face blank.
Anger elbowed gloom out of the way and briefly took charge. I forced my shoulders into a casual shrug as if it didn’t matter either way, started to let my attention slide towards the copper who was impatiently poised to receive it.
“OK, Charlie,” Daz said, his voice quick and maybe a little uneven.
I flicked my eyes back to his face but there was nothing more to be gained from it.
“OK?” he repeated when I didn’t immediately acknowledge his capitulation, making it a question this time, with just a thread of unease weaving its way through.
“OK,” I agreed, careful not to let my triumph show.
“You were with Mr Pickering when he came off, were you?” the policeman broke in, wanting to stamp his authority on proceedings. Or maybe he was just tired of being ignored. He had a slightly resigned look about him, as though he knew he wasn’t going to get much out of us.
“Not exactly,” I said deliberately. “I must have been twenty or thirty metres ahead of him when he was brought down.”
“Oh, I see.” He whistled, his eyebrows doing a little wiggle of exaggerated surprise. Just for a moment I was foolish enough to think he might be taking it seriously that Sam had been run off the road.
“Lass on her own bike, eh?” he said instead. His tone couldn’t have suggested more perplexity if I’d been a fish on a multigym. He winked conspiratorially at the others. “So, what kind of speed would you say Mr Pickering was doing when he came off.”
“I’ve no idea,” I snapped. “Surely it’s more relevant to ask what kind of speed the van that hit him was doing?” I shook my head in disgust. “Have you caught up with it yet? Are you even trying?”
“I’m sure we’re doing everything we can, miss,” he said. “But considering nobody got even a partial reg number, the only description we can circulate is of a white van. Good job there’s not many of
The not-so-subtle insinuation that it was our fault for being so unobservant jarred. He smiled but I kept my face stony. I didn’t need to look to know that the others had done the same.
The copper’s smile dwindled. He cleared his throat and pulled out his notebook.
“I understand there were three of you riding together?” he said, frowning, making it sound like an anarchists’ gathering. “What were you doing on this road, exactly?”
For a moment I could have sworn I heard the members of the Devil’s Bridge Club hold their collective breath.
“We were just out for a pleasant cruise in the Lakes on a nice summer evening, officer,” I said blandly.
He pursed his lips. “So there wouldn’t have been any kind of road racing going on then, eh?”
“No,” I said sweetly. “Do you also ask rape victims if they were wilfully walking the streets not wearing a burka?”
He was still young enough to flush uncomfortably at that, but dogged enough not to be deflected. “Only, we’ve had reports that three bikes were seen going like stink through Glenridding shortly before the accident.”
“Which three bikes?”
He frowned again, harder this time, peering more closely at his notebook as though he might have written down the answer in very small type. “Hmm,” he said. “One was black, I believe, and the others were multi- coloured.”
“‘Multi-coloured motorbikes’, huh?” I echoed flatly. “Good job there’s not many of
***
When the police had got as much out of us as we were prepared to give them – which wasn’t anywhere near as much as they would have liked – we mounted up and went back to the Watermillock Arms.
Quite a lot of the other bikers who’d turned up to watch the Devil’s Bridge Club audition were still hanging around, although the atmosphere had turned a little sour, like a party after a fight’s broken out.
The other FireBlade rider, Mark, was sitting hunched over one of the benches, his white fingers clutching a can of Red Bull. He looked up, saw me approaching, and made an effort to get back on track, hiding the tarnish of his shock and fear under a gloss of bravado. Then he saw the blood on my hands and the smear of it on the knees of my leathers where I’d knelt in the road beside Sam, and his nerve nearly buckled under him again.
He got to his feet, knocking back his soft drink like it had a large shot of vodka in it. Maybe it did.
“How you doin’?” he mumbled. Without waiting for an answer he turned to Daz. “So what happens now, yeah?”
Daz regarded him flatly. “Nothing happens now.”
“Is that it?” Mark looked puzzled. “I mean, do we go again?”
Daz shook his head. “No need, mate.”
And, just as Mark started to smile, Daz turned to me and said, “OK Charlie. Congratulations – you’re in.”
Mark took a step forwards, his face a tangle of disbelief. “Hey, what about me?” he demanded. “I mean, I finished, right? Shit, I was the only one who did! So I’m in too, yeah?”
Daz shook his head again, began to move away. “Sorry mate,” he said, sounding totally unrepentant.
