Road Kill

I turned my head away, eyes squeezed shut as though to avoid having to see the words in front of me. My future was irrevocably bound up with Sean’s, I knew that. But, despite my brave words to my father, did that mean I was necessarily destined for a permanent career as a bodyguard?

Had I learned nothing from the disaster in America?

I opened my eyes. The hotel bathroom reasserted itself. I couldn’t avoid a wry smile as I realised that these very surroundings were an indication that no, I hadn’t learned anything. Here I was, on another assignment, another country, another babysitting job.

Besides – if I didn’t do this, what else was there for me?

Sean was just finishing a call on his mobile phone when I came back out.

“Speak of the devil – that was Madeleine,” he said as he folded the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

“Well, you know her best,” I said sweetly. “And?”

“No large amounts of loose cut diamonds have been reported stolen anywhere in Europe,” he said, ignoring my jibe. “And the Suzuki with the custom paint is registered to one Reginald Post. It’s a Lancaster address. The name mean anything to you?”

I shook my head slowly. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Mm, back to square one, then,” he said, pulling a wry face. “I hope you’re not planning on sampling too much Guinness later though, Charlie,” he added, “because I think maybe tonight we should keep our wits about us.”

***

Perhaps with the previous night’s unplanned entertainment in mind, the boys opted to stay and eat in the hotel bar that evening, which made keeping an eye on them somewhat easier. By prior arrangement, Sean and I took it in turns to make some excuse to leave the group and do a number of quick and apparently casual sweeps of the hotel’s public areas.

Around ten-thirty I murmured something about the little girls’ room and strolled out of the bar. There was a widescreen TV over in one corner that had been tuned to one of the satellite sports channels. The highlights of that day’s Moto GP qualifying had just come on, so I didn’t think I’d be missed.

I started on the upper floors and worked my way down, passing through the foyer and sticking my head into the restaurant, before taking the stairs to the basement car park.

The underground car park was a maze of concrete on a single level, brightly lit and, if the number of empty spaces was anything to go by, far too large for the current capacity of the hotel. For the most part there were far more bikes than cars. The hotel must have been the favoured choice for those attending Sunday’s track day.

And there, in a line of others, tucked in a far corner, I found the Lucky Strike Suzuki. I approached it carefully, tried to remember if I’d noticed it earlier and couldn’t decide. But when I poked my fingers through a gap in the fairing, the engine casing was still warm to the touch.

I hurried back upstairs to the reception desk and asked nonchalantly if my old mate Reg Post had checked in yet. The young guy on the desk tapped away at his computer, frowning for a few moments.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but we don’t have anyone of that name registered,” he said, looking crestfallen at having to disappoint me. “Let me just check for you if he has a reservation . . . no, it doesn’t look like it. I’m really sorry about that, Miss.”

“No problem,” I said quickly. “He must be booked in somewhere else.”

The guy raised his eyebrows as though, in his opinion, there wasn’t anywhere else to stay in the area, but he was much too polite to actually say so.

I walked back across the foyer and hit the stairs to the basement again. Just as I pushed the heavy door open at the bottom, I heard the echoing roar of a bike engine bouncing off the bare concrete walls as it was revved up through a gear.

Instinctively, I broke into a run. As I did so I caught the flash of coloured fairing and the Lucky Strike bike shot past me, heading for the exit. I increased my stride, sprinting diagonally now to try and get ahead of him but by the time he was halfway to the redline in second I knew I was already beaten.

All I managed to see was a set of black leathers and helmet on a big figure who was hunched over the tank as he sped away. The brake lights flared briefly just before the sharp upward sweep of the exit ramp, then he was gone.

I slowed, cursing under my breath, knowing it was pointless to pursue him any further. Who the hell was he? And what had he been doing here if he wasn’t checked in?

Just in case, I made a quick detour to check over our bikes which we’d shifted underground after we’d checked in ourselves. They were still chained together in a line and nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

I stood, catching my breath and, in that moment of stillness, heard one of the doors out of the car park slam shut on its self-closing mechanism. My head snapped up and I silently berated myself for being stupidly slow. If I couldn’t get hold of the mysterious Mr Post, the next best thing was to find out exactly who he’d been here to see.

I belted back for the door and eased it open but the stairwell inside was empty. I went up as fast and as softly as I could, keeping to the outside of the walls. I didn’t hear footsteps on the tiled steps but suddenly the noise from the bar grew louder and quieter again, as someone passed through the door into the foyer.

Abandoning any pretence at stealth, I pounded up the last half flight and yanked the door open. The foyer area was empty. There wasn’t even any sign of the young man on the reception desk who’d been so helpful before. Damn.

Admitting defeat, I walked straight back to the bar. The majority of the Devil’s Bridge Club were still where I’d left them – only Tess was missing. Sean was lounging on one of the vast leather sofas facing the entrance. He had his arm resting along the back and a bottle of beer swinging lazily from his other hand.

But the relaxed attitude was a blind, as I was well aware. So was the beer. He’d barely drunk half of it over