Quick (28 page)

‘How did it happen?’

The Frenchman’s words ring in his ears:
Be a man. Strong like bull. Not a soft-cock
—

No, not
those
words, the other ones:
Tell her the truth.

‘I was making a cup of tea in the hotel and I picked up the kettle the wrong way.’

Good Lord, what a terrible excuse.

‘Right.’

‘Okay, well I should probably —’ He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.

‘Skedaddle?’

He nods. ‘Though I may saunter. I haven’t decided yet.’

She grins. ‘Before you go.’ She beckons him over.

‘What?’ Billy steps closer, moves to a point about halfway between the door and her bed.

‘Closer.’

He does it, confused. ‘Okay.’

She gestures him closer.

He reaches her bedside. ‘Well I’m here.’

‘Lean down.’

‘Okay.’ With a confused smile he does it until his face is ten centimetres from hers.

She looks up at him. ‘Lower.’

‘What’s going on?’ He does it again until his face is level with hers and only three centimetres away. He feels a buzz in his chest.

She whispers. ‘I thought so.’

‘Huh?’

‘I knew it was you.’

He looks at her, their faces almost touching. ‘Knew what was me?’

‘Your aftershave is kind of cheap and nasty, no?’

‘It’s Gillette. The best a man can get.’

‘It really isn’t. It’s so sharp I could smell it over the burning petrol.’

He straightens up. ‘What?’

She studies him. ‘I was fading in and out of consciousness but I could smell it. You were the one who pulled me out of the car.’ She nods at his blistered hands. ‘And you burned yourself doing it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. . .’ He trails off.

She doesn’t make the snaky hand movement this time. ‘So you’re saying you
didn’t
pull me out of the car?’

‘I told you, I was in the simulator.’

‘Really?’ She stares at him, waits for him to come clean.

‘I was in the simulator.’

She looks away, clearly disappointed. ‘Why won’t you tell me the truth?’

He could do it, right now, lay it all out, explain everything: that he saved her but no one can know because he’s working undercover. Of course he’d have to swear her to secrecy but she wouldn’t tell anyone if he asked her, would she? And if they’re ever going to be together then he’d have to tell her the truth eventually, right? Better to be upfront about it. He could have a life with this woman. And yes, he understood that he could be putting the investigation, and his career, at risk, but, ultimately, how much risk, really? And if, for some reason, things
did
go south he could always find another job, but finding the right person may never happen again. He remembers the Frenchman’s words:
after all is said and done, love is the only important thing.

What should I do?

‘Hey girl, you still alive?’ Billy turns and good ol’ curly-haired Juan-in-a-million swings into the room like the curly-haired hipster he is. ‘Oh, didn’t realise you had company.’

She waves the Spaniard from the room. ‘Yeah, need a minute.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Clearly a little miffed, Juan rolls back out the door— and Billy sees it. Just above his wrist.

A tattoo.

The Monaco coat of arms.

~ * ~

Fuck-a-doodle-do.

The Australian’s heart races. It’s the same tattoo he saw on Schumacher’s wrist at the golf course and Kurt’s wrist at Sepang.

Could Juan be one of the Three Champions ?

Kurt has the same tattoo and he isn’t. The tattoos could just be a coincidence. It wouldn’t be uncommon for a group of drivers, drunk and out on the town in some far-flung land, to get inked with the same design in a show of solidarity, or to mark an important moment in their shared experience.

But why the Monaco coat of arms?

Billy has no idea.

Franka studies him. ‘What? You look like you saw a ghost.’

He can’t tell her the truth now, can’t risk sharing that information with someone he doesn’t really know who is good friends with the guy who just became the
prime
and
only
suspect in the Three Champions case. Of course Juan-in-a-million may not be involved but until Billy knows for sure he can’t be telling her anything about anything.

His iPhone vibrates and it pulls him out of his reverie. He drags it from his back pocket, glances at the screen and is surprised to find Dieter has texted him, wants to see him as soon as possible. The text has also been sent to Claude.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, it’s Dieter. I have to go. Can’t keep the old trout waiting. Anyway, I just—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I wasn’t the one who helped you. So, anyway, I guess I’ll see you in Monaco.’ He jabs his blistered thumb over his shoulder again. ‘I really need to bounce.’

She’s clearly confused and a little disappointed but tries not to let it show. ‘Okay. Skedaddle.’

He stands, grins it out, hopes that helps smooth his exit, then turns for the door. He keeps the grin plastered across his face as he passes Juan-in-a-million in the hallway, restrains himself from jamming a pistol against the guy’s temple and forcing the truth out of him about the tattoo, then enters the elevator.

Christalmighty.

He seriously considered spilling his guts to Franka.

What the hell was I thinking
?

He wasn’t, because if he were he would have realised it could have been a complete disaster. What if she’d told Juan and he actually
was
one of the Three Champions? He could have blown the case and put himself, and maybe even her, in serious jeopardy. Even so, he’s still disappointed that he didn’t get a chance to tell her how he feels.

His iPhone buzzes again. Another text message from Dieter telling him to make contact straight away.

What the hell does he want?

~ * ~

18

The Iron Rhino Gulfstream G650 rips across the mandarin sky.

Billy reclines in the largest, plushest aircraft seat he’s ever had the pleasure of occupying. Opposite, Claude enjoys a complimentary bag of peanuts and sips a bottle of Perrier. They are the only people in the twenty million dollar aircraft’s wood-panelled cabin until Dieter steps out of the cockpit, moves down the aisle and sits beside Billy. ‘So, do you know why you’re here?’

‘No idea, mate.’

Claude leans forward: ‘I do. You know about Franka, don’t you —?’

‘Claude!’ Billy rounds on the Frenchman, his voice a hard whisper: ‘What the hell?’

Dieter is just confused. ‘Know what about Franka?’

Claude nods at Billy. ‘That he saved her today.’

Dieter’s eyes widen. ‘What? No, I didn’t know that.’

The Frenchman’s surprised. ‘Oh.’

Billy glares at Claude then leans towards the old German, keeps his voice low: ‘Obviously we have to keep it quiet because we don’t want the media snooping about —’

‘Why are you whispering? There’s no one else in the cabin.’

Self-conscious, Billy stops doing it. ‘ Sorry, it seemed appropriate. Anyway, promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

Dieter nods. ‘You have my word.’ He studies the Australian with a fresh perspective. ‘What you did for that woman was the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen on a racetrack.’

Billy waves it off. ‘Anyone would have done it.’

‘Really? How many people did you see jump that fence to help her?’

The Australian doesn’t enjoy the attention so he changes the subject. ‘Whatever. Anyway, how is Vandelay?’

‘An embarrassment to me and the team. Trying to block Alonso was a rash and unnecessary move and showed poor judgment.
Failing
to do it successfully was an unforgivable screw-up.’

‘I meant physically.’

‘Oh. Tendon damage in his ankle. He won’t walk, let alone drive, for a month. The upside is that the video of him being dragged out of the car by Alonso will be played everywhere for the next twenty-four hours. With the large Iron Rhino logo on the side of the car clearly visible the whole way through the shot it won’t be a complete bust. We estimate the exposure will be worth approximately two million euros in free advertising.’

‘Well it’s comforting to know a terrible accident can still have an economic upside for you. So why are we here?’

Dieter looks at Billy. ‘To discuss your trace.’

Billy has no idea what he’s talking about. ‘My what?’

‘Your trace, from the simulator. The sensors record every steering input, application of the throttle, gear shift and dab of the brake. It’s called a trace.’

‘Are you talking about the other day? I did, like, one lap.’

Dieter nods. ‘I know. And you were a second faster than both Vandelay and Webster who have each driven over a thousand laps of that circuit on that simulator.’

‘Really?’ The Australian is surprised. ‘Wow. But, you know, it’s a computer game so, really, who cares?’

‘
I
care. And it’s no “computer game”. Far from it. That’s why I want you to replace Vandelay and drive his car in Monaco.’

Billy looks at the German like he’s insane. ‘Pardon?’

Claude leans towards Dieter. ‘Two hundred thousand euros per race.’

Billy turns and glares at the Frenchman.

‘What? It’s my job to cut your deal. I’m your agent.’

‘You’re my
pretend
agent. And there is no deal.’ Billy looks at Dieter. ‘I’m not driving your car.’

‘I believe you should reconsider.’

‘I did one lap in that simulator and my body is still aching. It was torture, like being in a
Saw
movie—or watching one.’

‘We’ll get you in shape.’

‘In a week?’

‘You’re young. It won’t take long for you to regain your fitness and until then you’ll muscle through.’

‘No. Come on, really. Apart from my lack of fitness, I don’t have an FIA Super Licence so I can’t legally drive an F1 car and, in case you haven’t been paying attention, I’m in the middle of an investigation.’

‘We can address each of those issues. We can get you fit quickly, I can organise your Super Licence tomorrow and you can continue your investigation, though Claude will have to do a little more of the heavy lifting.’

Claude nods at Billy. ‘Sure, I’m more than happy —’

Billy puts up a hand to silence the Frenchman, then continues to Dieter: ‘No. Get someone else. There are a million drivers who’d give their left nut to drive your car.’

‘I want you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, at this moment, you are my quickest option.’

‘For
one
lap. In a
simulator.
How many times do I have to say it?’

Claude pipes up: ‘Actually, that’s only the second time —’

‘Quiet, will you.’

Claude complies.

Dieter leans forward. ‘The trace showed you were faster in every sector, into and out of every corner and had a higher terminal speed on both straights than anyone who has ever driven that track on that simulator.’

‘I’m in the middle of an investigation.’

‘I thought you’d be thrilled.’

‘And I thought you weren’t crazy.’

‘Crazy like a fox. I know how to pick drivers.’

There’s no arguing that. The guy may have built a soft drink empire out of thin air but Billy knew his real skill came in identifying guys who were quick. Of the twenty-two drivers currently on the grid he had sponsored eleven of them early in their careers. An impressive record. The guy knew quick.

Dieter takes a breath. ‘Look, timing is everything in motorsport and you are in the right place at the right time. Do not miss this opportunity.’

‘I’m sorry but no.’

Dieter studies him for a long moment, then pulls an iPhone from his pocket.

Billy watches him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Remember, when we first met and I said I could be a ruthless son of a bitch?’

Billy suddenly feels uneasy. ‘I believe you also used the term “snake in the grass”.’

‘Sounds about right.’ Dieter dials the phone. ‘Sorry.’

‘I almost don’t want to ask what you’re sorry about.’

‘You probably shouldn’t because you’re not going to like the answer.’

‘Who are you calling?’

‘James Allen.’

Billy is visibly taken aback. ‘Christ. I don’t know why I’m surprised.’

‘You’re surprised because you want to believe the best in people. That’s a luxury I cannot afford in this sport.’

Claude’s confused. ‘Who’s Jane Allen?’

‘James
Allen. The journalist you sprayed the fire extinguisher at after I pulled Franka out of the car.’