Quick (32 page)

The Australian dials his phone, hears Claude’s brusque message once again, then hangs up. ‘Where
is
he?’ He takes a breath and turns—and thoughts of cranky old Frenchmen instantly vanish.

A vision stands before him.

Franka.

The Australian has no idea about fashion—for years he thought Crocs were acceptable evening wear—but this white dress she’s wearing, tight in the some places, flowy in others, sleeveless so it shows off her toned biceps, with a neckline that is high but not too high, and a skirty bit that falls away just the way you want it too, is quite simply the best dress he’s ever laid eyes on. She looks just like —

What is the name of that woman?

Franka bounces towards him. ‘You won’t believe who’s here!’

He gets caught up in her excitement. ‘Who?’

‘Me!’ She cracks a wide smile. ‘Can you tell I’m excited to be going to a party?’

He remembers the woman’s name. ‘I saw a picture of Audrey Hepburn wearing a dress like yours once.’

Franka leans back and studies him. ‘Yes?’

‘And it looks much better on you.’

She continues to study him.

‘It sounded like a compliment in my head.’

She smiles. ‘And it sounded like one out loud too.’ She kisses him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

Surprised and delighted, he holds out a cocked arm. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall.’ She takes it. ‘And you look excellent too, though nothing like Audrey Hepburn.’

He smiles and they move onto the red carpet. None of the press are even remotely interested in them because a Kardashian, not the really famous one but one of the others, holds court nearby. They breeze past the scrum and head towards the palace’s towering archway entrance.

Franka looks at Billy. ‘So, fifth,
fifth.
That’s just—I mean
fifth!’

He nods. ‘So what you’re saying is: ‘
fifth!’’

‘You don’t seem that excited about it.’

He shrugs. ‘It could have been better. I missed the exit at Tabac, left some time on the table at Rasscass —’

‘Fifth!
At
Monaco.
In
F1.
The most competitive motorsport series on the planet. In your
first
quali. It could
always
be better but you have to be happy with what you get, and in this case that was pretty damn good.’

‘Of course, you’re right.’

‘You still don’t sound convinced. Some people drive for a year and a half and never qualify fifth. And the “people” I’m talking about is
me
if you didn’t realise.’

‘You may be right.’

‘I’m absolutely right. Fifth in a car that’s lucky to be top fifteen is amazing.’

He doesn’t want to talk about himself anymore. ‘What’s your best qualy?’

‘Eleventh.’

‘That’s amazing considering your car sucks.’ He winces, realises how awful it sounds the moment the words leave his mouth. The two Evergreen cars may be regarded as the slowest in the field but you still don’t say it out loud, especially to the driver. ‘Sorry, that was terrible.’

She stares at him. ‘You should be sorry because you’re wrong. My car doesn’t suck. It sucks
and
blows.’ She grins—and he’s relieved. ‘It’s the slowest car out there and I’m busting a gut to finish twenty-first instead of twenty-second but nobody cares because we’re so far down the back we’ve been lapped
twice.’

They move through the archway then turn right and take in a long line of guests who patiently wait to be greeted by the Prince of Monaco and his new wife, a horsey young blonde from South Africa named Courtney who is barely half his age, before they enter the ballroom.

Billy sees it. ‘We just have to remember not to mention the bobsledding.’

Franka watches the Prince and his wife, then notices a set of stairs to the left. ‘Come on.’ She moves towards them.

‘Where are you going?’

She looks back at him with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Race you to the top.’

She gathers up her dress and climbs the stairs fast. He follows. She’s quick but he can take more steps with each stride. It’s a close-run thing but she gets there first. ‘Yes! Saaa-moked you.’ She bounces up and down, hands raised victoriously.

‘You’re not only quick in a car.’

‘Well now you’re just flirting.’ From the empty balcony they marvel at the magnificent view of the Mediterranean before them. ‘I should tell you now, the fastest way to my heart is to compliment my driving.’

‘Really?’ Well I watched you race in Abu Dhabi and I think your apex speeds are very impressive.’

‘Is that so?’ She turns to him. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, ahh.’ He thinks about it. ‘You look after your tyres extremely well.’

She pulls him close. ‘Hmmm. And?’

‘And—your car control through chicanes is almost— Senna-esque.’

She leans forward and brushes her lips against his neck. ‘Uh-ha, I’m listening.’

‘And you always get out of the way of the front runners promptly.’

She pulls back, her expression dour. ‘There’s nothing desirable about being lapped.’

‘Oh. Of course, my bad.’ He thinks hard. ‘Your use of ERS for passing is always decisive.’

She grins. ‘That’s more like it.’

‘And you’re the last of the late brakers.’

Her face lights up and she leans in to kiss him—then pulls away. ‘Damn.’

He looks at her, confused. ‘What happened?’

She hikes up her skirt, reaches under it and draws out her iPhone. ‘So sorry.’ She swipes it open, reads the message.
‘Scheiβe.’

‘What’s
scheiβe?’

‘The FIA just ruled. I’m not allowed to drive tomorrow and I— Christ, I have to meet the PR people now. To release a statement. The team want to milk it. We’re not good enough to get any press for our racing but if one of the driver’s gets injured they’re all over us. I have to go.’

‘You want me to drive you?’

‘Oh no, I’m parked around the corner. You stay and have fun.’

‘Alrighty then.’ He tries not to let his disappointment show.

She sees it anyway. ‘But let’s pick this up soon.’

‘Of course.’

She works her iPhone then passes it to him. ‘Give me your number.’

He taps it in then gives it back. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

They look at each other for a moment, then both lean forward to exchange a kiss—and bump foreheads. They laugh awkwardly, before completing the kiss. It’s short and sharp.

‘Okay, I gotta skedaddle.’ She flashes him a grin then gallops down the stairs.

‘See you.’ Billy turns and walks to the edge of the balcony. He looks down and follows her as she runs out of the palace then sprints along the long red carpet. ‘If she looks back we’re meant to be together.’

She keeps running, doesn’t do it.

‘Just one little look then be on your way.’

She stops running.

Billy inhales expectantly.

She pulls off her high heels, then runs on.

He exhales unhappily. ‘Come on, just one glance, that’s all I need.’

She looks back—and blows him a kiss.

He grabs it, and blows one back to her.

She catches it like it’s a frisbee and pushes it to her lips with a grin, before turning and continuing on her way. He watches until she rounds a corner and disappears from view. He can’t remember experiencing such a feeling of happiness.

He glances down at the guests walking up the red carpet and scans the crowd, searches for Claude, can’t see him. He pulls out his phone and dials. It is answered. ‘
Pfft,
leave a message if you must.’

‘Where are you, old man?’

The tracking app.

The bespoke software Interpol installed on both their phones before they began the investigation, which Billy had to re-install after replacing the phone he destroyed at Ski Dubai. He pulls it out, launches the app and waits for it to pinpoint the Frenchmen’s phone. Of course he knows that if Claude’s out of signal range it’s not going to work.

A blinking dot appears on the map. It seems Claude, or at least his phone, is miles away from Monaco. In fact it’s still in the Alps. Billy takes this in and his feeling of happiness instantly evaporates.

What the hell is going on?

~ * ~

23

The wheels of Billy’s Iron Rhino courtesy car skid to a halt on the gravel roadway. Claude, or his phone, is close. At least that’s what the tracking app tells him.

The Australian pulls the Renault onto the shoulder, parks it and climbs out. It’s dark but he holds a flashlight borrowed from the Iron Rhino garage. ‘Claude?!’

There’s no response.

He scans the area. There’s nothing immediately visible except for a whole lot of trees. Actually, it’s more like a dense forest. The Frenchman could, literally, be five metres away and Billy wouldn’t know.

The Australian calls Claude’s phone, listens for a ringtone and watches to see if its screen lights up the forest. He hears and sees nothing. He swipes back to the phone’s tracking app, tries to decipher which side of the road the dot is situated on. He cannot work it out.

‘Eeenie meanie—ahhh, screw it.’ He turns left and searches the trees. ‘Claude? Are you—in the general vicinity?’ He hears no response.

The wind rises and the Australian smells something. A sharp aroma, the combination of burnt plastic and burnt leaves. The breeze came from the right. He turns in that direction and crunches into the woods, flicks on the flashlight and sweeps the beam across the foliage.

‘Claude? Are you here?’ The Australian’s right foot slams into something hard. He bends to look at it. It’s a small tree stump that has been snapped off at its base. It’s been hit by something large but there’s no sign of the trunk. He stands, trains the light on the ground, searches for it.

There.
To the far right. He moves towards it. ‘Claude?’ The flashlight’s beam hits something and reflects red back at him. It’s the rear brake lens of a Renault Clio, like the Iron Rhino courtesy car Billy drove out here. It’s about fifteen metres away but buried so deep in the brush that it was undetectable from the roadway.

Billy moves to it. The only part that isn’t burnt out is the rear. Heart in mouth, he looks inside the cabin, prepares to be horrified by what he finds.

No one is inside.

Relived, he stands and searches for the Frenchman. ‘Claude?!’

‘Pssst!’
The sound is very low.

Billy turns, scans the area with the torch, confused. ‘Claude Michelle?!’

‘How many Claudes do you think are out here?’ The voice is a hard whisper.

Billy is relieved but can’t see him. ‘I thought you were toast. Literally—’

‘Keep your voice down and turn off that light.’

Billy whispers. ‘What? Why?’

‘Just do it.’

Billy does it. ‘Where are you?’

‘To the left.’

Billy turns. His eyes adjust to the low light and he sees the Frenchman. He sits with his back against a large tree and looks straight head. He does not turn to the Australian. Billy moves towards him. ‘Why are we whispering —?’

‘Stop moving.’ Claude’s right hand rests on his thigh. His index finger extends and he points at something in front of him.

Billy follows it—then freezes in surprise. ‘Oh fuck!’ He stares at a hulking shape that sits a metre from the Frenchman’s feet. It’s a black panther and it’s enormous, the size of a man. The big cat purrs loudly as it tilts its head and locks its shining, golden eyes on Billy. The Australian takes a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘I read about this guy. How long have you been —’

‘Two hours. He won’t leave.’

‘Did you use your electric cattle prod?’

Claude takes a moment then sheepishly raises the taser in his left hand. ‘It only seemed to annoy him.’

Billy smiles, then clicks his fingers at the panther. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Off you go.’

The cat yawns, doesn’t budge.

Claude looks at the Australian. ‘You think I didn’t try that already?’

‘Well I don’t know.’ Billy turns back to the animal. ‘Those teeth are really big.’

‘Too fucking big.’ Claude notices Billy’s suit. ‘Why are you dressed like an usher at James Bond’s funeral?’

The Australian glances at his clothes defensively. ‘What? It’s cool. Dieter gave it to me to wear to the ball.’ He looks back at the black cat, studies it for a moment. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t?’

‘Oh yes, beautiful—until the biting and the ripping. Do you have your gun?’

‘Of course.’

‘Use it.’

‘I’m not shooting that magnificent animal. He’s not hurting anyone —’

‘A warning shot! Fire a warning shot. Into the ground. To scare him off.’

‘Oh. Yes. Good idea.’ Billy draws his weapon from his ankle holster. The big cat watches him, unconcerned. ‘Ready?’