Crack Down (19 page)

I took a good look round before I crossed the road and moved cautiously towards the spot where the Cosworth had vanished. There was a narrow gap in the hedgerow, and I edged my head round. A rutted, stony track led a few yards off the road, angling round sharply to the double doors of a wooden building. Small barn, large garage, take your pick. The Cosworth was outside, parked next to a Mercedes 300SL with the personalized plate TON 1K. I could see a thin line of yellow light along the top of the door, but nothing more. The side of the lock-up was only feet away from the airport fence.

I felt seriously exposed where I was, so I slipped across the track and inched up to the corner, checking the hedge as I went. Just on the corner, there was a bit of give and I wriggled into the bushes, trying not to think of all the nocturnal creatures that lurk in the English countryside. If you ask me, extinct is quite the best state for mice and rats and most other small furry animals with sharp teeth. Not to mention all the creepy insects that would take one look at my hair and decide it was a better habitat than the filthy maze of the hedgerow.

I gave an involuntary shudder that rippled through the hedge with a noise like
Wuthering Heights
meets
The Wind in the Willows
. “Get a grip, Brannigan,” I muttered under my breath. I took a deep breath and my nose filled with dust. Predictably, just like the worst kind of wimpy heroine, I felt a sneeze welling up inside. I pinched the bridge of my nose so tight my eyes watered, but not so much that I missed the garage door opening. Terry Fitz appeared in the doorway, called back, “No problem, speak to you in the week,” and walked briskly to the Cosworth.

He was carrying three Sainsbury's carrier bags, but I didn't think
he'd come all the way out to the airport to pick up some groceries. He opened the boot, and in the glow of the courtesy light, I saw him lift the carpet and stow the carrier bags underneath. From the look of it, they were packed into the well where the spare wheel should be. Fitzgerald slammed the boot shut, then got into the Cosworth. He bounced the car round in a tight three-point turn, then he was off, leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the moonlight. I didn't even think about trying to follow him.

Instead, I waited to see who else was lurking inside the garage. I didn't think that anyone who owned a motor like that was likely to be spending the night there. Besides, with Richard behind bars, I had nothing better to do with my Sunday evening.

It was a long half-hour before there was any sign of life. With no warning, the door swung open. Before I had the chance to see who emerged, the inside light snapped off. A tall, burly man in an overcoat came out and turned his back to me as he fastened a couple of big padlocks that closed the heavy steel bars protecting the doors. Then, still with his back to me, he headed towards the Mercedes. I backed out of the hedge, coming out on the track out of his sight, and raced back towards the road as his engine started. I reckoned I had a couple of minutes while he turned the big car around. With a bit of luck, he'd be heading the way my car was facing and I might be able to pick him up. If I lost him, at least I had the car registration number to go at.

I dived behind the wheel of the Peugeot just as his headlights swept the hedge opposite the gap. The gods were smiling. He drove away from me, so I started the engine, left the lights off and followed. I was beginning to feel like I'd got the sucker role in a very bad road movie.

We were only a mile from the main road. I let him glide off before I switched my lights on and rejoined the respectable. I hoped this wasn't going to be a long chase, because my fuel gauge told me I'd soon be running on fumes. At least Mercedes Man didn't drive like a speed freak. I suppose when you're driving round in that much money you don't need to prove anything to anybody.

We cruised through Wilmslow, the town where car dealers
aren't allowed to sell anything that costs less than five figures. They're all here—Rolls Royce, Porsche, BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar, even Ferrari. Just before the town center, the Merc turned right and, a couple of hundred yards down the road, he pulled on to the forecourt of a small car pitch. EMJ Car Sales. Even the second-hand motors were all less than three years old.

The driver got out of the car and let himself into the car showroom. A light came on inside. Now at least I knew where Terry Fitz had come by his trade plates. And why he seemed to go for seriously expensive motors. Five minutes later, the interior light snapped off and the driver got back into his Merc. I still hadn't had a good enough look at him to attempt identification. We drove back into the town center. It was quiet; not even the designer clothes shops had attracted late-night browsers. We passed the station and headed out of town. By now, I had a shrewd suspicion where we might be headed.

Prestbury has more millionaires per head of population than any other village in England, according to the media-hype types. The only way you'd guess from hanging round in the main street is from the motors parked outside the deli and the
chocolatier
. They don't have sweetie shops run by Asians in places like Prestbury. They don't have anything that isn't one hundred percent backed up by centuries of English Conservative tradition. But then, in Prestbury, you don't get the kind of
nouveau
millionaire celebs that give the paparazzi palpitations. We're talking captains of industry, backroom boys and girls, the high rollers whose names mean nothing to anyone outside a very select circle. You can tell it's posh, though. They haven't got pavements or streetlights. After all, who needs them when you go everywhere by car or horse?

About a mile from the center of the village, the Merc signaled a left turn. I signaled right, then killed my lights and pulled on to the verge. Someone was going to have a major tantrum when they saw my tire marks in the morning. I jumped out of the car and sprinted towards the gateway he'd entered. I crouched behind the gatepost. The deeply incised letters told me I was outside Hickory Dell, the land that taste forgot. The house was built on the side of a slope,
a split-level monstrosity that could have housed half Manchester's homeless and still have had room for a wedding reception. A four-car garage bigger than any house on my estate stood off to one side. One garage door was open, the drive outside it spotlit with high-wattage security lights. I heard the soft slam of a car door, then the heavy-set man emerged. As he swung round to check the door was closing behind him, I got a good look at his face.

I'd seen him before, no question about it. The problem was, I didn't have a clue where or when.

I stopped running and took a couple of seconds to work out exactly where I was. I could feel the prickle of sweat under my helmet as I swivelled my head from side to side. I turned sharp right and started running again. As I rounded the next corner, my heart sank. I'd hesitated too long. The tank was heading straight for me, blocking the entire width of the street. Desperately, I turned back, in time to see the helicopter closing off my retreat by dropping a block of what looked remarkably like granite into the street.

Resigned to defeat, I pulled off my helmet and glove. In the next playing area, Davy was still inside his helmet, one hand on the joystick that controlled the tank, the other punching the air triumphantly. I hate kids. They're always better at the computer games where hand–eye coordination is vital.

I tapped the top of his helmet and undid the straps. Reluctantly, he let go the joystick and climbed out of the seat. “Time up, cybernaut,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “They'll be closing soon.” The brand new VIRUS Center (VIrtual Reality UniverSe, I kid you not) had proved to be the best possible way of amusing Davy without doing my head in. It had only opened a month before, and secretly I'd been dying to try out the twenty game scenarios promised in their lavish brochure. I'd been wary about coming on a bank holiday Monday, but it had been surprisingly quiet. I blame the parents. Not that I'm complaining—their absence gave me and Davy a lot more scope for enjoying ourselves.

I suppose I should have felt guilty, indulging myself with swords and sorcery while Richard was still languishing, but he seemed to think that his son's enjoyment was just as important as my
attempts to get him released. Besides, Alexis had had to go into the office anyway to do some last-minute work on the child porn exposé that would launch the
Chronicle'
s latest campaign. At least I'd pitched her into trying to find out who lived at Hickory Dell.

We headed back to the car via the souvenir shop. “Enjoy yourself?” I asked. Pretty redundant question, really.

“It was boss. Top wicked.” I took that to mean approval. “It was a lot better than Ice World,” he said judiciously. “Skating gets boring after a while. Your ankles get sore. And the other stuff was pretty boring. You know, all that discovering the South Pole stuff. The models are really naff, and they don't
do
anything. 'S not surprising there was hardly anybody there,” he added, dismissing Alexis's attempts to entertain him.

“Wasn't there?” I asked, more for something to say than out of interest.

“There was
no
queues,” he said indignantly. “Anything worth doing always has queues.” He looked around the souvenir shop, where we were the only customers. “Except this place,” he qualified.

How bizarre to be part of a generation where queues are a sign of approval. Me, I'd pay money to avoid standing in line. I'm the driver everyone hates, the one who jumps the queue of standing traffic on the motorway and sneaks in just as the three lanes narrow to two. I nearly said something, but Davy was already delving through a box of transfers.

I left him to his browsing and ambled over to the ego board by the door. It displayed five-inch by three-inch color photographs of the creators and senior staff of the VIRUS Center, captioned with their names and executive titles. They all looked interchangeable with the mugshots on the board down the local supermarket. I turned back to check on Davy, and suddenly my subconscious swung into action. No queues at Ice World, coupled with the ego board, had finally woken my memory. The answer had been there all the time, only I'd been too dozy to spot it.

When we got back, Alexis was sitting in my conservatory, trying to look like she was engrossed in the evening paper. I knew she was only pretending; Chris gave the game away. “You were right,” she said to Alexis in a surprised voice. “It
was
Kate's car. Hello, you two. Have a good day?”

That was all the encouragement Davy needed. He launched into a blow-by-blow account of the VIRUS Center. Like an angel, Chris steered him off towards the kitchen, seducing him with promises of fish fingers and baked beans. I collapsed on the sofa and groaned. “Thank God for contraception,” I muttered.

“I don't know what you're going on about,” Alexis said. “He's good as gold. You want to spend a day looking after my nephew. He's hyperactive and his mother's the kind of divvy who fills him up with E numbers. Any more complaints from you and I won't tell you what I've found out today.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back. “The occupant of Hickory Dell is Eliot James,” I intoned. “Boss man at Tonik Leisure Services. Owners of, among other things, Ice World. Which, if what Davy says is right, must be struggling. If you're half-empty on a cold bank holiday Sunday morning, you're not going to weather the recession indefinitely.” I sneaked an eyelid half-open. Alexis's expression moved from fury to disappointment to amusement. Luckily for me, it stopped there.

“Nobody loves a smartass,” she growled. “OK, clever clogs. So what else have you dug up about Jammy James while you've supposedly been off entertaining me laddo? I mean, I don't know why I bother putting myself out when you just bugger off and do it yourself anyway!”

I sat up and tried to look apologetic. “I haven't been doing any digging, I promise you. Like I said this morning, I knew I'd seen him before, I just couldn't get a handle on it. Then Davy told me Ice World was as lively as Antarctica on a Saturday night, which set me wondering how these theme parks cover their overheads when the punters haven't got enough money to take the family out on a bank holiday. We were in the souvenir shop, and they've got one of those boards with the flattering photos of the top brass that are meant to make you think this is a really user-friendly operation. I
was staring at that, and then I remembered that I'd seen the guy I trailed on one of those ego boards. Add that to the personalized number plate on the car …”

“What personalized plate?” Alexis protested. “You never said anything to me about a personalized plate!”

I gave a guilty smile. “I … ah… I forgot to mention that. TON IK. Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind.”