Quick

by Steve Worland

  ‘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.

  The Australian dials his phone, hears Claude’s brusque message once again, then hangs up. ‘Where is he?’ He takes a breath and turns—and thoughts of cranky old Frenchmen instantly vanish.

  A vision stands before him.

  Franka.

  The Australian has no idea about fashion—for years he thought Crocs were acceptable evening wear—but this white dress she’s wearing, tight in the some places, flowy in others, sleeveless so it shows off her toned biceps, with a neckline that is high but not too high, and a skirty bit that falls away just the way you want it too, is quite simply the best dress he’s ever laid eyes on. She looks just like —

  What is the name of that woman?

  Franka bounces towards him. ‘You won’t believe who’s here!’

  He gets caught up in her excitement. ‘Who?’

  ‘Me!’ She cracks a wide smile. ‘Can you tell I’m excited to be going to a party?’

  He remembers the woman’s name. ‘I saw a picture of Audrey Hepburn wearing a dress like yours once.’

  Franka leans back and studies him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘And it looks much better on you.’

  She continues to study him.

  ‘It sounded like a compliment in my head.’

  She smiles. ‘And it sounded like one out loud too.’ She kisses him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  Surprised and delighted, he holds out a cocked arm. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We shall.’ She takes it. ‘And you look excellent too, though nothing like Audrey Hepburn.’

  He smiles and they move onto the red carpet. None of the press are even remotely interested in them because a Kardashian, not the really famous one but one of the others, holds court nearby. They breeze past the scrum and head towards the palace’s towering archway entrance.

  Franka looks at Billy. ‘So, fifth, fifth. That’s just—I mean fifth!’

  He nods. ‘So what you’re saying is: ‘fifth!’’

  ‘You don’t seem that excited about it.’

  He shrugs. ‘It could have been better. I missed the exit at Tabac, left some time on the table at Rasscass —’

  ‘Fifth! At Monaco. In F1. The most competitive motorsport series on the planet. In your first quali. It could always be better but you have to be happy with what you get, and in this case that was pretty damn good.’

  ‘Of course, you’re right.’

  ‘You still don’t sound convinced. Some people drive for a year and a half and never qualify fifth. And the “people” I’m talking about is me if you didn’t realise.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I’m absolutely right. Fifth in a car that’s lucky to be top fifteen is amazing.’

  He doesn’t want to talk about himself anymore. ‘What’s your best qualy?’

  ‘Eleventh.’

  ‘That’s amazing considering your car sucks.’ He winces, realises how awful it sounds the moment the words leave his mouth. The two Evergreen cars may be regarded as the slowest in the field but you still don’t say it out loud, especially to the driver. ‘Sorry, that was terrible.’

  She stares at him. ‘You should be sorry because you’re wrong. My car doesn’t suck. It sucks and blows.’ She grins—and he’s relieved. ‘It’s the slowest car out there and I’m busting a gut to finish twenty-first instead of twenty-second but nobody cares because we’re so far down the back we’ve been lapped twice.’

  They move through the archway then turn right and take in a long line of guests who patiently wait to be greeted by the Prince of Monaco and his new wife, a horsey young blonde from South Africa named Courtney who is barely half his age, before they enter the ballroom.

  Billy sees it. ‘We just have to remember not to mention the bobsledding.’

  Franka watches the Prince and his wife, then notices a set of stairs to the left. ‘Come on.’ She moves towards them.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She looks back at him with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Race you to the top.’

  She gathers up her dress and climbs the stairs fast. He follows. She’s quick but he can take more steps with each stride. It’s a close-run thing but she gets there first. ‘Yes! Saaa-moked you.’ She bounces up and down, hands raised victoriously.

  ‘You’re not only quick in a car.’

  ‘Well now you’re just flirting.’ From the empty balcony they marvel at the magnificent view of the Mediterranean before them. ‘I should tell you now, the fastest way to my heart is to compliment my driving.’

  ‘Really?’ Well I watched you race in Abu Dhabi and I think your apex speeds are very impressive.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She turns to him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, ahh.’ He thinks about it. ‘You look after your tyres extremely well.’

  She pulls him close. ‘Hmmm. And?’

  ‘And—your car control through chicanes is almost— Senna-esque.’

  She leans forward and brushes her lips against his neck. ‘Uh-ha, I’m listening.’

  ‘And you always get out of the way of the front runners promptly.’

  She pulls back, her expression dour. ‘There’s nothing desirable about being lapped.’

  ‘Oh. Of course, my bad.’ He thinks hard. ‘Your use of ERS for passing is always decisive.’

  She grins. ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘And you’re the last of the late brakers.’

  Her face lights up and she leans in to kiss him—then pulls away. ‘Damn.’

  He looks at her, confused. ‘What happened?’

  She hikes up her skirt, reaches under it and draws out her iPhone. ‘So sorry.’ She swipes it open, reads the message. ‘Scheiβe.’

  ‘What’s scheiβe?’

  ‘The FIA just ruled. I’m not allowed to drive tomorrow and I— Christ, I have to meet the PR people now. To release a statement. The team want to milk it. We’re not good enough to get any press for our racing but if one of the driver’s gets injured they’re all over us. I have to go.’

  ‘You want me to drive you?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m parked around the corner. You stay and have fun.’

  ‘
Alrighty then.’ He tries not to let his disappointment show.

  She sees it anyway. ‘But let’s pick this up soon.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She works her iPhone then passes it to him. ‘Give me your number.’

  He taps it in then gives it back. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay.’