by R J Bailey
‘Oops,’ I said to Myles. ‘I forgot I was meant to get petrol. At least, that’s what I hope it looked like.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Really? Is that the best you have?’
Sadly, yes, I was tempted to say. ‘For now. Look, while I am filling up, I want you to fuck up the licence plates with the spray. Change one letter, obscure it, I don’t care. Slide out your side and keep low. The pumps should mask you.’
‘What the fuck is happening?’
‘If we were being followed, it was one of those cars that went by. Now, they are waiting down there.’ I pointed towards the slip road that fed into the autoroute, most of it hidden behind trees. ‘I mean, there’s only one way we can go, isn’t there?’
‘Is there?’ he asked, unsure of the answer.
‘No, there’s not. OK? Let’s go.’
I wasn’t certain we had been tagged – if we had, a pissed-off Moby the bicycle repairman was my best guess – but it always paid to trust your instincts. While I pumped in petrol, Myles altered the number plates. I paid, we got back in the car and I turned to him. ‘Ready?’
He belted up. ‘Ready.’
I pressed on the hazard lights, engaged reverse and reversed out of the in lane. I kept close in to the side, hugging the low bushes. Even so, several drivers flashed me. Some hooted. I just hoped whoever was waiting for us didn’t realise what was going on. But who would expect this?
Once we were out onto the main parking area I carried on, one hand on the wheel, my body half-turned so I could see clearly out of the rear window. And then I floored it. Not enough to cause any wheel spin, but fast enough to get us out of there and, with a twitch of the wheel, down the autoroute slipway the wrong way, heading back onto the motorway into traffic coming straight for us.
I risked a glance at Myles. He had gone pale. Which meant he realised I was planning on driving along the highway the way we had come. Only backwards.
Control and confidence was the key. I’d done this scenario a dozen times when I was on my defensive driving courses. It only works if there is a short distance between the service station and the autoroute intersection. In this case it was about two kilometres. But it was two kilometres full of angry stabs of horns and furious blinking of lights and, I could imagine, outbursts of choice language.
I pressed as close to the barrier as I dared, but the hard shoulder on the ramp was narrower than usual, and so I had to barge the approaching cars aside. I snatched the wheel to avoid a lorry that wasn’t minded to get out of my way, running up his inside. The enormous wheel arch loomed large in the passenger window, snagged the wing mirror and tore it off with a short, sharp screech. Myles swore. I corrected the car and kept going, onto the autoroute proper.
By now I was sure a CCTV operator was staring at his screen, wondering if he was seeing this correctly. This is the footage that would be on YouTube: ‘Watch Deranged Woman REVERSE down French Motorway at HIGH SPEED’. But I was hoping the obscured number plate might throw them. And that there were no cops hungry for an arrest within hailing distance to stop me.
‘Nearly there,’ I said, yanking the wheel so that we powered up onto the ‘on’ ramp and up towards the roundabout of the intersection. He didn’t respond. Another quick look across at him confirmed he had his eyes shut. I couldn’t blame him.
The cabin filled with the lights of another truck, followed by the blast of an air horn that sounded like the Titanic was bearing down on us. And we were no iceberg.
Another spin of the wheel and he was gliding by us, but I could feel the back end of the Renault breaking away. The last thump of his slipstream was all it needed to spin us round. The boot caught the barrier and we lost a tail light in a flurry of red plastic. The car began to slow. As it squeaked to a halt along the Armco, I engaged drive and gunned the engine. The front wheels juddered alarmingly, several dash lights flashed at me, but finally I had grip and forward momentum. Now we were going the right way, but still against the flow of traffic. I put the headlamps to full beam and leaned on and off my horn to create an urgent honking sound. I reckoned they’d assume I was a cop coming at them. Who else would be stupid enough to do this?
At the top of the ramp, I barged a Citroen out of the way with a gentle nudge and fishtailed into the flow of traffic on the roundabout, finally pointing in the right direction. I saw the sign for the turning I needed to take, towards Villefranque, and steered us onto that road in as sedate a manner as I could. I flicked off the high beam. Swallowed. Took a breath. Turned to Myles.
‘There,’ I said to him. ‘That wasn’t so difficult was it?’
I pulled over so we could change drivers once we had passed Villefranque and I was certain we hadn’t picked up any outraged traffic police. I gave the car a walk-around before I got back in. Apart from the missing mirror, the cracked taillight, a big ding in the boot and a smaller dent in the offside wing, we were OK. The Megane wouldn’t be winning any concourse shows, but it was driveable. And me? My heart was still running a little fast, but that was to be expected, given the amount of adrenaline that must have been dumped in my bloodstream. I felt a flare of craving for a cigarette, but ignored it. This was no time for relaxing and blowing smoke rings.
I used the phone’s torch to check under the wheel arches, in case we had picked up a tracker. There was nothing untoward under there. But I was pretty sure someone had been at that service station, eyeing us up. But who? And how?
Eventually I put those questions out of my mind. It was no good worrying at them when no answer would be forthcoming. I had to concentrate on things I could control. Getting to Freddie, for example.
Finally, I used a pair of fabric gloves – intended for tyre-changing duties and the like – from the boot to wipe the still-wet spray paint off the licence plates.
‘OK, all good. Can you manage without the door mirror?’ I asked Myles as I settled into the passenger seat.
‘I guess,’ he said. ‘As long as you can promise we’ll only be going forward from now on.’
‘I’ll try my best. Can’t say for sure.’
He made a noisy swallow. He was obviously short of saliva after that little jaunt. ‘I’m starting to think weird doesn’t even begin to cover it with you.’
‘Look, this is all about finding your mother. By any means possible. I didn’t do that for fun. We should be OK now, because I doubt anybody followed us up the off ramp.’
‘Me too. There can’t be two people that fuckin’ mad.’
‘That’s what I am counting on. You’re taking a right at the next junction.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The road became narrow and darker as we doglegged onto minor routes. Dusk was definitely nudging into night. He switched back to full beam. He was driving confidently and surprisingly well. I laid the phone on my lap and the plastic Rapha bag with the guns at my feet.
‘When you said your mother was paranoid, what did you mean?’
‘When?’
‘In Rennes. When we picked up the guns.’
‘Ah, just sayin’. When I was growing up, after my dad died, she parked me with my aunt and moved around a lot. Even changed names every few years. She said that there were always people out to take everything away from us.’
‘It doesn’t sound very relaxing.’
‘You don’t notice as a kid. It was only when I went to college that I realised I’d had a weird childhood. Nice drive.’ He stabbed at the throttle and we went into a bend fast enough to make both me and the car’s body lean. He came out of it flat and smoothly.
‘Keep it down. Country cops love city boys who are speeding through their villages.’
‘OK. Just seeing what she can do.’
‘Just stick to whatever I say. OK?’
‘Yes, chief.’ He was silent for a minute. ‘And then, I remember, once she came to see me and was very upset. She told me an uncle I never knew I had had died. Uncle Ronnie Corrigan.’
‘Died how?’
‘Well, I only found this out later. On the internet. But he had been murdered. Shot in the head.’
I didn’t speak for a while. I was too busy trying to build some kind of coherent picture from the scraps I had. But this jigsaw had too many missing pieces.
‘You think Konrad might have something to do with that?’ asked Myles eventually.
‘I don’t know. People bear grudges for a long time. I have this friend . . .’
I let it tail off.
‘Go on,’ he prompted. ‘Or I’ll put the radio on again.’ We’d already tried French pop music. It was an underhand threat to subject me to it again.
So I told the story of Tom Buchan again, and the Albanian gangster he had let live in Kosovo, who was now out to avenge his family.
‘Wow, it’s just like Saving Private Ryan.’ That again.
‘Really? I missed the part with the amphibious landing and the slaughter on the beach in my version.’
‘Nah. Doesn’t Tom Hanks let a German prisoner go who comes back and bites his ass?’
‘Missed that, too.’
‘You know what I mean. The German ends up shooting Tom Hanks. If he hadn’t let him go earlier in the movie . . .’ He shrugged.
I said nothing. Was he saying Tom and Paul should have executed the Albanian lad? I didn’t want to think too hard about the morality of that. Nor the film, because Konrad had said he worked on that movie. Which George Konrad had, according to Nina. But Konrad was dead. The man I knew as George Konrad had borrowed his identity and chunks of his biography, although the imposter was clearly younger than the real thing.
How had he got past the Colonel? More to the point, how had he got past me? And there was still the enigma of the woman. Where had she come from?
‘When we were at the chateau, did you see anyone else?’ I asked. ‘Another person?’
‘Other than?’
‘You, me, Konrad and your mother.’
‘The guys who came to change the tyres. I saw them out of the window.’
‘No woman?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I recall. Why?’
‘We think he has a woman with him. Konrad. An accomplice in all this. Whatever this is.’
‘News to me.’
The road began to climb towards the stars that were coming out. The houses strung along the way seemed to melt away into a darkness pierced only by the odd porch light. The headlamps grew brighter, stronger, picking out the deep black of smooth new tarmac in front of us. We passed through a small community apparently denuded of inhabitants except for one hole-in-the-wall bar. Myles slowed as if we were taking a look at it. The yellow and brown interior seemed inviting enough. Maybe we should just pull in and . . .
‘OK, let’s go,’ I said, killing the temptation. We picked up speed as we left the village, our route now hemmed in by drystone walls that were designed to stop the twisted trees beyond marching into our path. Or at least, they looked as if they were capable of ambulation in that last glimmer of twilight that often gives forest the look of ancient giants.
I texted Freddie and told her we had less than an hour to run.
No change, she came back. Three pax. Two well dressed.
It wasn’t a sartorial comment. It meant that two of three were armed, the third being the hostage or prisoner or whatever Mrs Irwin was.
I reached down and checked each of Moby’s Sigs again, just to be on the safe side.
I laughed at that thought. If it came to a gunfight, there wasn’t going to be a safe side.
I am wearing my best bib and tucker, too, I texted. And I have some spare clothes for you.
Good, because I am feeling very underdressed, Buster.
I left it at that. At least she knew I was coming tooled up.
The road began to snake as well as steepen now and the auto box had to work harder, hunting for the right gear. To our left, the stone walls gave way to rough-hewn cliffs, netting, and signs warning of the dangers of rockfall. A light rain started as we gained altitude and Myles, after a little fumbling, found the wipers. In the minutes and hours before something like this, I always thought the same thing: What the fuck am I doing here?
Why aren’t I at home, sitting up in bed with Jess, watching inappropriate TV and scoffing on funsize Mars Bars?
Because you haven’t got a daughter, remember? You are here for her.
Yeah, thanks for that.
I checked the map. We were travelling through one of the lower passes towards Spain. The border, I hoped, would be just a line on the map. It might not be. This would be one crossing easy to police.
Spanish lorries appeared, coming down the hillside towards us, buffeting the car as they passed in a flare of headlights and a rush of impatient wind.
‘You nervous?’ Myles asked.
‘About?’
‘This Konrad. He’s a professional gunman. And he’s got a sidekick now. You really going to try and free my mom?’
‘You got any better ideas? Call the cops, maybe?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘We’ll play it by ear, OK? Do me a favour. Shut up and drive.’
It came out harsher than I intended. I guess I was a little rattled, after all. And irritated that the kid was right. I was going up against someone who did all this on a regular basis. I was a PPO. My job was to stop it getting this far. By those lights, I had failed. Just like I had failed Jess.
I texted Freddie some more, but the answers were terse now. Yes. No. Get here asap.
After thirty minutes I said, ‘Left here. Looks like her car is about a mile ahead.’
There were no lights on the hillsides, they simply rolled on upwards in a series of dark humps towards a row of jagged peaks, some glowing faintly with late snow. The road we turned onto wasn’t much more than a stony path, one car wide in places. But it didn’t look like it saw a lot of traffic.
The rain grew heavier. The wipers squeaked. Clouds had obscured some of the stars. The night was beginning to match my mood.
‘Right here. Slowly. And keep it down.’
We saw the reflectors of Freddie’s hire car ahead. A BMW. I didn’t have to tell Myles to slow. He pulled in behind her in the little passing space and killed the engine.
I saw Freddie exit the car, hood up against the rain. She skipped around to my side and I opened the door.
‘Hey—’
‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’ The accent was thick, Irish. The tone was aggressive. The gun steady, pointing right between my eyes.
One thing was certain. This wasn’t Freddie.
THIRTY-ONE
Saturday
FUCK FUCK FUCK. It is Saturday, now, just after midnight. Matt and Sarah are away for their ‘mini-break’ and Aja came but she had to go again. Someone phoned her – a man I think – and she said whatever it was was too good an opportunity to miss. She told me just to watch TV, which I did, and that someone would come and check on me. Maybe Putu. That would be good I said. I liked Putu.
But it was DIETER who turned up. And he is well drunk. He’s more than drunk. He chopped out a bloody big line of cocaine on our table, did about two thirds of it and asked if I wanted to try the rest.
Nooooo, I said. I’m good. So he did it. All.
I am in my bedroom now and I can hear him stomping about. He’s calling my name. I think he’s pissed off because Aja has gone off to see another man. A rich c--- Dieter calls him. He says Aja is a kupa kupa malam. He’s also mad at Matt, saying he has ruined the business. Dick-for-brains he called him.
He’s phoned that Theo from the boat and asked him if he wants to come over to the house to party. That they might as well finish up the stock as they can’t sell it. So I was right about the pizza business.
I told him my dad wouldn’t like that, but he didn’t answer, just made a funny noise.
I’ve just tried Dad but he isn’t picking up and I can’t remember the name of the hotel Sarah said they were going to. I left a voicemail but h
e never listens to that and I’ve sent a text. But he probably won’t see that till the morning. He never looks at his phone before ten. I could call the police but that one from the bar might turn up. I even tried Mum, but the old number seems to be dead. How could she do that?
If anyone finds this, then it was DIETER who was here. I am going back out to try and calm him down. Just in case, if anyone is reading this:
DIETER DID IT!!!!!!!!!!!
THIRTY-TWO
Basque Country, Spain
‘You know those scenes in the movies where they jump the gunman?’ I said to Myles quietly. ‘Well, it doesn’t work like that in real life. You end up shot. And most likely dead. Just do as she says, very slowly.’
‘You too,’ said the woman, taking a pace back. ‘Take your own advice. Very slow. Get out. Keep your fuckin’ hands where I can see them.’
Myles leaned over to take a look at her as I levered myself out of the passenger side. ‘What the fuck—?’
‘Quiet,’ I said to him, before she could.
I did as I was told, into a slanting rain that made me shiver. At least, I think it was the rain. She didn’t take her eyes off me, figuring I was more of a threat than the kid. It was what I would have done.
‘Where’s Freddie?’ I asked the woman.
‘Your friend? Ah, she’s been gone a while now. Not as good as she thought she was, that one.’
I closed my eyes for a second as the use of the past tense sank in. Colours swirled behind my eyelids and a strange whistling started up in one ear. My brain was cooking. It had just appreciated that, for at least some of the time on the road – probably since the last time she called me Buster – I’d been texting this woman with the crazy eyes staring out from beneath the hood. Hence the brevity of her answers on the phone. And Freddie? Oh, God, no. My world slipped off its axis for a second and I made a monumental effort to pull it back. Jesus, I’m sorry, Freddie. You’ll forgive me if I wait a while to mourn you.
‘Tsk, tsk. You thought we wouldn’t spot her? Trying to tail with a single car. I’m surprised at you, Sam, a woman of your experience.’
I turned to see Konrad coming out of the gloom, boots crunching on gravel, better dressed for the weather than either me or Myles, who had now exited the vehicle and was hoisting up those low-slung jeans. Konrad had on a Belstaff jacket and thick trousers, with hiking boots. He moved with a slight stiffness, no doubt because of that self-inflicted gunshot. I had to give him some grudging respect for that. It sounds easy on paper, but once you have seen what a bullet can do, it isn’t easy to pull that trigger against your own skin and bone.
