by Derek Fee
“Funny fella,” Doc said, pulling the full glass of beer towards him.
He was wondering whether he should follow when he saw some of the other mechanics staring at him. He launched into the first bars of ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’ and several of the others around the table immediately joined in. He gradually allowed those with better voices to take over the singing duties while he reviewed his evening’s work. They were no further forward than they had been when they sat in the Europol office in The Hague. He was beginning to think that Kane was right about this operation. There were too many suspects, most of whom appeared capable of being the great-grandson of Jack the Ripper. They would need a stroke of luck to break this case and even if they got it, he wasn’t sure that Kane would be able to get inside. He’d been watching his partner closely over the past few weeks and not because he considered him to be fucked-up and on the edge of a breakdown. Kane was beginning to lose his detachment. Doc had been undercover enough times to know that you can’t care about the people you’re mixing with. You can’t identify with ordinary people because they become your Achilles heel. Eventually, you go back to your own life as a copper and the people you meet undercover wonder what the hell happened to you. You can’t identify too closely with the bad guys because then you simply become one of them. Doc had met more than one colleague who had succumbed to the lure of easy money and crossed to the other side. It was hard not to like the Penhalions – they were decent people – but it was also risky. He sipped the last of the beer as the group launched into an ear-splitting rendition of ‘Delilah’. This operation had been doomed from the start but he had always felt that they would get out of it alright. Now he was beginning to have his doubts. They were dealing with some heavy hitters who would bury them in concrete and sink them in the Mediterranean. He stood up from the table and lurched towards the door. Time to write up the notes on this evening’s activities while they were still fresh in his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“What do you mean gone?” Morweena exploded. “Gone where? Gone why?” she shouted before her father could give her any answer.
“Calm down for God’s sake.” David put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders but she shook it off. “People are beginning to stare.”
It was early afternoon on the day after the race and they were standing on the quayside of the Piccolo Porto supervising the crew loading the boat onto its travelling lorry. Normal summer weather had returned to the south of Italy and the port was bathed in warm sunshine emanating from a cloudless blue sky. David had watched his daughter pacing the quayside during the morning and had eventually worked up the courage to tell her that Bell and Kane had already left Sorrento.
“I’ve already told you,” David said quietly, “Tom had some business and took Mark along with him. I didn’t know anything about it myself until I found a letter in my pigeonhole at the hotel.” He wasn’t the least unhappy that his sponsor had removed his driver from the scene. Barrett had lodged a protest with the race committee but it had been overruled. That meant there was a crazed Englishman roaming around Sorrento with nothing but murder on his mind.
“I’d like to remind you that as team manager you’ve got a responsibility to make sure that this team operates at its optimum. Either we have a driver or Kane is Tom’s business adviser but we can’t operate with somebody who is trying to be both.”
David tried to steer his daughter towards the end of the quay which was deserted but found her unwilling to budge. “Now, Morweena,” he said still trying to get her out of the public view. She reminded him so much of the obstinate six-year-old who used to dig her heels in no matter what her parents threatened her with. “You know you’re being unreasonable. Most of the teams will disperse until next Thursday or Friday. Doug Jackson will probably shoot some scenes of a film and Harry will probably make another million pounds before next weekend’s race. There’s no real need for them to travel with us to Cannes. Look around you. The principals have all flown away. There’s nobody left but the crews.”
A small crane had been set up to lift the fifty-foot hulls out of the water and to deposit them on their lorries. Half-naked crews revelling in the sunshine crawled over the powerboats preparing them for their onward journey.
“You know damn well that we need every ounce of practice we can get.” She glanced towards the mooring where their boat sat bobbing in the water. “The boat needs patching up but you’re so busy looking at that blasted cheque for third place that you’ve forgotten what it will take to keep us in contention for the championship.”
“Would you please explain to me what’s going on here?’ David said. “There’s no reason for either Bell or Kane to hang around here like a couple of spare wheels.”
“I still think those two are up to something. There’s something not right about their involvement in this venture.”
“Mark has been putting in sixteen-hour days over the past few weeks getting himself ready for yesterday’s race. Much as I would have liked to put him to work this morning it wouldn’t have been feasible. We must get the boat out of the water and ready for shipment to Cannes. Then we need to check it over in dry dock. It’ll be Thursday at the earliest before we’ll have it in the water again. I know about your misgivings but I’ve seen nothing to justify them. You’re right that the cheque for yesterday’s race will barely keep us afloat.”
“This team may be only some kind of hobby or tax dodge for Tom. But it means more to us. Their running off like that won’t exactly help our prospects in Cannes. And if we don’t pick up points in every one of the races then we can kiss our chances of being at Key West goodbye. And if we don’t go to Key West, Penhalion Marine goes into liquidation. Think about it.”
“Is that the only reason you’re so pissed?”
“You don’t think that saving Penhalion Marine means everything to me?” She turned and walked back along the quay towards the centre of the marina. A series of wolf-whistles from the Italian seamen marked her passage.
David watched his daughter’s progress towards the edge of the quay. Maybe she was right about Bell and Kane. Although his acquaintance with Kane had been short, he had formed the opinion that the man was a drifter. Tom was damn short on details about his nephew. What details there had been placed Kane in a distinctly negative light. He had the bearing of an ex-army man but according to Tom his departure from the forces had been premature due to some unpleasant incident or other. This information bothered him. He fancied himself a reasonable judge of men and he would never have considered Kane to be ‘a bad one’. They had got off on the wrong foot but he had seen the way he had applied himself to the task of learning to be a top-class driver. The man had talent but that talent was augmented by hours and hours of application. The Mark Kane he was getting to know didn’t gibe with Tom’s description. Add to that the fact that Kane never talked about himself or his past and you had a riddle wrapped up in an enigma. Mark Kane seemed to have arrived on this planet as a thirty-something-year-old. No past, no relations, no school friends, only Uncle Tom Bell. Now that was bloody strange. He still had a few contacts at the Admiralty and the Ministry of Defence. Maybe it was time to run a check on Kane. He shielded his eyes as he looked up to watch the yellow crane picking Tadeka’s red and white powerboat out of the gentle swell at the quayside. The boat dangled in the air for a few minutes while an excited Watanabe screamed incomprehensible instructions in Japanese to the Italian crane operator. Eventually, the boat was secured on its plinth and the Japanese crew went about tying it down. Reg piloted their boat into the space at the marina vacated by the Japanese. In two days, they would be in Cannes and the whole circus would begin again. But in the meantime, he would have Kane checked out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Barrett and his throttleman, Joe Milan, sat in a café on the edge of the marina watching the boats being lifted out of the water. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label sat on the table between them. Barrett was in a foul mood. He had been dr
inking until the early hours of the morning after hearing that his objection to Kane’s third place had been rejected.
“Ah, a hair of the dog.” Constantinos Karakatis walked briskly towards the crew of the Metro. “Or is it a completely new dog?”
“Fuck off, Dinos,” Barrett raised his glass and toasted the Greek. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere trying to rob the life savings of some poor widow or orphan? Time is money for you wheeler-dealer types. Is the corporate jet broken down or could the yacht not come to collect you?”
“I sometimes wonder where the English got their reputation for being gentlemen.” Karakatis pulled a plastic chair towards him and sat down. “If one Greek spoke like that to another, he would expect to have his heart cut out.”
“Don’t they wear skirts,” Milan laughed drunkenly.
“Fucking bastards,” Barrett said, looking over Karakatis’ shoulder to where the Penhalion boat was being lifted out of the water. He drained his glass and immediately refilled it.
Karakatis turned and looked at the subject of Barrett’s loathing. He turned back and smiled at the scowling Metro team. “What a pity you were beaten out of third place by Penhalion. The race committee was incorrect in refusing your objection. Kane clearly stole your water on the way to the final buoy. And they didn’t even fine him for a hazardous manoeuvre. Scandalous.”
“I’ll get the bastard.” Barrett took a slug of whisky. “He bloody robbed that money from me. I had third place in my pocket.”
“That’s the way it looked,” Karakatis said. “But you must give it to Kane. He has balls. There isn’t another driver on the circuit who would have pulled such a foolhardy stunt. If you hadn’t changed course, you might all have ended up dead. He seems to have no regard for life. He’s foolhardy to a fault.”
“Bloody bastard,” Milan mumbled under his breath.
Karakatis looked over his shoulder again at the Penhalion team surrounding their boat. It was time to rub a little salt into Barrett’s wound. “And then there’s the beautiful Morweena.” He turned to face Barrett. “I thought that you and she were ah… close friends.”
“We still are,” Barrett said defiantly. He poured another glass of whisky. “I’ll have her back and all. I’ll bury that fucker at Cannes.”
“Best of luck,” Karakatis said.
“Luck has got nothing to do with it,” Barrett slurred. “That fucker bluffed me out of a hundred thousand dollars yesterday. The next time the boot is going to be on the other foot.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Kane to land one of the places at Key West,” Karakatis continued. “Probably at either your or my expense. Penhalion has come up with a winner. His boat is outstanding and he appears to have found someone capable of getting the most out of it. Anyone who goes against Kane better look for an edge. Any edge. Do you know what I mean?” He could imagine Barrett’s addled brain working behind his furrowed brow. He looked back towards the port as the boom of the crane began to dip over his boat Hellas. “I better supervise the operation,” he stood.
. “Give the bastard something to remember at Cannes.” The Greek smiled as he strode towards the marina.
“Don’t you worry, Dinos. Kane and Penhalion will never forget Cannes.” Barrett watched the Greek walking towards the port. That sod Kane is fucked, he smiled to himself. Only one race and already the boys were beginning to put the finger on him. If Kane continued to pick up enemies at this rate, he’d bury him before the end of the season. He poured another whisky for himself and emptied the bottle into Milan’s glass. He flung the bottle against a wall smashing it to pieces. The owner of the café looked on but said nothing and simply reached for his broom.
Barrett turned to his throttleman. “We’ll show that bastard Kane that there are some people about that he really shouldn’t screw with.”
Hellas hung precariously for a few minutes before being lowered safely into its cradle on the back of the team’s lorry.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Barrett emptied his glass into his mouth and stood up. “The fucking greaser is right. We’ll need an edge.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Penhalion team had managed to get their boat loaded and tied down on the trailer. It had been a long hard day and Doc was looking forward to a couple of pints of beer in the Charlie Chaplin with the other boys. Kane had left a message that he had to return to London urgently. Doc reckoned that it had something to do with Davenport so he didn’t ask any questions. He was there as support and to act as a conduit.
“Doc.” Morweena stood beneath the point on the trailer where he was making the final fastening. “I’d like a word if you don’t mind.” She had noticed that Doc and Kane had become quite friendly. It was rather peculiar. Kane wouldn’t give the other mechanics the time of day but he and Doc always seemed to be stuck in some corner or other having what appeared to be deep discussions.
“Yes, Miss Penhalion.” Doc climbed reluctantly from the trailer.
“Morweena,” she said. She smiled and her stunning blue eyes opened wide. She hit him with her total charm offensive.
“Yes, Morweena.” Christ Almighty, Doc thought, who the hell could resist this woman in full flow?
“I couldn’t help noticing that you and Mark have struck up quite a friendship,” she said.
“We get on,” Doc said, wondering where the conversation was going. “We stayed in the same pub back in Falmouth.”
“And you never met before?”
Doc put on his best puzzled look. “No.”
“Strange isn’t it,” she continued. “Tom insisted that both of you be engaged by my father. Quite independently you both arrive and amazingly you strike up this friendship. Quite a coincidence.”
“You could say that but it could as easily have been Reg or Bill that got on with Mark. Maybe he and I have a few things in common that he doesn’t have with the others.”
“Like what?” she pursued him.
“Well, the British Army for instance.” Doc was unflustered by her questions. The answers had all been prepared by Davenport before he ever set eyes on Morweena Penhalion. “We’re both old soldiers. I was a simple squaddie but Mark was a ‘Rupert’. But it doesn’t seem to matter once you’re in civilian life.” He saw the puzzled look on her face. “A ‘Rupert’ is an officer, miss,” he said quickly. “We seemed to hit it off and that’s all there is to it.” He examined her face to see if she was buying his story.
“You sound so convincing, Doc, that one is tempted to believe you. What about Mark’s disappearance? Any ideas?”
“Totally in the dark, miss.” Doc noticed her frowning. He put on his most earnest face. “Honestly. I don’t know where or why he’s gone.”
“You and Mark are beginning to intrigue me.” She scratched beside her right eye with her right index finger as though deep in thought. “You both arrive out of nowhere. Highly skilled at what you do. Tom stumbled across both of you, I suppose. You’ve never met but you immediately strike up a friendship. Neither of you has any visible family attachments. No wedding rings. No pictures of progeny being shown around. Two mystery men. All very strange, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Doc was struggling for something convincing to say. “I’m a mechanic and I needed a job. Tom Bell took me on at his plant in Leeds and told me I was being seconded to Penhalion Marine for the duration.”
“He insisted that my father employ you.” She scrunched up her nose. “What’s up, Doc?”
He was forced to laugh and she joined him.
“Very funny, miss,” he said after his laughter had subsided. “There’s nothing up. Both Mark and I are working to make the Penhalion team the best on the circuit. That’s it.”
“So you won’t tell me where he’s gone?”
“I would tell you if I knew.”
“Are you my friend, Doc?” she asked.
“I’d like to be, miss,” Doc said earnestly. He was happy t
hat the inquisition seemed to be over. But he was aware that he had not acquitted himself too well. Too many bloody civilians in this one, he thought.
“Thank you, Doc. I’ll remember you said that.”
They’d been rumbled. Doc would have to pass the word to London. Miss Penhalion was asking questions that were difficult to answer. Davenport should know that the operation was on a knife-edge.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kane sat in the small chapel attached to the crematorium. The soft strains of Londonderry Air played over the discreetly located loudspeakers. The coffin bearing the body of his mother sat on the elevator which would carry it into the furnace. While she had been taking her last breath, he had been racing a powerboat in the Mediterranean. It shouldn’t have been that way. He should have been with her at the end. Perhaps in a blinding moment of lucidity, she would have recognised him and allowed him to bid her farewell. But he doubted it. The parson had finished his intonations and they were left in that moment before the coffin made its final journey. He’d arrived at the church twenty minutes before the service began. Davenport had informed him of his mother’s death the previous evening and he had been fortunate enough to get seats on the late-night flight to London. He listened to the strains of the soft music. It was his mother’s favourite, her party piece at family gatherings and a tune she hummed when she was happy. It was a long time since he had heard it. He glanced at his father. They were the only ones seated in the front row. Behind them, in the ten or so rows of pews, a small group of his mother’s friends sat quietly. They had dispensed with the church ceremony. His mother hadn’t had much time for religion and what credence she had in an Almighty Being vanished altogether the night she viewed the dead bodies of her two grandchildren. His father had delayed the closing of the coffin until his son had arrived. He had had ten short minutes to pay his last respects. Bent over her coffin, he was astonished at how peaceful she looked. It was as though she had moved back in time and was his mother as she used to be before she had retreated into her mind. In a way, he felt happy for her. It was a blessed release from a low-quality life. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell on his hand. He would never forget that he had been partly responsible for his mother’s degeneration. He turned his head and saw Davenport sitting at the rear of the chapel. His presence didn’t comfort him. The final strains of the music filled the small chapel and the gear of the conveyor clicked as the mechanism engaged. The curtains swished as they opened and the coffin moved towards the furnace. There had been a time when he would have wanted to jump on the coffin and go into the fire with it. He remembered the burial of his children. Standing on the cold wet grass above the hole into which they were about to be lowered, he’d felt that there was no purpose in life. He had wanted only to join them, and as soon as humanly possible. The coffin disappeared and the curtains closed. He buried his head in his hands. When he looked up, the coffin was gone and a fit of nervous coughing had broken out in the chapel. He felt his father’s hand circle his shoulder and the tears fell freely from his eyes. They left the crematorium together and paused at the exit while the small attendance filed past. Some of them clasped his hand in theirs by way of condolence. Finally, only he and his father were left.
