by Sam O'Brien
“Don’t worry about that. Nothing’s running milk, is it?”
“Well no, but that’s not the point.”
“God Almighty, I never thought I’d have to twist your arm for dinner at The Scimitar. You’ll only be in Cambridge. In that car of yours, you can be back in 40 mins. And that’s final.”
“OK, see you tomorrow.”
“Good, good.” He hung up.
Andrew’s head crashed to the pillow, he was asleep instantly.
* * *
The following morning, Jess was typing a report when her phone rang. She looked at Andrew’s name on the screen. Smiling, she pressed the green button. “When you leave a note saying you’ll call, that means in a month, does it? No wonder your posh girlfriends leave you.”
“What? Oh, um, I’ve been flat out all hours. It’s the breeding season, you know.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot the whole world stops when the horses start shagging.”
There was silence on the line.
Jess bit her lip. Maybe she’d overdone it?
“Sorry, Jess. You’re right, but I did leave you a message.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I know. Seriously, though, you need to take a breather: keep in touch with life.”
He exhaled. “Funny, I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.”
“I’ve been pretty busy myself. Late night surveillance and stuff. But at least I can get out on the bike and clear my head. When was the last time you went to Silverstone?”
He exhaled sharply. “December.”
“Why don’t you come down at the weekend? Have a few drinks and forget about stallions and selling horses.”
“God, I’d love to. I’ve got plenty of news.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve been doing a bit of, er, homework about Charles and his mates. They’re up to something with the Chinese.”
He told her all about the DVD.
“Hold on a sec.” She glanced at her colleagues, left the office, and leaned against a car outside. “Are you telling me your boss is blackmailing the Chinese government? You’re sure about this?”
“Jess, I’ve got a copy of the film. It’s him, I know it. It has to be blackmail. Why else would Charles have it lying on his desk?”
“I take it Charles doesn’t know you’ve seen the film?”
“I’m not stupid, Jess.”
“Alright, alright. Where’s your copy?”
“Safe.”
“Can you get it to me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring it down at the weekend.”
“Good. Look, it’s a start, but we need more than that.”
“I’ll see what I can find out tonight. Charles invited me to dinner at The Scimitar to celebrate the Tote deal.”
“Bloody hell, that’s posh.”
“Yeah, Rupert and Piers’ll be there, too. You know Rupert owns the place?”
“Really? Talk about going into the lions’ den. Be careful.”
“It’s only dinner.”
Jess started pacing back and forth. “Look, Andrew, assuming – worst case – everything you’ve told me is true. Then I don’t think you should go.”
“I don’t have a choice, Jess. Charles is insisting. Hey, it could be interesting, I might find out a bit more when they’re full of wine. Like you say: we need more information. Proof.”
“Are you sure?”
“What can they do, lock me in the cellar? At least it’s a public place, it’s not like they can have me mugged or run over on their own doorstep.”
She heard her name being called from an open window. “Oi, Flint, get yerself to the DCI’s office.”
“Look, Andrew I’ve got to go. I’m working tonight, but send me a text when you’re home, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Smartarse,” she grinned. “Oh and Andrew.”
“Yes?”
“Mind yourself. I wouldn’t want… I mean, I… just make sure you let me know.”
“Don’t worry, Jess.”
But she did.
Chapter 23
The Scimitar, Cambridge
That evening, when Andrew pulled up outside the restaurant, the valet took his car. Andrew did a double-take as he handed the guy a bank note. He was sure he had seen him before, at the wheel of Rupert’s Maybach. Andrew went inside and gave his name to the hostess. He noticed the man who took his coat had closely cropped hair and military posture. The place was probably riddled with Slipstream employees. Andrew glanced at the door, but it was too late to do a runner. His palms were clammy as he was led to the private dining room.
The three ex-soldiers met him with smiles, handshakes, and pats on the back. Andrew took his place at the table as Charles handed out glasses of a rust-tinged drink.
“What’s this?” asked Andrew, wrinkling his nose.
“Champagne cocktail,” said Charles. “The perfect start to a celebration dinner.”
“What’s in it?”
“Bubbly, sugar lump, dash of brandy. Proper stuff,” said Rupert, taking a sip of his own. “Come on. Chin, chin, Andrew.”
Andrew caught Charles staring at him and put his glass down. “I’d better stick to beer. Got to drive home.”
“Nonsense,” said Piers. “One glass won’t do you any harm.”
“I wouldn’t have bothered to invite you if I’d known you’d be such a wet fart. Drink up for Christ’s sake,” said Charles.
“Alright, just the one then.” Andrew picked up his glass.
“Gentlemen,” said Charles. “To China, and to British racing.”
“To China,” they said in unison.
Andrew sipped the fizzy liquid and winced from the bitter taste. He thought it’d be a struggle to finish his glass, but after a few minutes of horsey small talk, the concoction steadied his nerves. He found himself sipping rapidly until his glass was dry. Charles offered to make him a refill.
“No thanks better not. I’ll have a light beer.”
Charles glanced at his watch. “Right you are. I suppose it’s time to order,” he said.
Piers nodded. Rupert stood. “I’ll get our waiter,” he said, leaving the room.
Rupert closed the door behind him and snapped his fingers. A waiter came scurrying. “Go and take the orders,” he said, pulling out his phone. He clicked the stopwatch on his Rolex and made the call.
“Give the injection in exactly fifteen minutes.” He disconnected and dialled again. “It’s me. I’ve got a name for you. Flint, Jess. Probably short for Jessica. Get her details from the DVLA, then find a mobile number for her. She’s a copper, so be careful… Yes, good. I want the full package. ASAP.” He hung up and rejoined the others.
* * *
Victor crouched in the darkness. He watched the man walk along the foaling unit, checking each stable. After closing the last door, the man disappeared around the back of the building. Mr. Calcott had said the guy did his rounds every ten minutes or so. Victor checked the luminous dial on his watch. It was time.
He slid his black-clad form out of the shadows and dashed silently through the beam of the yard light. Third door from the left. As he opened the latch, he pulled off his balaclava and remembered what they had told him: no sudden movements around the horses. In the stable, he dropped his shoulders and kept his eyes down.
The horse was munching hay; she flicked her ears and snorted gently. Victor carefully reached out and stroked her neck, working his way to her head. The mare stopped eating and leaned into his caress. He grabbed the headcollar and pulled the small syringe from his pocket. Keeping a tight hold, he firmly jabbed the needle into the mare’s neck. She flinched slightly, but did not pull away. The oxytocin went straight into her system. Victor closed the door quietly, ran back to the trees, and sent a text message while he waited for the man to check the horses again.
When the action started, he would creep over to Andrew’s cottage.
* * *
Outside The Scimitar, Goran sidled up to the
green Lotus. Silently, he opened the door and stashed the small bag under the seat. Then, he put the tiny LED light on his head and dropped to the ground. He pulled the long industrial needle from his jacket and rolled under the car. He found the brake lines easily enough, but had to grope for a moment to locate the power steering system. The needle pierced a clean hole in each. Nothing large or noticeable, but with speed and pressure, the leaks would start. He extricated himself, went to the Maybach, and sent a text message.
* * *
Andrew pushed the remainder of his beer away, he was starting to feel a bit lightheaded. He cursed himself for drinking the cocktail.
“Anyway,” said Charles. “I want to thank you for keeping your ears open and mouth shut about the Tote thing. It’s as good as signed and sealed.”
“Er, that’s great news. So, um, when will you get the Chinese simulcast rights?”
Andrew watched the three ex-soldiers exchange looks. He noticed Charles shrug almost imperceptibly, before replying. “Oh, I should imagine it’ll all be in the bag by October.”
“What makes you so sure?” said Andrew. “Did they give it to you in writing?”
“When one deals with the Chinese,” said Piers, “it’s all about the connections one has and how one uses them. They call it Guanxi.”
“And you’ve got them?”
“Oh yes, we’ve got them,” snorted Rupert. “Exactly where we want them.” He checked his watch, looking slightly annoyed.
“Listen, I was thinking,” said Charles, in a jovial tone. “When I send you to Beijing on reconnaissance, you can take that girl of yours with you. Flint, isn’t it?”
Andrew’s stomach flipped. “I told you, she’s just a friend. It’s… we’re–”
Rupert laughed. “You can’t fool us, Dixon. A trip to China and a night in a former Imperial Palace’ll get her knickers off; guaranteed. But if you want to have her at home, I could book you a table here. Always works for–” His phone beeped, cutting him off. He checked it. “Ah! Spot on,” he said, cutting a sideways glance at Charles.
Andrew had a strange feeling. A sort of shiver ran up his neck and over the top of his head, making him feel happy. His skin tingled. He rubbed his face with his hands and felt his jaw twitch. His brain went off on a tangent: imagining him and Jess walking along the Great Wall, laughing and joking. Then his phone rang.
He answered and it snapped him back to reality with a jolt. Colin could barely get the words out. “Andrew, where are you? Melodic Maiden’s foaling. Only one leg coming.”
Andrew went pale. “What? She’s not due for nearly a month.”
“Well, she’s lying in front of me straining like she’s going to burst an artery.”
“A problem?” said Charles, with a look of concern.
Andrew ignored Charles. He rubbed his forehead and tried to focus. He knew he shouldn’t have left the farm. “Colin, get her up and keep her walking. I’m on my way. Oh, and Colin, don’t panic and do anything stupid.” He hung up. Suddenly feeling parched, he downed a glass of water and looked at Charles. “Melodic Maiden’s gone into early labour. I’m off.”
“Oh gosh! That’s one of Tony Fowler’s mares. Go on, quick as you can. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
Andrew dashed out. While the valet brought his car, he called the vet and explained the problem. Seconds later, he swung onto the A14 dual carriageway and floored the accelerator. Nine pm on a Wednesday evening, traffic was light, but he didn’t need to get pulled over. He backed off and held the car at sixty-five.
He felt thirsty again, but hadn’t any water. He licked his lips and found himself chewing his gums. He looked at the speedometer, realised he was up to eighty-five again. Back to sixty-five. The brakes felt a bit sluggish. Must get the car serviced. He was glad he didn’t finish that beer.
Another shiver passed through his scalp. Jess. He should call Jess; there was so much to tell her. He felt a rush of pleasure as he pictured her on the sofa wearing her pearl earrings. She was the only woman who had ever understood him. He took several deep breaths. Another shiver – a rush. More powerful this time. His train of thought faltered, like a needle slipping on a record.
He was puzzled by the gang of three’s niceness. Were they trying to buy him off? Why? They couldn’t know he’d seen the film. Charles said they’d be sorted by October. Why October?
Once again Andrew saw he was hitting ninety and slowed down, checking his mirrors. Brakes definitely needed more fluid. Just his luck: two problem foalings in as many nights. If Colin kept her walking until he arrived, it would work out alright. Another intense wave of energy erupted through him, his heart was pounding. He put the radio on and tapped his hands to the beat. He was buzzing.
An image of Piers crept into his head. The horse flied lice e-mail spun round in his mind. I say, if the little poofter can’t get it done, instead of the pool footage, why not give it the Anatolian shove. October. That was it. Ling would take office in October, but what about?
Then he understood. The deal was going to go ahead alright. At any cost.
How could he stop them? Jess. Jess was great. She would know. Andrew could feel his heart thumping.
Just then, one of his favourite songs came on the radio. He turned up the volume and kicked on as Jessie J blasted through ‘Price Tag’.
Andrew shot past Newmarket and merged onto the A11, the speedometer edging over ninety. The steering felt stiff, like a real racecar. Andrew focused on the road. He was flying, at one with the machine. Traffic was still light, but each time he passed a car, the rear lights seemed to glow. Vividly. It was like he was in a nightclub. Music engulfed him. The oncoming headlights were dancing, almost flashing. His gums were getting sore, why was he chewing them? He never usually did that. Sweat dripped off him. God, he was thirsty. No time to stop for a drink. The poor horse. Colin would be in a state, too.
He passed the turn for Chestnut Close housing estate, he would soon be upon Thetford Forest roundabout. Then straight to Brockford: the mare was going to be fine. “Yesss!” he roared. He would get there before the vet. In fact, everything was going to be fine. He had never felt like this before, he was… He couldn’t describe it, but it felt so good.
Jess. God, he was an idiot. It was right there all the time. She was the one for him. He loved her. He needed to tell her that.
Music blared. Now there were blue lights flashing. They looked cool. Where? In the mirror. Shit, he was doing well over a hundred. He didn’t need this right now. He would explain it was a veterinary emergency. He jabbed at the brake, the pedal went limp under his foot. Not good. The blue lights were closer now. Ahead, he could make out the large tree-dotted roundabout. Panicking, he changed gear and tried the brakes again. Nothing. The steering was so stiff. Trees, and blue lights. Jess. What was happening? His brain was frazzled.
Andrew felt the car hit the kerb. The seatbelt cut into his shoulder. Everything slowed down. The car lifted into the air like it was floating. He thought of his parents, and Jess. Then pain screamed through him.
The policemen felt their car sway when the Lotus flashed past.
“Fucking ‘ell, Ayrton Senna’s back from the dead,” said Sergeant Hardy. He turned on the siren and set off in pursuit.
Mike Atherton called it in. Another unit would meet them on the forest road.
“Get the plates. Run ‘em. He’s doing over a hundred. It’s early in the week for sodding joyriders,” said Hardy, desperately trying to gain on the runaway.
“Doesn’t look like he’s slowing for the roundabout,” said Atherton. “God, if he hits someone.”
Hardy punched the brakes. Ahead, the Lotus slowed a bit, but not enough. Hardy’s jaw dropped open as he watched the light sportscar hit the low barrier and flip into the air. Its rear end rose up, giving the policemen a clear view of the undercarriage. It slammed into the large oak tree, like a pie slapped onto a wall. There was a loud bang and the sound of twisting metal.
Hardy scree
ched his car to a halt. “Call an ambulance and a fire crew, then seal off the road,” he barked at Atherton.
Hardy left the lights flashing and trotted over to the wreck. Its wheels still spun and it rested at a sixty-degree angle to the ground; rear end mashed onto the tree, bonnet jammed into the earth. Hardy shone his torch at the hole where the window should have been. He screwed up his face and sucked air between his teeth. One bloodied occupant suspended by the seatbelt.
Atherton came up behind him. “Ambulance and firemen’ll be here in five,” he said, inspecting the damage with a grimace. “What’s that you said about Ayrton Senna?”
Chapter 24
Atherton and Hardy watched the ambulance roar away. The wreckage had been attached to a crane and was being hoisted back onto its wheels. The driver’s door had been cut off and lay on the ground at their feet. The area was cordoned off and four more policemen ushered cars past the scene. People rubbernecked, hoping to catch a glimpse of something grisly.
The mangled car was placed carefully on the road, and the firemen informed Hardy their work was done.
“Cheers, mate. The tow truck’s on its way. We’ll handle it from here,” said the policeman. He turned to Atherton. “Right, gloves on.”
Hardy held the torch, while Atherton carefully reached inside the wreck. Stuffed in the sun visor, he found the DVLA log book and a driver’s licence.
“The system said the vehicle’s registered to an Andrew Dixon,” said Atherton. “Log book confirms it and the licence is his.” He handed the documents to Hardy.
“Huh. Bloody idiot.” Hardy frowned. “Hang on a sec, I met him out at Brockford Hall. I was there a while back, somebody threw a bucket of blood at the front door. I interviewed Dixon.”