to drive the car he’s starting in the Grand Prix tomorrow.

Starting in the Grand Prix tomorrow.

It’s a difficult concept to comprehend. He should be thrilled, pretty well every racing driver on the planet would want this opportunity, and yet he feels like he has a foot in two camps. He just hopes he’s not short-changing the Three Champions investigation by lumping so much responsibility on Claude. Then again the Frenchman’s skills are rusty so maybe this is what he needs to get his mojo back. At least that’s what Billy tells himself so he doesn’t feel guilty.

~ * ~

Juan’s silver BMW sedan is about a hundred and fifty metres ahead on the two-lane road that winds across the lushly wooded area of the Alpes-Maritimes.

Oh, there he goes.

Juan turns up a narrow single-lane roadway to the left. Claude accelerates his Iron Rhino courtesy car and makes the turn as well, the Renault’s front wheels scrabbling for traction on the rough gravel surface. It’s a sunny afternoon but the surrounding forest is so tall and thick that it cloaks the road in a dappled gloom.

Claude knows that he’s been bitching and moaning to Billy about the amount of work he’s had to do since they arrived in Monaco, but, really, he’s fine with it. He loves the hunt, even if the target is a dullard like Juan, and he can only think that doing it will help him get his groove back. The strangest thing is that even though he’s happy to work alone, he does miss the Australian’s company. A little.

Claude follows the BMW as it snakes along the winding back road, always stays a good hundred metres behind and, he hopes, out of sight. ‘Where are you going, you boring little man?’

Claude learns the answer soon enough. The Bimmer turns right into a driveway, then disappears from view behind a stand of trees. Claude slows the hatchback and pulls it to a stop by the side of the road, parks it behind the largest shrub he can find, which does a passable job of concealing it, grabs his small pair of Nikon binoculars from the passenger seat and steps into the forest.

He moves stealthily and within a minute reaches the edge of the tree line close to the driveway the BMW turned down. He takes up a kneeling position behind the trunk of a wide tree, a waist-high bush at its base providing him with cover.

To the far right, about a football field away, he glimpses a modest, rustic farmhouse. To its right is a small barn, to its left a field, long ago cleared of trees and now covered with lush, verdant grass, where a handful of sheep graze. The field is narrow but long and stretches as far as Claude can see, surrounded by forest on both sides.

The silver BMW has pulled up beside the farmhouse and Juan is out of the car. Claude pushes the binoculars to his eyes and sees an older, grey-haired gentleman, who uses a cane to walk, exit the farmhouse’s front door. He raises the cane slightly in a welcoming gesture and the two men shake hands in the middle of the driveway.

Juan points to the field and the old man nods in agreement. Then the Spaniard draws something from his pocket and passes it over. Claude focuses on it with the binos. It’s an envelope. The old man opens it and looks inside. Claude can’t see its contents but they clearly delight the old man because he grins widely.

What’s the bet he’s just been handed a big wad of cashola.

But what for?

Juan turns and looks in Claude’s direction.

‘Merde
.’ The Frenchman freezes. He knows he’s well camouflaged, as long as he doesn’t move, but it still gives him a fright.

Juan turns back to the old man, bids him adieu, then returns to his Bimmer.

Claude pivots and runs hard, threads his way through the trees like he’s going for gold. He reaches the Renault, slides in, cranks it to life, pulls a one-eighty onto the gravel roadway and guns it back the way he came. His plan is simple. Stay ahead of Juan, rejoin the main road, find another turn-off, wait for the BMW to pass by, then head back to the old man’s farm to see what’s what. He would prefer to just wait by the tree but he’s sure his car is visible from the road and he can’t risk Juan seeing it.

Is the Australian right?

Is Juan and his Monaco tattoo really the key to solving this case? Claude reaches across to the passenger seat and snags his iPhone to call Billy and tell him about the latest development —

Wham.
The Renault shudders, hit hard from the rear.

‘What the hell?’ The car jolts sideways, slides across the loose gravel and drops a wheel off the edge of the roadway.

‘Baise!
’ Claude works the steering wheel but can’t catch it. He stamps on the brakes but it’s too late. The Renault slips off the road —

Whump.
It ploughs into the tree line —

Thwump.
And stops dead.

~ * ~

Claude’s eyes flutter open.

So much for getting his groove back. He did not see that coming. Dazed, he looks up at swaying leaves through a shattered windshield. The way the dappled light plays off the smoke is very atmospheric.

Smoke? Why is there smoke?

A long, thin tendril drifts past his face. Then another. He can smell it now, and petrol too.

Crunch crunch crunch.
Someone strides through the forest towards his vehicle. What’s the bet they’re not coming to help —

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
Bullets strafe the vehicle.

Claude feels one brush past his leg.
Merde.
He hates it when he’s right. He needs to get out of here now. He works the door handle, quietly eases it open, rolls out and drops to the leaf-covered ground. He feels stiff but doesn’t seem to have any pain.

Crunch crunch crunch.
He can’t see the person but he can hear their footfalls as they move closer. He searches for a place to take cover.

There.
A large tree, to the right, five metres away. He crawls towards it as fast as he can, teeth gritted, hoping whoever is crunching towards the car doesn’t catch sight of him through the undergrowth.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
Another volley of bullets thump into the vehicle.

Christ, whoever it is really wants me dead.

Claude reaches the tree. On the opposite side is a deep indentation where two of its roots join the trunk. He slides into the space. It provides him with a small amount of cover.

Crunch crunch crunch.
The person is close now. Slowly, quietly Claude draws the X26c Taser from his holster. He looks at it and unhappily realises the Australian is right: he brought a cattle prod to a gunfight.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
Another volley of bullets strafe the vehicle.

Claude loops his finger around the taser’s trigger.

Crackling. It can only mean one thing. The car is alight. This is confirmed by the thick, acrid smoke that drifts across the Frenchman’s sightline. It quickly reduces visibility to a couple of feet.

Crunch crunch crunch.
The person moves closer.

Claude raises the taser, his finger tight on the trigger, searches the haze —

Crunch crunch crunch.
The person moves even closer.

Claude still can’t see anyone. He squeezes the trigger and holds his breath.

He waits.

Crunch crunch crunch.
The person moves away.

The Frenchman exhales, relieved. His finger loosens on the trigger.

A moment passes.

The smoke clears slightly.

Crunch crunch crunch.
A dark figure looms through the haze and rushes towards him.

Claude recoils in terror. ‘Oh
merde!’
He raises the taser and pulls the trigger.

~ * ~

22

‘Pfft,
leave a message if you must.’

Billy listens to Claude’s curt voicemail message then hangs up. ‘Where is that bloody Frenchman?’ He was meant to call. Did something happen while he was following Juan-in-a-million or is his mobile phone just out of range?

Dressed in an elegant black suit, complete with bow tie, the ensemble a surprise gift from Dieter, Billy stands off to one side near the start of the red carpet. The who’s who of the motor racing world, plus a smattering of movie stars, he’s almost certain that’s Ryan Reynolds, and pop stars, is that Katy Perry?, are here and travel the long, crimson lane towards the front steps of the Prince’s Palace and the annual La Dolce Vita Ball within.

The palace is really something. A sleek, wide, low-slung building that resembles a fortress, it’s lit up with hundreds of perfectly positioned lights that illuminate its boxy, cream facade against the tangerine sky of the setting sun.