by D J Harrison
At the motorway roundabout I have my doubts that I’ll be able to drive fast enough for it to be a good choice but I take it anyway. The motorway is the only road likely to have other traffic for me to blend into.
Opening all the windows seems to help a little. That horrible booming noise is reduced. My hair is in rats’ tails, whipping around my face, damaging me, hurting me. Apart from the odd lorry and occasional car there is nothing on the road. I have half a tank of fuel, can manage to keep up an eye-watering fifty-five miles per hour and now have several sets of headlights behind me.
As one draws close then pulls alongside, I glance fearfully to my right: one man, eyes forward, mobile phone to his ear, oblivious of me, of everything around him. I wonder who he’s talking to at this hour and breathe again, waiting for the next candidate to whoosh alongside – this time with a leer and a weapon.
The services are one mile ahead. It’s fully light now and I need to stop to pee, to get some respite from the hurricane blast. I have no idea if they’re still following me. It’s such a relief to stop, to get out of the freezing wind. I’m so cold I can hardly open the car door. My legs are shaking when I try to stand.
It’s warm inside the building where a thin trickle of clientele shuffles wearily about, zombified by the early hour. The mirror in the toilets reveals a scared witch with a red face and streaming eyes. My efforts to repair the damage are feeble and ineffective. I leave the washroom almost as dishevelled as I entered it. I am cold, tired, hungry, scared for my life. When I think about Gary I’m filled with a desperate sadness that makes me feel like throwing up. The need to flee is uppermost in my mind. I know I have to keep moving, that they’ll get me if I don’t, but my body is incapable of complying with this imperative and curls up on a settee in the coffee shop and defiantly falls asleep.
****
Something touches my nose, first softly then harder. I open my eyes to see a plastic doll with unfeasibly large eyes in its tiny head. The little girl pushes it into my forehead. I sit up, brushing it aside with my hand. Seemingly satisfied with this, she bounces the doll’s plastic feet across the table, lost in some fantasy where all this has meaning and life.
The place is horribly busy now. A long queue has formed for coffee and people vie for tables in the seating area. It’s a wonder nobody has turfed me off my comfortable spot. The child’s mother sits opposite, wrestling with a small baby, while her toddler runs amok with her intrusive doll. My heart leaps with hope when I fish out my phone and see a message from Gary.
“Stay away” it reads, timed at 5.07 a.m. It’s now 10.40 and I should have stopped the car and looked at it the moment it arrived. If I had, all this would have been prevented. Gary would be alive and I wouldn’t be running for my life. It’s all my fault. Why do I have to be like this? Why do I cause so much pain?
My depression overwhelms me again. I feel like curling up into my protective ball and letting the world do its worst.
When I call the house it rings and rings, nobody answers – not Doreen, not Siobhan, not Sally, not Sophie, not Sean. No Gary. The tightness in my stomach is despair; the discomfort is unaffected even when I feed myself a welcome sandwich and drink a giant coffee-flavoured milky froth.
The little girl has stripped all the clothes from her doll, whose legs are twice the length of her trunk and which has no signs of sexuality apart from large nipple-less breasts that stand proud only just below shoulder height. There is something comforting in the way the girl is berating the doll, telling it off in no uncertain terms and poking it with her little finger; serves her right for being a fraudulent impostor like me.
The urge to flee is overwhelming my stupor. Anxiety is building up on a monstrous scale. I expect rough hands to detain me at any moment. I scan the crowds filing into the place, wondering if any are looking for me. My car is a problem. I can’t face another mile of wind-lashed agony. The little girl, bored with punishing her fake friend, starts rooting through her mother’s handbag, a fat brown leather affair sitting plumply in the centre of the table surrounded by white crockery and small items of clothing.
The mother is occupied jamming a dribbling teat at the baby’s mouth, trying to soothe its fretfulness. A bunch of keys appears and is discarded onto the table, followed by a small pack of tissues and a fat purse bulging with cash. A black tube of lipstick is clutched triumphantly, its top wrestled loose and the bright pink stick revealed. The little girl starts smearing it on her face, a large stripe from nose to ear. Her mother looks up from gazing into the baby’s eyes and jolts the infant into crying mode again as she reaches out to restrain the little girl. The table rocks, the handbag slides towards me, pushing the keys in front of it. As the mother wipes away at the child’s face, I pick up the keys and walk away.
Outside the day is ridiculously bright, but not warm enough for a seventy mile an hour wind to be refreshing. My car is no longer sat in isolation. Cars are parked everywhere around it. A lone policeman stands peering into it as if curious to learn more. The mother’s key fob is in my pocket. I press the button as I walk, watching for a reaction. The red Audi A4 has a child seat in the back, a baby seat in the front and is strewn with tissues, wipes, drink cartons, crisp packets, blankets, coats, toys and plastic bags. It has a windscreen without any bullet holes. It is warm and comfortable. My guilt level reduces steadily as I speed southwards. There are more inhospitable places to be marooned than a motorway services. She and her children will be fed, watered and toileted in reasonable comfort until rescue. I would gladly swap places with her, exchange her plight for mine.
64
Finally Mick answers his mobile. ‘Jenny, are you okay?’
‘I’m alive, if that’s what you mean by okay. Gary was shot. I ran away. Is he dead?’
‘No, but he’s in a bad way. The hospital isn’t saying much, but we’re all worried for him.’
‘What about Doreen, the kids – are they all right?’
‘Yes, all okay. Obviously shaken up and scared and such but uninjured.’
‘Are the police looking for me?’
There is a pause before Mick answers.
‘No, why should they?’
‘Well, it was me they were trying to kill, it was me caused it all, got Gary shot.’
‘The police are treating it as burglary; they assume they were after Gary’s money. Nobody’s mentioned you as far as I know.’
‘I stole a car.’
‘You should be used to driving stolen cars by now …’ Mick laughs.
‘No, I’m serious. I took it off a woman at Stafford services. Will the police be watching out for me everywhere?’
‘I doubt that, not unless you shot the woman dead when you stole it.’
‘What about cameras?’
‘They do you for speeding. If you drive too fast they’ll send three points and a fine to the poor woman – add insult to injury.’ He is laughing now. I feel amazed that anyone can find humour in this desperate situation. My spirits are lifting slightly, even though the humour is directed at me.
‘It’s all right for you to laugh,’ I say, ‘you’re not the one being hunted by armed thugs.’
‘We’ll protect you, come back up north, we’ll get it sorted out.’
‘Soon. There are things I need to do down here. Keep me posted, Mick. Give my love to Doreen and the kids. Tell her I’m praying for Gary.’
When Mick hangs up an empty hole opens inside me and I am swamped by grief. I need to stop this self-pity, this collapsing into what-ifs and what-might-have-beens – of feeling that I don’t deserve this pain. I do deserve it and more. Everything bad that happens is a direct result of my own inadequacy. Admit it, move on – that’s what I need to do.
The hotel receptionist looks at my crumpled state, contrasts this with the shiny new suitcase. If he looked inside it he would find everything still had a price tag attached and become even more suspicious. After clucking and staring at his computer for a long time, he finally announce
s that I can have a room for the night. It’s as if he is granting me a big personal favour. His name tag says “Jean Phillipe” and I hope he has a bad day.
‘Only one night, we’re fully booked after tonight. It’s the motor racing at Silverstone, we’re very busy. Only one night, is that agreeable?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s all I need. Do you have internet access and a computer I can use?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, ‘over there in the lobby, compliments of the house, free of charge.’
‘Printing?’
‘Certainly, madam, but we make a small charge of five pence per page – to cover costs, you understand.’
****
I am amazed at what Chris has done with the information we gathered. It’s all there, up on the cloud, so he assures me. All I have to do is log in to the dropbox he created. The lobby is completely empty, even the reception desk is unmanned. Four in the morning is a good time to work undisturbed, even in a public place. Twelve hours’ sleep is what dictated my schedule.
Two hours’ work, £20 to the night porter for the use of the printer, and I’m done. What I have is a fat envelope containing everything Giuseppe Casagrande does not want to see. All I have to do now is make sure he sees it.
The Audi is parked in a field with several thousand other cars to keep it company. I have no intention of returning to it, and have no regrets about leaving it where it is. Once the motor racing is finished and everyone has gone home, a solitary red car will remain. There should be a quick return to its rightful owner. I consider putting it through a car wash and filling it up with petrol as some small compensation for the trouble I’ve caused, but I need it to look like it was stolen by joyriders and dumped at the motor race. A really bright policeman might even conclude that the same vagabonds who trashed my Corsa were probably the ones who stole the A4. As long as I don’t have to meet the owner again things should be fine. According to Mick, car crime is so commonplace as to be almost ignored by the authorities. He reckons little or no investigation will be carried out.
It’s one of those rare British summer days: 25˚C, sunshine, clear blue skies, gentle breeze occasionally wafting the heat away. The world, his wife and all their progeny are descending on Silverstone. I am joining this throng but feel none of the fun and excitement that animates them. The smells of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume and burgers frying in old fat fill my nostrils. As I stand in line to buy an entry ticket I marvel at the amazing variety of paraphernalia being worn and carried by the heaving masses around me. There are even flags with cars’ names on them so that people can wave them as they pass, I presume.
I ask the family behind me if they have heard of Crugnolla Racing. The father has a huge T-shirt with “Aston Martin” emblazoned on the chest. I’m amazed they make them this big. His wife and children are mere moons orbiting around his vast planet.
‘Oh yes, they’re leading the championship. We aren’t far behind though. When we win this weekend, we’ll be in with a chance ourselves.’
‘Where will I find them? I have to speak to their owner, you see.’
‘Get a paddock pass. They’ll be in there. Look out for the blue and black Lamborghinis. That’s what they run.’
****
Sure enough, there they are, in a massive tent. Proudly unattended, protected only by a thin tape stretched across the front of the awning. Beside the racing cars, which look smaller than I expected, is a big grey motorhome. Unlike the rest of the rubberneckers, I don’t feel constrained by the flimsy protective device and push myself into the tent, walk past the cars and bang on the motorhome door.
The young man with a slightly irritated expression on his baby face is peering down at me from his elevated position inside the huge pantechnicon.
‘Casagrande!’ I demand. ‘Giuseppe Casagrande, I’m here to see him.’
He’s wearing an all-in-one suit peeled down to his middle with the arms tied around his waist. Underneath, he has a white vest with long sleeves and roll-neck – hardly suitable attire for a hot day like this, no wonder he looks flustered. He throws anxious looks at the crowd which has swelled in number and become much more animated at his appearance. A few of them are shouting ‘Pedro, Pedro,’ and waving autograph books.
‘He’s not here.’
He has to be here, it’s my big chance, maybe my only chance.
‘He said to meet him here,’ I insist.
‘You’re in the wrong place. He’s at the hospitality tent.’ Pedro waves his arms as he gives me directions. ‘Did he give you a pass?’ I shake my head and he disappears inside for a moment and then comes back with a bright orange plastic strip. ‘Put this on your wrist. He should have sent you one; you can’t get in without it.’
The hospitality tent is the size of a large mansion and has aluminium decking at the front of it that accommodates four gleaming sports cars – one yellow, one red, one black and one white. I presume these are road-going versions of the tiny racing cars. When the smiling girl sees my wristband she gives me a sheaf of paperwork, including a race programme and photos of the cars and drivers.
Pedro’s face looks much more relaxed as it smiles back at me from one of the cards. Inside the vast tent there is a ballroom-sized area with dozens of tables occupied by eaters and drinkers bedecked in a variety of brightly coloured race wear complete with sponsors’ logos. Along one wall a sumptuous buffet is laid out. A long queue is filing past it, filling plates. Behind the bar, pretty girls in white pinafore dresses squirt lager into stemmed glasses and scrape off the froth with a plastic spatula.
I scan every table for Casagrande, but in vain. I stare at everyone in turn again in case I missed him the first time, but still have no success. My elation at getting this far is waning, my doubts are returning to slow me down to a pathetic crawl. There are two areas cordoned off at the far side, one marked “Press”, the adjacent one “VIP”. Casagrande emerges from a doorway at the rear of the VIP area. My breath catches in my chest, refusing to be expelled until I force it out, then I have to consciously breathe in and out, in and out, as I walk towards him.
‘I’m Jenny Parker, you must remember me,’ I say.
He nods but shows no emotion or sign of interest at first, then his face transforms gradually, his uncertainty changes into recognition and his mask of bonhomie reappears.
‘Ah yes, of course, how charming it is to see you again, and after so long.’ The smile is full and beaming, the voice bright and animated, but his eyes tell me exactly how little he is enjoying my sudden appearance.
‘We need to talk,’ I say. ‘This whole thing is about to collapse around your head.’ He looks up at the tent fabric gently flexing and moving in the wind. It’s as if he’s taking me literally for a moment.
Two men in full Lamborghini livery come up beside me and begin to speak volubly in Italian, arms waving wildly as if they’re ready for a fight. Casagrande stills them with a raised hand and turns and motions me to follow him through the door, down a corridor and into a large office with polished desk, boardroom table and enormous television on the end wall. He invites me to sit down in one of twelve black leather chairs, cool to my touch even in the heat. I realise the room is air-conditioned and am grateful for it. I need to regain my own cool and this is certainly helping.
‘I am surprised to see you here,’ Casagrande says.
I don’t detect any malice in his voice, but get a sudden shock of fear. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps this is the man trying to kill me. Perhaps they all are.
‘I’ve had a few difficulties along the way, been through some hard times since we last met,’ I say. ‘Now I need your help, Signor Casagrande.’
‘Ah, young lady, how can I possibly be of assistance to you?’
I push the envelope towards him, now covered with sweaty fingerprints from clutching it tightly for so long on a hot day. He smiles, as if remembering it’s he who usually delivers the brown envelopes to me.
‘What is this?’ He puts a hand on
the documents but makes no move to examine them.
‘Those are a record of the money laundering transactions carried out by Associated Composites – names, sources, amounts, dates, everything.’
He smiles. ‘Are you expecting me to pay you for this, give you some money? Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘No. These aren’t my documents and they are not for blackmail. They’ve been prepared for submission to the EU Commission. The investigation that follows will destroy everything you’ve built.’
‘And you are threatening me, therefore?’ he says without a trace of anxiety or concern.
‘No, as I said, these are not my documents. I have access to Landers Hoffman, illegal access I might add, and these have been secretly prepared by Eric Knowles himself. He’s decided to protect his own interests by alerting the authorities. He thinks he’s had all he’s likely to get from your business and he’s about to blow the whistle on your activities. The authorities will give him immunity from prosecution if he does, and this way he keeps everything and you lose everything.’
Now Casagrande’s face betrays his serious concern. I’m getting through, hitting him in a weak spot at last. I press home my attack.
‘There’s still time to stop him, I can make sure the computer records are wiped, that none of this ever gets out.’
‘Why should you help me? What is it that you want in return?’ he asks.
‘My life … to be left alone. Listen …’ I lean forward and fix his gaze, ‘… I’m in the same business as you now, small fry in comparison, but the same. Eric Knowles has put a contract out on me, they’ve tried to deliver three times, but I have my own resources …’ I pause to try to gauge the effect of my words; his face gives me little feedback and no certainty that I’m on the right track.
