Adrenalin Rush

by Steve Reeder

  “From a point of view of doing violent things, that’s true, Julia. But there is also the implication of who owns the designs, who has the right to sell them and the tax from the sale, amongst who knows what else. It could put your dad’s name at risk too. I mean, he may have been up to all sorts of illegal things, and that may affect your inheritance. Sorry to say that, but it seems to be true.”

  “Look,” said Bud, “we were all taken in by Hammil and his so-called sergeants, so we thought we were doing the right thing, yeah?” We all nodded. “And as for Algeria, if there has been no investigation at that end that we know of, and we can assume that there hasn’t been or the cops would have had you in for a ‘helping us with our inquires’ routine, so then we can sit it out and deny everything.”

  “That’s very easy for you to say, Bud,” Michele said venomously. “It will be Simon’s neck on the line, not yours if everything gets out.”

  “All right. All right. Everyone keep calm,” Julia said, making calming motions with her hands. “I think it’s Simon’s decision, and we will all go along with whatever he decides to do. OK?”

  Everyone agreed. Some more enthusiastically than others. I thought about it for a moment. “I’ll let you know tomorrow what I decide. I’ll sleep on it. OK?”

  Everyone seemed to be OK with that.

  “Now, Simon. What about those documents?” Julia asked eagerly.

  I smiled for the first time in a while. “Brett, your laptop has an Internet connection and internal modem, am I right?”

  Brett nodded and said, “I’ll just pop upstairs and get it for you.”

  I looked at the expectant faces. “Michele stumbled across the clue,” I said. “There were no e-mails listed as sent on the day Josh disappeared, yet I knew he had sent some. I saw him doing it, right?” They nodded in unison. “Add that to the fact that Tarryn was getting Gary to set up an e-mail account for her; she told me that she didn’t have one, and yet we know that Josh had an e-mail address listed for Tarryn in his e-mail addresses. Everyone with me so far?” More nods and a grunt from Brett as he started up his laptop and plugged in a telephone cord. “So. If Josh was going to e-mail the documents to someone, then delete the files from his laptop so that nobody else could find them, who would he e-mail them to, if not himself? Of course, if he emailed them to himself, they would have been found in no time because anybody who wanted to would know where to look. So, it had to be to someone whose address would not raise any eyebrows if found on his laptop, yes?” Yeah, sure, they all agreed. “So he sets up an Internet free-to-use address from Yahoo in Tarryn’s name, and then e-mails the documents to her. She doesn’t even know she now has an e-mail address, but he can get the e-mail any time he wants to.” They were all looking impressed.

  “OK, we’re ready,” Brett said, as the computer made the connection with his local Internet service provider. “Yahoo, you said, Simon?”

  “Yes. Now, guys, here’s the part that would have defeated anyone else. Anyone who figured this out and got to where we are now, that is. What is the password to Tarryn at Yahoo? And this is the thing that would probably drive Hussein and Jethro mad. He kept trying to tell them when he was drugged, but they could not work it out. Pandora’s Box. That has to be the password.”

  Brett was logged onto the Yahoo mail site. He typed in tarryn.rodber @ yahoo.co.uk. Now we needed to fill in a password. We tried ‘Pandora’s Box’ but it didn’t accept it, so we tried different versions of that until Yahoo finally accepted ‘Pandora’s’ and we were in. There were only two e-mails in the inbox.

  The first was the missing design document files attached to a short meaningless note. There were seven documents to do with the designs, including drawings. The files were huge and it took an agonizing twenty-three minutes to download all seven. Brett immediately saved them to a disc as well as his laptop’s memory. The second e-mail, once we opened it, was addressed to Julia. It began ‘My darling Julia, if you are reading this then I am very likely to be dead’. I turned the laptop over to Julia and motioned everyone else out the room. Julia should have privacy to read a note like that.

  The next morning I informed Bud, Julia and Brett that I had decided to tough it out. We would not go to Scotland Yard and reveal all. If they caught Brown or somehow got evidence of my activities, criminal or otherwise, then we would cross that bridge when we came to it. Michele and I had spent most of the night discussing things, and she was not happy with my decision. She felt I should have thrown myself at the mercy of the British police. She said that if things went wrong, then she would ‘wait for me’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how long she might have to wait. Especially if I got extradited to Algeria.

  I suggested to Julia that she take the disc with the designs on it and store them in a bank safety deposit box. Before she left for the bank I got Brett to make two copies and then delete the files from his laptop. One copy I hid, the second I left in my own bank box.

  Motor racing is a community all of its own and often the riders have their own separate clique. It’s not that we are standoffish or anti anyone else, but at the end of the day when you are discussing the day’s racing over a beer or two, often with exaggerations that would make a fisherman blush, the only people you can talk to are those who were on the track with you. Consequently, we get to know a fair bit about each other and what we do. Not all the riders you see on the track are professionals. Many are weekend sportsmen with jobs to do to earn the money to race with. One such was a Jamaican immigrant named Kendal Pitt.

  Kendal ran his own print and copy shop in Witham in Essex. I sorted through my briefcase for a business-card folder my mother had given me years ago in the hope that I would become a sensible business type and stop all this nonsense with motorbikes. I had gradually filled it with cards from a number of people I wanted to keep in contact with. Kendal was a good sort to have drinks with: funny, intelligent and a good rider too, often after advice which I was always happy to give. He was also a man who knew when to keep his business to himself. In this case I was counting on him keeping my business to himself.

  The phone rang four times before a young woman answered. “Kendal Copy and Print,” she said brightly.

  “Good morning,” I said, “is Kendal available?”

  “Um, he’s just busy with a big job at the moment. Can I help you in any way?”

  “Can you print blueprints off a computer disc and make them look original?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “Probably. How big are they?” That was a good question that no one had thought of.

  “Don’t know really. How big are blueprints normally?”

  “They could be any size as far as I know. Don’t you have the originals?”

  “Actually, no. Long story. Perhaps you could get Kendal to phone? Simon Roberts. He has my mobile number.” She agreed that it would be for the best and assured me that the man himself would call as soon as he was done.

  “Can he do it?” Michele and Julia asked together.

  “His assistant says yes, but Kendal will call me back in a moment.”

  “I just hope he can. Hussein will be coming early next week and I don’t want to tell him that we don’t have it yet. I’ve had enough of the whole business,” Julia said. I felt sorry for her. It was a lot for a nineteen-year-old girl to go through. Only weeks ago she was happily enjoying a gap year before going to university.

  “Don’t worry so much, Julia - ” I was interrupted by the phone. “Simon here. Kendal, old buddy. How are you? Yeah I’m fine. No, the arm is still broken and I’m still retired, but otherwise all is OK.”

  “What’s this about blueprints then, Simon?” he asked in a heavy West Indian accent.

  “Just a favour, Ken. If I bring around a computer disc with these technical drawings on it, can you reproduce them as originals?”

  “Sure, no problem. But you’re a long way from Witham, Essex, man. Why don’t you go into Chichester or down to Portsmouth?”

  “
Two reasons my, friend. Firstly I’m in Kent at the moment, not far from Brands Hatch, and the second reason is that I want you to do it personally.”

  “Ah. A hush-hush job then.” He chuckled. “That’ll cost you a pint or two down at the George.”

  “You’re on. I’ll see you tomorrow around ten. OK?”

  Michele came with me on the train into London arriving at Waterloo Station, then out again to Witham from Liverpool Street Station after tea and scones at my favourite teashop, across the road from the New Scotland Yard building.

  Essex was north of the Thames and driving through the tunnel was too much of a mission, so we relaxed on British rail. You have to relax; they may be clean and pleasant but they weren’t fast. Not like the French trains anyway. Brett had wanted to come as well, but Bud had planned a tyre testing session at Brands, followed by an interview with MCN magazine for both the riders.

  Michele and I were dropped at the local railway station on the way to the racetrack with instructions to call when we needed to be picked up.

  We were in Witham by ten and found our way to Kendal’s shop at the appointed time. The station is some distance from the high street, but two Japanese tourists pointed us in the right direction. How ironic is that?

  “All right then, Simon? Come on in. Hello. What have we here then?” he said, spotting Michele. “Surely a young lovely such as you can’t be with an ugly old bugger like this?”

  Having now become accustomed to my friends, she smiled and replied that “love must truly be blind”. I did my best to ignore them both.

  “I’ve got a machine set up for you, Simon. Where’s this disc then?” I produced the disc and Kendal sat himself at a computer. After a few minutes the files were listed on screen.

  “I’ll download the drawing to that CAD printer over there,” he said, pointing in the vague direction of the back room, “and we’ll print the text files off the laser printer here. All right?”

  “What ever you say, Kenny,” I answered. “Will these look like original drawings?”

  “Sure. They would have been done on a CAD, that’s Computer Aided Drawing, in the first place, so no worries.” He sat back. “Now we wait and let the machines do their thing. Sally.” He yelled out to a stunningly sexy redhead that came through from the office. “How about a cuppa for me friends, luv?” Sally smiled, nodded and drifted into the back room where there was a kitchenette.

  I raised my eyebrows at Kendal enquiringly and nodded at the retreating red hair.

  “No way, Simon. You should see her boyfriend. Built like a bloody brick shithouse. And a PC Plod too.” He meant police constable.

  Kenny produced a cardboard tube, three foot long and roughly four inches in diameter. He rolled up the drawings and stored them in the tube, then rolled the fifty-odd pages of text up and slid them inside the drawings. A plastic cap was wedged over the open end and he handed them to me.

  “There you go, man, now you won’t lose them before you even get home.”

  “How much do I owe you, Kenny?” I asked him.

  “For a job like this? Normally, I’d charge ten quid, but because you made me look bad at Mallory Park last year, you can pay me twenty.” He grinned. “I took me new woman and her dad to the races with me,” he told Michele, “to impress them with me racing and your man here bloody lapped me.”

  “Ah Kenny, I heard a rumour that Mike Ritter had paid you to go slow and then get in my way.”

  Kenny gave us a friendly shove out the door with an invitation to “pop in any time you’re in the area”, followed by a wink at Michele, and a “don’t bring Simon next time”.

  I spotted Frank Brown within seconds of leaving the shop. I grabbed Michele by the hand and pulled her roughly into the nearest shop, a W H Smith. I didn’t think he had seen us but the fact that he was here meant he knew where we were, or at least he knew we were in Witham. I tried to work out what that meant. He must have followed us from London if not all the way from the Rodber farm.

  “What is it?” Michele asked, alarm showing clearly on her face.

  “It’s Frank Brown. That’s him across the road, with the dark blue trousers and the white long-sleeve shirt. See him?” I pointed out of the window. Michele studied the road for a second or two, nodding when she spotted him.

  “Do you think he’s alone?” she asked. She sounded frightened. I wished I could reassure her, but we could be in trouble here. Frank Brown didn’t work alone.

  It was a tense wait, but I finally spotted the others. One of them looked like he was Ginger-Hair’s brother, twin even, and the third was the big brute that had broken my arm at Knockhill. I pointed them both out to Michele. “I can’t guarantee that there aren’t more in town, down by the station perhaps, but we can’t stay here till closing time.”

  “I could go out and distract them while you get away with the drawings?” Michele suggested.

  “Not on your life, babe. Firstly, they could grab you and just use you to force me to hand over the drawings; secondly, I’m not putting you in any more danger than I can help.” I thought for a minute. “I would leave you here in the shop while I drew them away, but if one of them sees me coming out of the shop then you could be in just as much danger.”

  Brown and the big guy walked slowly down the street past Kenny’s shop, looking in each window as they passed. Ginger’s brother went the other way. When I judged them to be as far apart as they were likely to get, I led Michele out of the newsagent and across the high street. We were heading towards The Avenue, which would take us down to the station. We had been forced to miss the first of the three roads that led off the main road and out to the village station which was perhaps a half-mile away. As we turned down The Avenue I knew Brown could catch us by taking Collingwood Road on our left and Ginger’s brother could do the same by taking Avenue Road on our right. If they saw us.

  I don’t think they did. We half ran, half walked down The Avenue, ignoring the strange looks we were getting from the locals. We intercepted Collingwood three quarters of the way to the railway bridge at the station. Luckily Michele had chosen to wear jeans and trainers and she was able to keep up with me quite easily.

  At the corner I stopped and studied the road behind us. None of the three men were in sight. Looking left up Collingwood there was no one I recognized. It seemed we might make it.

  We went right towards the bridge, jogging the thirty yards or so till Avenue Road joined us from the right. Ginger’s brother was walking uncertainly down the road peering into shops as he came. He was still two hundred yards from us. I took Michele’s hand and we started sprinting as the brother noticed us. Glancing back over my shoulder I could see him running and talking into a mobile phone as he ran.

  Over the bridge we ran. There was a train standing in the station. Michele ran to the right onto the station road. The station was two fifty yards ahead. I jogged on behind her throwing fearful looks over my shoulder. Into the ticket office. Michele fed a £50 note into the ticket vending machine. Not waiting for the change we ran out onto the platform. The train to London left from platform three. We would have to climb the stairs and cross over.

  The London train stood waiting. I reached the top of the walkway over the rails and ran headfirst into one of Brown’s men. His surprise matched my own. We both reacted by lashing out with fists and feet. He caught me on the ear with a glancing blow with his left fist but my right foot sank into his belly and he went down gasping for air.

  The train was pulling out. Michele grabbed my arm yelling. “Simon. There’s another one coming in over there.” She pointed back to platform one.

  I could see the brother running down the station road from my elevated position and the other two would not be far behind. I kicked the winded one in the face for good measure, and we ran back down the stairs to platform one. The doors opened and we were in. “Please close,” prayed Michele. “Please close.” The carriage was empty except for the two of us.

  There was a ginger-
haired man running hard for the doors as they slid agonizingly slowly shut. As the train pulled out of the station all four were standing on the platform watching us venomously. Our only problem now was that we were going to Braintree, a few miles down the road. And the train track didn’t go any further. It was a dead end.

  I sank into a chair besides Michele and told her about Braintree.

  “We’ll have to get a taxi, or perhaps hire a car when we get there. I don’t want to risk going back up the track.”

  “You think they’ll be coming on the next train?” she asked.

  “Bound to, aren’t they?” I said. “Oh crumbs! What if they have a car at Witham? It can get to Braintree before the train does. Or at least as soon.”

  “If they followed us from either London or home then they must have been on the train too, surely?” Michele asked me, worry plainly showing on her face.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I hope you’re right.”

  But she was wrong. One of them must have had a car because there were two of Brown’s men waiting for us at Braintree station. They were the only two people on the platform.

  “There!” I said to Michele as the train pulled in to the station. “The one on the left. He was with Brown at Knockhill when the big bastard broke my arm.”

  “What are we going to do?” she asked fearfully.

  “I don’t know, honey. Come on.” I urged her out as the doors opened.

  We stepped out onto the small platform near the end. The two of them stood twenty feet to our right, blocking the exit to the road.

  We stood looking at each other for a moment. No one seemed too sure what to do, and then one of them smiled an evil smile and started towards us. His mate stayed guarding the exit. I turned to get back on the train, but it was leaving already. That only left us two options. I could fight the both of them here, or we could run for it. I chose the latter.

  The tracks had, in years gone past, continued on past Braintree towards London via Bishops Stortford in Hertfordshire. But no more. Now the berry trees closed in on the unused way forming a passageway between the thorny hedges.