“Because,” I said slowly, as it dawned on me what line he was taking, “she said the Ducati wouldn’t start.”
I glanced past him to where Clare’s beautiful scarlet 851 Strada sat on its paddock stand, looking like a refugee from a racetrack. Clare loved that bike and Jacob maintained it regardless of expense. Without another word I took the keys out of Sean’s hand and stuck one into the ignition, twisting it to run and turning on the fuel tap. I pulled the choke out a notch, flicking my eyes to Sean’s. He was watching me without expression. I hit the starter button.
The Ducati fired on the first spin and revved up without any hesitation. The exhaust note reverberated gruff and loud inside the old stone building.
I let it run for a moment or two, then cut the motor and pulled the key out again. I handed it back to him with a deep frown.
“You might want to look at it this way instead,” Sean said. “How the hell is Clare going to explain this one to
***
An hour later, completely unexpectedly, the police turned up. Superintendent MacMillan in his usual unmarked Rover, plus two pairs of uniforms in a couple of full-dress squad cars.
Sean and I were back in the study, trying to make some sense out of the disorder and clearing up after Isobel’s destructive intervention.
We heard the drive alarm go off three times in quick succession. The first thought that went through both our minds was that Eamonn was back and he’d brought reinforcements. After that, MacMillan’s arrival came almost as a relief.
We met them on the forecourt just as they were getting out of their cars. MacMillan nodded gravely to me, then he and Sean locked gazes like a pair of rutting stags.
The two of them had run up against each other before and the collision had caused more sparks than a foundry. MacMillan had wanted Sean for murder and it had taken some fast talking to persuade the policeman to let us go after the real killer. The fact that we’d achieved our purpose had done little to inspire friendly feelings on either side.
“We’d like to do a search of these premises, Charlie, if you have no objections,” he said coolly, not breaking eye contact with Sean while he spoke.
“Do you have a warrant?” Sean asked.
“Do I need one?”
“Not necessarily,” I said carefully, moving between them and passing Sean a warning glance. “Not if you tell me what you’re looking for.”
MacMillan turned and rested his gaze on me, murky like canal water and just as difficult to see the bottom of. “A motorbike,” he said at last.
“Well, considering Jacob deals in the things, it won’t come as any surprise to you to find lots of those here,” I said acidly. “Try being more specific.”
MacMillan stilled for a moment, the only outward sign of his disapproval at my attitude. I was struck then by the similarities between the policeman and my father. And both of them made me nervous.
“Oh, we’re looking for something very specific,” he said then, moving over to join us. “We’re after a customised machine based, so I’m told, on Suzuki mechanicals and, I believe, a Harris frame,” he went on. He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, as though he was trying out words from a foreign language and was surprised that they were understood.
“A streetfighter,” I said blankly. “You’re looking for Slick’s bike. Why? I thought you already had it.”
“We did,” he said, emphasising the past tense.
“Careless.” Sean was back to the gently mocking tone he’d used on me earlier. The Superintendent didn’t appear to like it any more than I had.
“What happened?” I said quickly, as much to distract MacMillan as anything else.
He paused, as though reluctant to admit to any mistakes in front of an outsider. And particularly not in front of an outsider like Sean.
“The wreckage was transported to a nearby garage to await collection by our accident investigation lads,” he said at last. “When they came to pick it up today, it had already gone.”
“And what makes you think I might have had anything to do with that?” I asked softly.
“Someone was making off with Grannell’s bike at just about the same time you were sitting in my office this morning, thus providing you with a fairly unassailable alibi,” he said with a fraction of a smile. “Which could, naturally, be taken as a coincidence but I’ve never liked them much. Besides,” he added crisply, “even you must admit that you do have a bit of a reputation for taking matters into your own hands, Charlie.” His eyes went to Sean again. “And you could have had help.”
“Well, since I know I didn’t – search away,” I said, reckless. “Just tell them to wipe their feet and don’t break anything.”
We sat in the sun by the front door and watched them poke their way through every nook and cranny for the best part of the next hour, MacMillan supervising proceedings without actually getting his hands dirty. I wondered how I was going to explain to Jacob that I’d let the cops search his place. Still, on top of everything else it seemed a minor additional transgression.
Just as the searchers began to lose their initial fervour in the face of disappointment, one of the uniforms sidled up to announce that they couldn’t get into the locked coach house.
MacMillan looked at me enquiringly. I stood up but it was Sean who said, “I’ll do it,” and put his glass of iced water down, getting to his feet and heading for the front door.
