There was nothing for it; I had to get out and walk around for a few seconds, even if just to convince myself I was still alive and not buried nose-deep in a tree. If my life had flashed before my eyes, the way they say it does, I’d been too busy being shit-scared to notice.
When I climbed back inside, Lilly-Mae was looking worse, her face pale and strained, as if the shock of what we’d been through had only just sunk in. I checked her face to see she hadn’t bitten her tongue or broken any teeth.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said with feeling. ‘Lost control a bit there.’
She turned to look at me, her eyes wide, then peered round back up the slope behind us, where a trail of flattened grass and gouged earth betrayed our journey. It was only when I looked further back that I realised we’d virtually come over the edge of a cliff. There had probably been a fairly steep slope there once, manageable by a tractor at best. But the earth had since slipped sideways, leaving nothing in its place. We had jumped the gap like Evel Knievel in his heyday.
‘Is that all you can say?’ Lilly-Mae breathed in a stunned whisper. It looked as if there was the hint of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth, but I wasn’t betting a touch of hysteria wouldn’t rattle along too far behind. ‘Sorry and you lost control? What is that – another bit of English understatement? Jesus, Jake, what d’you do when you have a real head-on smash – apologise for the bump?’
I gave her a kiss, then re-started the car and reversed away from the tree. If she had the energy for that kind of remark, I figured she was all right. Had she been cowering in a tearful and sobbing heap in the footwell of the car and screaming for her mommy, I’d have been concerned. But Lilly-Mae was made of sterner stuff.
Thankfully everything about the car seemed to work okay, too, apart from a bit of drift in the steering. At least we weren’t on foot. If we managed to make the road, which was a few hundred yards ahead, we’d be in with a chance of getting away from there.
We came to another gate, this one metal and more substantial, with a ditch running away at right angles either side, forming a natural boundary. I stopped and scrambled out, and flung the gate back on rusting hinges, then checked the track behind us. If there was any pursuit, they had evidently decided not to go flying today.
Down another short stretch of track and through a clump of trees, and we emerged onto a nice, smooth stretch of highway.
‘It’s the road to Charlotte,’ announced Lilly-Mae excitedly. ‘Turn right, Jake.’
I followed her directions, and soon began to recognise some landmarks I’d seen on the way up. Soon we entered the beginnings of the outer suburbs, with strip malls, gas stations and motels, other signs of civilisation and, more importantly, a lot of traffic in which to hide. I slowed as the build-up intensified, forcing myself to calm down after our hectic dash from the house and behave like we were two normal people out for a drive.
Ten minutes later we left the Toyota unlocked in the main airport car park and headed towards the departure terminal. The area was big enough to make spotting the Toyota difficult, and although I had given my passport details and shown my driving licence when hiring it, I hoped to be long gone before anyone found the car and caught up with us. With a bit of luck the car would be stolen, anyway, further blurring the trail.
As we crossed a pedestrian walkway to the main entrance, I saw a sign advertising an in-terminal Business Center. It gave me an idea.
‘Do you have your passport?’ I asked Lilly-Mae.
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Always. Why?’
‘Because I know where I can find somewhere to lie low for a while. Have you ever been to France?’
She didn’t answer, but stared intently at the ground. I guessed it was nerves and told her to wait by the taxi rank while I checked inside. I walked past a bored and tired-looking security guard and scanned the concourse, half expecting to see a row of uniforms lined up to greet us. Surely this would be the first place they would expect us to go? On the other hand maybe that’s what they would expect us to think and they’d go for blocking the roads out of the area instead. Either way, our main hope was that they really didn’t know what we looked like, unless Gus had gone full bore and given them a photo of Lilly-Mae or they’d spoken to the pool guy. It was grasping at straws but I needed all the reassurance I could get.
But the only police uniforms were the one I’d passed by the entrance and a couple more seated at a bar drinking coffee and watching baseball on the TV. No wailing sirens, no quickly-averted eyes, no beefy individuals who might be cops dressed as airport workers or travellers. I was almost disappointed.
After I’d made a second tour of the concourse just to be certain, I went back to the taxi rank to collect Lilly-Mae. Once in the Business Center, I could contact some friendly faces.
But she wasn’t there.
Lilly-Mae was gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Excuse me, sir, is your name Jake?’ A baggage captain with skin like seasoned mahogany and a walrus moustache was sitting on a trolley against the wall. He was too old and fat to be a cop, and my initial jolt of nerves disappeared when I realised he must have been waiting for me. Baggage captains don’t usually sit around unless they’re forced to.
I agreed it was my name.
He climbed to his feet and beckoned me over. ‘You lookin’ for the lady you arrived with? Name of Lilly?’ His voice was a low rumble and, by the look on his face, he wasn’t about to give me good news and was trying to be sympathetic about it.
I nodded, a sinking feeling in my gut. Somehow I knew what was coming.
‘The lady said to tell you she couldn’t come with you, sir,’ he intoned carefully. ‘She said she was sorry ’n all, but there’s things she has to do. She said to thank you and she hopes you’ll understand, and you shouldn’t come looking, ’cos she’s gonna be movin’ around a lot.’ If he had any thoughts about someone being let down so openly, he kept them to himself and looked away, too seasoned in human frailty to say anything else.
I tipped him for his kindness and walked into the terminal. I felt numb, as if a lifeline had been snatched away from me. It was pointless looking for her, because the two places Lilly-Mae wouldn’t go was to either of Gus’s properties. I didn’t know where else to even begin.
I could have rushed out into the car park looking for her, but I knew it was no good. I’d spent a while checking the terminal for police, which had given her plenty of time to prime the baggage captain on what she wanted him to tell me and get a taxi from the head of the rank. She was probably several miles away by now.
I went to the Business Center and found a spare PC. I typed in the details Dot had given me, and seconds later I was reading a message posted two days ago.
Jake. We’re off to France. Left your place real tidy. Your wife came round with another woman. Man, you’re best out of that. We’re stopping in Brittany for a couple of weeks. Come and join us. If not, drop us a line and we’ll let you know who to call if you need to crash in London. Your mug’s waiting, plus coffee the way you like it.
Dot and Dash. xx
There was an address on the French coast near a small town named Sable d’Or in Brittany. I had been through the area once, a carbon copy of Cornwall’s rugged beauty, with endless beaches and rocky coves, and roads where the only people who drove with any urgency were tourists. As a place to hide away for a few days, it probably couldn’t be equalled.
I wondered about the ‘other woman’ with Susan. Juliette, was my guess. Buddies in feminist fury. No doubt she’d been persuaded to view the scene of the crime and give moral support to Susan’s desire to regain possession. Along with Mrs Tree, that would have been enough to form a coven.
I logged off and went in search of a ticket counter.
Destination France.
I spent five lazily disorganised days in Brittany with Dot, Dash and a scattering of their friends, camped out in a large farmhouse owned by a local member of the group. It was rustic
, charmingly derelict and isolated enough to seem like a lifetime from anywhere. I was accepted among them like an old friend, and if I needed a laisser-passer of any kind among the strangers in the group, my coffee mug said it all, carefully unpacked by Dot from a box in the bus and put on display.
‘So, what ya bin doin’, Jake?’ asked Dash in his usual forthright manner. He was seated in a battered deckchair in the overgrown rear garden, where the air was abuzz with insects.
I gave them a pared-down version of events, leaving out any mention of dead bodies and making it sound like a delivery trip which had gone sour. They seemed to accept it, and soon lost interest, the talk turning to where they were planning on going next. The idea was to head south and follow the sun, taking on grape picking or other casual jobs as and when they felt like it to pay their way. Once they hit the Med, it was the end of the road for a couple of months before they decided on somewhere else. Greece seemed favourite, or Turkey, and it was obvious they were happy for me to tag along if I wished.
It was a different lifestyle from any I had known and, while it had a certain appeal, with no set agenda or responsibilities other than caring for each other, I could already sense an itch I’d soon be wanting to scratch if I went along with them. Maybe lotus-eating wasn’t for me, in spite of the attractions.
For a while, though, I was happy to vegetate, enjoying the solitude on offer as well as the laid-back companionship. In no time at all I felt rested and relaxed, and had a healthy tan from lying around in the sun and going for long cliff walks. No radio, no television and no friction, and the only time I asked to use Dot’s iPad was to feed in Lilly-Mae’s name to see if it featured in any news items. Thankfully it didn’t, which I chose to think was good. The only unsettling aspect was that looking out to sea and to the distant horizon, I kept finding myself thinking about her; about where she was and what she was doing.
In the end I had to leave.
‘Take care, mate,’ said Dash, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You come down south, you call us up, you hear?’ I think he meant New Zealand.
‘Will do,’ I told him, and meant it. Whether it was because of what had happened with Susan, then Lilly-Mae, or the way I had been forced to change the way I thought, I realised I didn’t want to let go of these friends too easily.
‘We’ll keep your mug handy,’ said Dot, who gave me an embarrassingly lengthy and enthusiastic kiss, to the delight of the whole group, including Dash. ‘Wow,’ she added, with a look of surprise. ‘You’re a real good kisser.’
The sky over London was cold and grey after the warmth of Brittany. I felt depressed and wondered if I had done the right thing. I could have stayed with the group and ventured south with nobody the wiser. But even as the thought tried to assert itself, I knew I’d had no other option.
First things first; I went straight to Charles Clayton’s office and was told to go right in.
He looked me over with a faintly amused air and shuffled together some papers. He made no comments about my tan or the casual clothes I was wearing, and if he was surprised at my turning up unannounced he hid it well. But then, I wasn’t sure there was much that could surprise him.
‘Welcome back, Jake. How was Charlotte?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ I gave him a brief rundown of my trip to Brittany and why I had felt the need to return. ‘Was I unwise coming back?’ The question had been bothering me all the way across the Channel. In spite of the rest and recuperation, after having been nearly shot by Selecca’s sidekick, Paulie, then by Gus Mekashnik, I think I could have been excused for thinking someone had it in for me. All I needed was for Basher to leap out of the woodwork and I’d probably have a nervous breakdown. I was hoping Clayton wasn’t about to deliver bad news.
He wasn’t.
‘Your problems with Mr Lyons seem to be over,’ he said matter-of-factly. Then he beeped the venerable Francis on the front desk for some coffee.
‘Lyons? Oh, you mean Basher.’ Lyons seemed almost twee after the picture I’d built up, coloured by visions of Hackney Marshes and buried bodies.
I sat down and he explained that, among several interesting things which Francis had discovered about Basher Lyons, the Hackney Marsh roughneck was deeply in hock to HMRC, while he was currently arranging the purchase of a large villa outside Marbella, in Spain. He also had some interesting ‘investments’ which had gone undeclared and which flouted at least seven or eight financial regulations.
‘The killer, though,’ he smiled, as Francis entered with coffee on a tray, ‘is that Mr Lyons recently became a father.’
‘Really?’ I was surprised. Jane hadn’t looked pregnant.
‘By a young woman in Waltham Forest,’ he added, as if that was unthinkable. ‘A dental assistant, apparently not his wife.’
Oops.
‘His missus went ballistic when she found out,’ declared Francis, his voice strangely soft. ‘She liked playin’ the odd away game, but was ready to cut his balls off for doing the same. You’re well clear of that, Mr Foreman, you want my opinion.’
He winked and left us, sure of tread and large of presence. ‘So where is Basher now?’ I asked.
‘Travelling,’ Charles replied. ‘His wife is suing for divorce and half of whatever she can get, and the Revenue is after the rest. I doubt he’ll stop running for a long while yet.’
I sighed with relief. That was one problem off my back. Now all I had to worry about was Susan and her battery of lawyers. It set me wondering what Dunckley might be thinking about me. I still had in mind the last time we’d talked and the threats he’d made.
Charles must have been reading my mind. He said, ‘The other business – HP&P? You’ll be pleased to hear it’s been resolved. There have been certain developments.’
‘Really? What kind of developments?’ Dunckley having forgotten I’d ever existed would be useful.
‘HP&P have been put under the spotlight along with two or three other multinationals. Questions were raised on Panorama about bribes paid to foreign government officials in exchange for contracts. When it came to HP&P your old boss Dunckley was mentioned. He seems to have been running his own little operation within the company for some time and has since gone AWOL with a large amount of funds wired to an overseas account HP&P claim they knew nothing about.’
‘That’s not good.’ I wondered if Susan had gone with him, and thought it was unlikely.
‘Not for Dunckley, certainly.’ He shot his cuffs and studied his fingernails. ‘I had a word with one of their chief executives in Amsterdam. I suggested that it wouldn’t be good for business if he had any intentions of pursuing former employees.’
‘What did he say?’ I wondered if the word had been delivered by Francis.
‘He doesn’t need the aggravation and agreed to forget all about you.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘The truth of the matter is that outwardly they’ll be interested in pursuing Dunckley, although instinct tells me they might not try too hard to catch up with him. In the current business climate they can do without further publicity and court cases. They’re bidding for a big government contract here at home, and having you or Dunckley hauled in front of the cameras won’t help.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘Well, it wasn’t entirely unselfish of me. I’ve got more work, if you feel up to it.’ He stirred his coffee. ‘A couple of my people have dropped off the payroll and I need someone… reliable.’
I nodded. ‘I need a few days to sort out some stuff. Can I get back to you?’
‘Of course. Take your time. I was actually thinking of something more permanent.’
‘Permanent?’ I had a sudden flashback to my suspicions about the kind of packages I’d been carrying so far, and wondered if I wanted to be involved further than I was.
‘Yes. The business can only grow, but I need someone to open up new markets – preferably on the ethical side. Someone who can travel – spend some time overseas laying the groundwork. That someone would eventu
ally become a full partner. What do you think?’
I was stunned. He was offering me a partnership in his business. But did I want it? I trusted him more than I had Dunckley, but wasn’t this going to be more of the same?
‘I have a question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Gus Mekashnik.’
He saw what was coming. ‘You want to know what it was you delivered to him.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a contract. I was asked by certain UK government officials to act as intermediary in the purchase of some obsolete Russian military equipment from the Cubans, being updated and revamped by North Korea for sale on the open market. It was all perfectly legal under US, UK and UN regulations but they wanted someone to monitor events, which was where I came in. For whatever reason Mekashnik was willing to pay an absurd price for you to deliver the paperwork. Unfortunately for him, he’d made one too many enemies in his own backyard and his time ran out.’
‘Oh.’
He smiled. ‘Don’t worry – you had a right to know. Anything else?’
‘Why me – with this offer? You hardly know me.’
He shrugged. ‘The last time you were in this office you entrusted me with your money. I appreciated that more than I can say. Trust is important to me. I’ve placed the money in an account for you, incidentally. You can have it whenever you want.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I really didn’t know what to say.
He nodded and waved a hand. ‘Let me know when you’re ready. Good to have you back.’
He sounded as if he meant it, and I added another name to the growing list of people I’d become closer to recently. More than in all the preceding years.
Smart Moves Page 24