Straker walked in through the gate. Ghost-walking across the gravel – careful not to make a noise – he reached the back of the Peugeot. Bending down, he slipped a small magnetic container – the tag – up under the rear spoiler. But as he stood up, twisting slightly, his shoe made a crunching noise on the gravel.
Immediately a dog started barking from behind Michael Lyons’s front door.
Straker froze.
He held his breath.
It kept barking.
For several minutes.
Would the dog never relent? Straker daren’t make any more noise, in case of further alerting the dog. If he was quiet, surely the owner would dismiss the commotion from the animal as a false alarm. Straker remained crouching down, out of the sight of the windows, directly behind the car. He seemed to be there, motionless, for an age. The barking continued, but at last he heard a raised voice from the inside, shouting the dog down.
Finally, it shut up.
Straker, still in a crouch, slipped off his shoes. Easing himself up to full height again, he ghost-walked in his socks across the uncomfortable gravel to the grass beside the driveway. He made for the gate post. Nipping round the corner, he made it onto the verge, walked briskly to the end of the mown strip, put his shoes back on, and sauntered away slowly, back to his car.
Once inside and behind the wheel, he lifted a laptop he had left in the passenger well and turned it on. Within a matter of seconds, a satnav-like display showed a map on its screen with a flashing arrow indicating the location of the tracker.
Straker smiled to himself. He started his car and drove away.
Backhouse and Straker had supper at a local pub. After their early start that morning from Monte-Carlo, both were relieved to turn in relatively early – at Backhouse’s two-bedroom terraced house in Tysoe.
Straker woke at half-past five the next morning and immediately checked the tag-tracker device on the laptop. He was relieved to see Michael Lyons’s car still appeared to be parked out in front of Flax Cottage.
Straker drove straight for Gaydon and was back on his verge within view of Lyons’s driveway by six-thirty.
At seven thirty-five, Straker’s attention was caught by the white reversing lights of the Peugeot backing out of the drive from Flax Cottage. Simultaneously, the tracker beeped into life on his laptop, confirming Lyons’s movement and that, more importantly, the device was working.
He waited until the Peugeot was out of sight before following on behind. Any sight of Straker, now, would draw attention to him, particularly in such a quiet country byway. Once they were on the open road, it wouldn’t be so much of a problem; he could lose his presence among other traffic.
Straker eased along, past Lyons’s home. Still out of sight, he saw on the tracker that his man was turning left towards the middle of the village. Straker followed suit.
Lyons headed for the motorway, turning north towards Warwick and Birmingham.
Hanging back, Straker followed him, observing the Peugeot from some distance behind, comforted by being able to track him electronically at the same time.
Lyons left the M40 and headed for Royal Leamington Spa. Straker followed him into the centre of the town, in amongst its surprisingly elegant white stucco Regency townhouses and dark green cedar trees.
Lyons parked by a meter in the town centre.
This was odd, thought Straker. Where was Lyons going? Not to his office, if he was on a meter. Was he there for a meeting or a trip to the shops? Still some distance away, Straker quickly came to a halt, pulling over on the opposite side of the road, hoping to observe the direction in which Lyons might be making on foot. Straker saw his man walk down the street away from him. Lyons reached the intersection with The Parade and turned right. Driving on again, Straker pulled up to the same crossroads. From there, he was able to wait long enough at the intersection – before anyone honked him from behind – to see Lyons crossing the road a little way further down the hill. Lyons, dodging through the traffic to the far side of The Parade, soon disappeared into the grand entrance of The Regent Hotel.
Straker needed to follow him on foot to be sure. Sod’s Law had it there were no free parking spaces or meters nearby. Straker had to drive on down past the hotel and over the River Leam. It wasn’t until he reached Bath Place – two turnings on and some distance later – that he found a parking space. Bolting back from the car over the bridge, and up to the hotel, he reached the main entrance and walked in.
Slightly out of breath, he ordered a coffee to be taken in the reception area. Asking for the lavatories, Straker walked on into the hotel past the dining room. He managed to spot Lyons over by the window having breakfast with someone. Straker looked around his immediate location to check whether he was being stealthy enough. Believing he was, he moved slightly behind a door, pulled out his phone, switched it to “camera” and, as surreptitiously as possible, aimed the lens at his quarry, zoomed in, and fired off a couple of shots. In one, he managed to catch Lyons’s rendezvous almost face on.
Straker returned to his low table in among the armchairs of the reception area, where he helped himself to the coffee and, reading one of the broadsheets available in the hotel, kept a discreet but attentive eye on the main entrance in the lobby.
Michael Lyons walked out an hour or so later.
Straker, raising his eyes from the crossword, saw him go and, within a few seconds, had dropped a note into the leather bill holder, replaced the newspaper, and followed Lyons as far as the door. Through the porch windows to one side, Straker was able to watch Lyons make his way back up The Parade to Regent Street, and presumably his car.
Moving quickly from the main entrance of the hotel, Straker turned left and ran swiftly and easily down the street in the opposite direction, back over the river and to his own car in Bath Place.
Ten minutes later, Straker was three cars back from Lyons as he saw the Peugeot indicating left to turn into an industrial estate. Still some way behind, he followed Lyons through the business park before his quarry pulled up in front of a sizeable and impressive modern factory complex. Michael Lyons parked in what looked like a reserved bay, among the heavily manicured beds and trees out the front. Above the glass doors of the main entrance, Straker saw the name of the business. It rang a bell from his tour round the Ptarmigan factory the day before: Trifecta Systems. And, from the respectful nod Lyons received from the security guard standing by the main entrance, and a smile from a woman coming out of the building, Straker felt comfortable in deducing that Lyons was well-enough known here for this to be his place of work.
Straker made it back to Ptarmigan shortly after nine-thirty, and passed on his findings to Backhouse. ‘Michael Lyons had breakfast with a guy in the Regent Hotel,’ he told him, ‘and then pitched up for work at Trifecta Systems.’
‘Trifecta?’
‘Didn’t you mention them yesterday?’
‘I did – when we were talking about working with Benbecular. They provide our bespoke EMS – engine management system.’
‘What else do Trifecta do? It looked like a pretty big set-up.’
‘It is. They’re not just into engine management. They produce all our on-car electronics.’
‘All of them?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Including radios?’
Backhouse’s eyebrows raised as he realized the implications. ‘Oh Christ. But that doesn’t make sense, at all. Why would Trifecta be out to sabotage one of their own clients?’
Straker smiled, appearing to relish the conundrum.
‘It can’t be Trifecta on their own,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’s much more likely to be another Grand Prix team behind this.’
‘I agree. How many other teams would Trifecta be involved with?’
‘Most, in some way, shape or form. They’re more or less motor racing’s in-house electronics firm.’
‘No immediate leads there, then,’ concluded Straker as he pulled out his iPhone and, flicking throu
gh his pictures to find the clearest shot, handed the device to Backhouse. ‘Okay, what about this, then? Here’s the guy Lyons met for breakfast. Any idea who he is?’
The race engineer looked down at the snatched portrait, before frowning. ‘No.’
Backhouse studied the picture closely. He paused. ‘Hang on, can you zoom in?’
Straker leant across and demonstrated a two-finger spread on the screen. Backhouse copied the action for himself, zoomed in to enlarge the picture, and then peered closely at the image. ‘Well, looky there,’ he said turning the screen round to show Straker. ‘This guy’s wearing a Benbecular lapel pin – logo and all. What’s the betting he’s a company man?’
‘Where are Benbecular based, then?’ asked Straker.
‘Also in Leamington Spa.’
‘And which teams do they supply?’
‘Us, Lambourn and Massarella.’
Straker smiled resignedly. ‘The Byzantine interconnectivity is utterly incestuous here.’
‘Oh it is. You have to remember that pre-Bernie, Formula One was tiny – a set of cottage industries. Thanks to him, it’s all grown proportionately: many of the firms originally involved in the sport are more or less still there – they’ve just got a lot bigger along the way.’
‘Which is fascinating, charming, and impressive – but seriously reduces the chances of any one relationship indicating who might be behind the sabotage.’
TWENTY
Straker was given use of an office two doors down from Backhouse’s within the Ptarmigan factory. He started writing on a whiteboard the sabotage-related entities he had discovered so far in his investigation. An electronic device. Jamming. An apartment in Monte-Carlo. Michael Lyons. A Warwickshire cottage. A Peugeot hatchback. Trifecta. He also wrote: FIA. Heavy fines. Motive?
Straker sat there and just stared at his board.
He tried to think out from – and beyond – each of the entities in front of him, his eyes darting between them.
After a few minutes, he was sure he had noticed something. It was subliminal at first.
But something was odd.
Inconsistent.
Yes, he thought. There’s something there that isn’t quite right.
He dwelt on a contrast – the significant contrast in affluence between Lyons’s cottage and that apartment in Monaco. How much would a week’s rental for a flat like that during the Grand Prix set one back? he wondered. He didn’t know precisely, but he would bank on it being a tidy sum. Could Lyons really have afforded that, considering the modesty of the thatched cottage and two-door hatchback? Hardly. What was Lyons’s status, then, while he had been in Monte-Carlo? Was he there privately, or on business? Because of the expense, it had to be business, didn’t it? If so, was he there for Trifecta, or had Lyons been moonlighting – for somebody else?
If it had been his employer, would the company itself be behind his illicit radio jamming? Was that likely? Straker realized he needed to know more about Trifecta.
He rang Karen in London: ‘Could you look into a company called Trifecta Systems for me? I need you to identify all their activities, key clients, directors, who their investors or shareholders are, and any news cuttings you can come up with – your usual magic!’
Leaving Karen to get on with that, Straker returned to staring at his whiteboard. Nothing came to him. For quite a while. Until, after his nth cup of coffee, he noticed something else. There was something missing. Something he knew, but which wasn’t on his board. He realized he had no idea of its relevance, but had a feeling that he wanted to know more about the person Lyons had met for breakfast that morning in Leamington. Why was he suspicious of that meeting? he asked himself.
What was the significance of it? It was a meeting with someone wearing a Benbecular lapel pin. There was no significance at all, if those pins were widely available merchandize items. Except Benbecular was hardly a “designer” brand. Someone wearing one was, therefore, demonstrating a heavily esoteric interest in motor racing. And the meeting was intriguing, again because of a possible inconsistency. Lyons’s office, which struck Straker as large and well-appointed, must have its own meeting rooms and hospitality facilities, surely? – and it was only a couple of miles away. Instead of meeting at Trifecta, then, Lyons had chosen neutral ground to meet this motor racing aficionado.
Why?
True, it was hardly clandestine – in a public restaurant, and in broad daylight – but Straker’s interest was piqued. He wanted to find out more.
How?
After yet another cup of coffee Straker came up with a wheeze. Picking out his phone, he searched the web for two things. First, he wanted a barber’s shop in the town; he found several, and picked one: Giorgio’s. Then he searched for the number of the Regent Hotel and dialled it using the embedded link on the website’s Contact Us page.
His call was answered promptly.
Straker asked to be put through to the dining room. A Black Country-sounding voice soon answered and introduced herself as Jill.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I have a strange request, and really hope you can help me?’
Jill gave a nervous chuckle. ‘Okay?’
‘It’s Giorgio’s – the barbers – here, we’re just around the corner from the hotel,’ said Straker. ‘We had a client in this morning who rang back asking whether he had left his glasses behind.’
‘Oh.’
‘At the time, we said no. But, would you believe it? – we’ve found them.’
‘Err, okay?’ said the girl, sounding a little unsure what this had to do with her.
‘I’m ringing because we don’t know how to reach him. He did mention he had just had breakfast with you, though.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you, by any chance, have his name?’
‘How would we know that?’ she asked.
‘He happened to say that he was breakfasting with another of our clients, a Mr Lyons.’
There was a pause from the other end and Straker heard the encouraging sound of a page being flipped over. ‘Yes, you’re in luck – here it is. Mr Lyons … and … a Mr Jeremy Barnett,’ she read out.
‘Excellent. I suppose it’s too much to hope that Mr Barnett left a contact number when he booked?’
‘I’m afraid you’re right – he didn’t.’
Straker thanked Jill profusely and rang off. Next, via his iPhone, he looked up another telephone number on another website; he found one for the main switchboard for the company in question. He was going to take a punt.
Straker rang it. A few seconds later he was talking to an elderly lady who answered the phone: ‘Hello, Benbecular Engines?’
‘I need to write to Mr Jeremy Barnett,’ he explained, ‘and am anxious to get his title and address right, please.’
There was silence on the other end.
Oh shit, thought Straker. She doesn’t even recognize the name. Jeremy Barnett doesn’t mean anything to these people.
Suddenly he heard a sneeze.
‘Sorry about that, love,’ she said, still sounding distracted. ‘Caught by a sneeze. Who was it you wanted, again?’
‘Mr Barnett.’
‘Jeremy?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
Straker smiled and added: ‘I’ve got him down as Engine Management Systems, is that right?’
‘No, dear. He’s in our Technology Development Division. His title is Management Engineer.’
‘Many thanks,’ he said. ‘My letter to him will be in the post today,’ and rang off.
Straker’s wheeze had worked.
He walked across his temporary office and wrote: “Jeremy Barnett – Benbecular” on his whiteboard.
Straker stood back and studied this new piece of information in the context of the others. For uncounted minutes, his eyes flicked from one name to the next, deliberately, as if trying to spot the anagram from among the jumbled letters of a cryptic crossword.
Straker, after thirty minutes, realized he had
drawn a blank.
But that conclusion wasn’t completely useless. It did help confirm something for him: there was no apparent connectivity.
Straker’s mind wandered back to his previous assignment for Quartech. What had been the breakthrough with that? he reflected. Links, he answered: the way things were linked together, sometimes without apparent reason.
With that, Straker had two thoughts at once.
What about Charlotte Grant?
Now that his investigation involved more names, could he test her connection with any of them? He suddenly thought of her phone, and the names he had seen on it in Monte-Carlo.
Turning it on, Straker looked into her directory. Spookily enough, Jeremy Barnett and Michael Lyons were there.
Both of them.
In the absence of any firmer leads, he wanted to examine everything her phone contained – including the call, text, and email logs. Maybe that data could now help him join up some of these dots. But there was a lot of it.
Extracting it all would clearly take some time.
Calling Backhouse’s secretary, he arranged for Charlotte’s phone to be couriered down to Cavendish Square in London. Then, ringing Karen in his office, he explained what was coming and what he needed the Quartech technicians to do when it arrived.
‘Okay, Matt. I was about to ring you anyway. I’ve got some stuff for you on Trifecta. Do you want me to email it through?’
Five minutes later Straker was standing over the printer in Backhouse’s office. ‘Okay, Andy,’ he said, as he lifted the sheets off the machine. ‘What can you tell me about this list of Trifecta directors?’ and read them out.
Backhouse replied: ‘A former president of the FIA, a former chief executive of the BRDC and a former World Champion.’
‘Not a group you’d expect to play fast and loose with the rules, then?’ suggested Straker.
Driven Page 12