Jeff’s hands were shaking as he watched her walk across the gravel. The encounter kept running through his mind like a video file stuck on replay. “Jesus wept.”
You can’t, he told himself sternly. You absolutely cannot. Not with her. Anyone else, but not her.
22. MESSING ABOUT ON THE WATER
TALLINGTON LAKES WERE SITUATED several miles outside Stamford. Originally huge quarry pits, they’d been filled with water and over the decades developed into a superb water sports and yachting resort. There was a lake for each activity: sailing, water skiing and boarding, windsurfing, and Jet Skiing. The four main lakes were separated by strips of land that were lined with elaborate mobile homes and small A-frame cabins, each one with its own mooring.
Martin’s parents owned one at the far end of the Jet Ski lake, a caravan that was eight meters long and luxuriously furnished, surrounded by tall pines and silver birch trees. Wooden decking ran along one side, covered by a blue-and-white-striped awning. A big solar-pumped barbeque grill stood at one end.
The Land Rover was parked outside, just off the dirt strip that lined the lake. The Europol bodyguards parked their BMW a few meters away. Tim and Martin and Colin manhandled the Jet Ski out of the back of the Land Rover as the others started to arrive. Pretty soon they were all inside the caravan, laughing and shouting as they got changed, ready for the big day.
Martin and Simon hefted the Jet Ski up between them and carried it down the steep slope to the shoreline. Tim stood at the top, wearing swim shorts and a tatty old UV-resistant shirt.
“You ready or what?” Simon asked. He was buzzing with excitement. Everyone in the crew shared it. They’d spent the whole long, boring, miserable winter preparing for this moment.
Tim laced up his trainers. “Let’s go!” They all high-fived.
The Jet Ski was bobbing in the shallows, with Martin and Simon holding on to it, water coming over their knees. Tim waded out and managed to wobble his way onto the saddle without capsizing the little machine. Rachel handed him a pair of broad wraparound goggles with gold lenses. Colin checked the choke and throttle, then pressed the starter. The engine kicked in at once, bringing a pack of whoops from the crew standing on the mooring above. Tim waited a moment to make sure the engine was running smoothly, then slowly twisted the throttle. The Jet Ski moved off, its nose riding up as he accelerated out onto the open water. White spray began to curve up from either side, like ragged swan’s wings unfurling around him.
The Jet Ski lake was divided into two sections by a long spit of marshy land which almost reached right across; there was a small gap at the far end, which was closed off by a band of netting above the water. One half was for the use of caravan and cabin owners who were permanent resort members, while the hire center and day riders used the other section. The trees and bushes growing on the spit were tall enough to block the sections from each other’s view.
Tim was very conscious of the other five Jet Skis on the owner’s section. They were being ridden hard, performing deep plunge stops and near horizontal turns. He watched in envy as one jumped a small ramp over on the far side. Maybe they should have spent some time on lessons with the instructors at the hire center. But where was the fun in that?
He began to test the Jet Ski’s maneuverability, turning sharply, making a figure eight in front of the caravan where the crew were all shouting and waving. It was quite an easy ride. He gunned the throttle more. The Jet Ski ploughed into the wavelets, skimming from top to top with huge bursts of spray. He laughed gleefully as the water lashed at his face. The motion picked up, pounding him up and down energetically.
One of the other riders swished past, giving Tim an encouraging thumbs-up. He began to weave an exhilaratingly chaotic course around the orange buoys that designated the slalom course, steering as close as he dared, determined to loop around as many as he could.
Just as he felt confident enough to twist the throttle even higher he misjudged a turn. With the nose heading straight at a buoy he tried to yank the craft back the other way. And fell off.
He bobbed back up to the surface to see the Jet Ski floating passively a couple of meters away. The jeers coming from the crew back on shore were audible. Tim gave them the finger and swam back to the Jet Ski. Thankfully, the engine fired first time, and he skimmed back to where they were all waiting.
“That was so fantastic,” he yelled at them. “Who’s next?”
23. CARDINAL PUFF FOR THE THIRD TIME
“I WOULD LIKE TO THE DRINK to the health of Cardinal Puff Puff for the third and…”
“Wrong!” the rest of them roared exuberantly.
Simon’s teeth ground together. “Oh fuck it, you are unserious!”
“Drink. Drink,” they all whooped.
Simon tried to focus on the miniature Manhattan island of bottles and tall glasses covering the table. He plucked one at random and guzzled its contents. Rum and coke trickled down his already wet T-shirt. “Okay.” The bottle waved around as he tried to put it back down. “This is it. I’m doing it right now.” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, concentrating furiously. He picked the glass up carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “One finger, see. Okay. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to health the drink of Cardinal Puff…”
“Wrong!”
Simon started giggling, tears of delight running out of his eyes as he slowly slid out of the canvas chair and onto the decking. Rachel fell on top of him, her shoulders quaking with drunken joy.
Tim thought it was equally hysterical. He tried to throw his arms around Annabelle to share the mirth. They’d been drinking since late afternoon, after finally finishing with the Jet Ski. Everybody had been out on the lake, taking turns to have a go. It had wound up quite competitive among the boys, of course, with Tim and Simon timing themselves along the buoys and heavily disputing the results. Nobody felt confident enough to try the ramp yet. But there would be a lot more days like this one during the summer.
When they’d all showered in the caravan’s small bathroom, and put on warmer clothes as the sun went down, Martin had fired up the barbeque and started cooking. Light cables looped around the trees started to glow at dusk, giving the little site a cozy appearance. There were après-water parties breaking out at plenty of the other caravans around the lakes, their lights shimmering across the water as laughter and music drifted through the cooling air. The beer had come out, and they settled around the long table. They finished the beer along with the last of the burgers, and moved on to spirits. Someone suggested the drinking game.
“It’s very simple,” Vanessa said. “Listen, I want to drink to the health of Cardinal Puff…” She spluttered off into a laugh.
“No!” Sophie and Natalie chorused.
“You’ve got to start with ‘ladies and gentlemen…’”
Vanessa tried to drink a Bacardi forfeit while she was still laughing. It sprayed out across her jeans and dribbled down onto the planks. She just laughed louder.
Tim, who was now lying across Annabelle’s legs, turned around to smile up adoringly at her. “Let’s go inside,” he said quietly. “Please.”
Annabelle shifted her knees, trying to move his weight to a more comfortable position. “Don’t think so, Tim.” She was quietly furious with Tim for doing his usual, and pouring more and more booze down his throat—especially after this morning. Did the boy have no brain? She felt badly let down. Again.
“Ow, come on,” he slurred.
The others were starting to pay attention. She struggled to her feet, spilling Tim onto the decking. “I’ve got a ton of work to revise before Monday,” she said. “I’ll see you.”
Martin and Simon put their arms around each other’s shoulder and warbled out a cry of camp derision, which everyone else thought very funny.
A bleary Tim frowned up at her. “What?”
“Catch you later.”
He tried to climb up, but his trainers slipped on a puddle of beer, and he fell back down. For
a moment he did nothing as everyone stared silently at him, then he began to snigger.
Annabelle ignored the drunken amusement behind her as she walked away from the caravan. Two members of the Europol protection team were waiting with bored patience beside their car. “Good night,” the Dutch sergeant said; his smile was sympathetic and understanding.
She put her helmet on, and straddled the e-bike. It took forty-five minutes to get back to Uppingham.
Her house was in a twenty-year-old estate that bordered London Road, just behind the grounds of the local sixth-form college. The development company had constructed all of them to be energy efficient and with minimal ecological impact. It was a squat, dark, unimaginative box, with silver windows and wind-powered conditioning units whirring away under the eaves like the rustling of dry leaves. As always, she hesitated when she reached the front door.
The Goddard family had moved in when she was three years old. It had provided a lovely childhood with both her parents taking care of her. Back then the house had been big and light, filled with laughter and fun. There had been birthday parties with her friends running around everywhere, and magic Christmases with feasts and too much chocolate. In summer, her parents threw barbeques that would last all afternoon long, with the adults chugging back drinks and the children playing together in the pocket-size garden.
Tonight, when she did open the door, the hall lights gave off a meager glimmer, as if someone had replaced the electric bulbs with candles. The aging domestic computer with its antique programs was saving power as best it could. Their regenerator module desperately needed new electrolyte gel, and the solar cell panels on the roof were filthy with algae and moss.
Her father, Roger, was watching the screen in the living room when she came in. It was an Australian hospital soap sponsored by some health insurance company she’d never heard of, one of the twenty or so soaps that dominated his life. She could never tell them apart, or keep up with the parallel story lines. They all seemed to be written by the same creative writing program, churning out improbable plots driven by absurd coincidence and long-lost relatives. But he sat there and soaked them up, slumped bonelessly in the broad leather reclining chair positioned directly opposite the screen. That chair had arrived in its factory packing case on the day the Goddards moved in, as had all the current furniture and carpets. Nothing had changed, the interior had simply grown shabbier with the years.
She went into the kitchen, hoping her father hadn’t heard her tiptoeing along the hall. A forlorn hope.
“It’s Saturday,” Roger Goddard said. “I thought you’d be out all night.”
Annabelle was searching through the freezer for some bread to toast. She didn’t stop; she’d had nothing to eat all day apart from a dubiously cooked sausage at the barbeque. “So, I came home. It’s not a crime.”
“I know. Are you all right?”
“Just great, thanks.” She found half a loaf, and slammed it down on the worktop, separating the frosted slices.
“It’s not like you to be back this early, that’s all.”
The note of absurd earnestness infuriated her. As if he had ever shown any real concern. She straightened up, keeping her anger in check, and shoved the bread in the toaster.
Roger looked at the black T-shirt she was wearing, his lips tightening with disapproval as he read the print. But he was in one of his trying-to-be-a-father moods, so he didn’t comment. “Did you have an argument with Tim?”
“No. Dad, just log off. Please? I’m home because I want to be. That’s it.”
“I just worry about you. I know you don’t think much of me, but you’re still my daughter. I care.”
“About what? That I’m home early for once. I thought you’d be glad of that.”
“If I thought it was so you could spend time with me, I would be.”
“It’s late for that, Dad, by about ten years. Okay?”
“I’m sorry. I do my best.”
She wanted to scream at him, let out all her fury in one easy blast of vitriol and accusation. Looking at the shambolic man standing there with his pathetically eager expression held over his face like some kind of shield, the anger shifted to dismay and a sudden wave of exhaustion. There was no way she could ever understand what had happened to him, and through that, her. Their once-cozy house was degenerating along with the whole estate, where one in three families had no job and kids hung out all day intimidating anyone on the street. He never did any cleaning or cooking or gardening. The only real money she ever saw was a monthly allowance from her mother, the kind of money that nearly every other girl at school spent in an afternoon on a single outfit. Their only other source of income, the pitiful unemployment benefit her father received, vanished straight into the household account. Every week the domestic computer’s finance program would pay off the mortgage and local taxes. Then it would spend a few moments accessing the regional supermarket sites to update itself with their current grocery prices, comparing them with the necessities list she’d loaded in years ago. On Friday the Community Supply Service van would pull up outside and deliver their food for the week, a depressing cluster of supermarket own-brand packages and bargain offers.
There were times when she could remember her childhood, time spent with a man who used to take her out to the parks and play with her. A man who’d tell her stories, and read to her, and watch the children’s shows on cable with her. It was difficult to make the connection between that distant figure and the man standing in the kitchen.
In a way her father was the opposite of Tim’s. He always used to complain that Jeff never joined in much when he was a kid.
Jeff Baker.
Annabelle pushed that thought away before it had a chance to form. Right now she had enough problems trying to decide what to do about Tim. She was still furious with him over tonight. If things had gone according to her plans they’d be in bed together right now; and it might have been as good as it was with Derek.
Roger was still standing at the kitchen door, awkward at the silence.
“Dad, you know I’ve applied for university, don’t you?”
“I know. I remember, you told me. Just don’t do accountancy. You’ll wind up like me.” A nervous judder of a laugh.
“That means I’ll be leaving at the end of summer. Leaving home.”
His head bowed slowly. “I know. I’m pleased about that. It’s what you need. It’ll be good for you.”
“Okay then.” The slices clunked up out of the toaster, barely brown. She grabbed them.
“So, you’re all right then?” he persisted.
“Dad, yes, I’m fine. I just wanted a night in, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
An insistent bleeping from her PCglasses woke her up at nine-thirty the next morning. It was a txt from Derek.
By ten past ten she’d had breakfast, showered, put on some clean clothes and was out of the house on the way to catch her bus.
24. CELEBRITY STATUS
THE BARMAID AT THE VAULTS gave Jeff a wide knowing smile as she pulled three pints for him. He endured it awkwardly, impatient for the glasses to fill. It was like being taunted by school-yard bullies. Nothing you could say to make her stop, nowhere to go to avoid her gaze.
Once the last drop of beer came out of the pump tap he hurriedly dropped a hundred-euro cash card on the bar, and fled back to the table with the three glasses. “Jesus, does everybody know?”
Alan chuckled as he lifted his glass. “’Fraid so, old boy. There’s poetic justice for you.”
“How the hell is this poetic justice?”
“Without your memory crystal there would never be this god-awful Orwellian twenty-four-hours-a-day, every-street-in-every-town surveillance. We simply couldn’t store that much data, not on good old-fashioned hard drives. The insurance company would never have put that camera outside your flat. Your little friend could have gone home without anyone ever seeing. Instead, you came along with your great save-the-world-from-capitali
sm crusade, and now you can’t actually get crime insurance coverage unless there is a Big Brother camera pointing at your front door. Cheers!” He took a gulp of beer.
“Hey, releasing the memory crystal was never about politics.”
“You changed the world,” James said. “Now live in it. We have to.”
Jeff gave his friend a surprised look. There had been a lot of anger in James’s voice. For once the big man wasn’t happily slurping down his beer. Now what have I done? He’d come to the pub purely so he could get out of the manor. Life at home was not good right now.
“Could be worse,” Alan mused. “The world could have turned out like it did in Blade Runner.”
James took a long drink. “That would have been preferable.”
“What the hell is up with you?” Jeff asked.
“Nothing wrong with me. How about you?”
Jeff couldn’t figure this out at all. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“So we gather.”
“You’re not seriously upset about me meeting that girl, are you?”
James gave him a moody glare over the rim of his glass. “I don’t know, which one?”
“Come on, you two,” Alan said. He was looking between them with quite a degree of discomfort. “We’re not re-creating the end of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly here.”
“Good!” Jeff took a long drink, deliberately ignoring James. He knew now. Somehow his old friend had found out about him and Nicole. And what do you say to that? The man’s granddaughter. Small wonder he was so angry. He suddenly wondered if Nicole had come clean and told James herself because Jeff had kept canceling their meetings.
“I never could work out which one was supposed to be the ugly,” Alan said.
“Lee Van Cleef,” James said irritably.
Jeff had always supposed it was Eli Wallach, but kept quiet.
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