Road Kill

the course of the entire evening. He kept taking the bottle with him to the bar whenever he bought a round and coming back with the same one, still barely touched.

The result was that he was a lot sharper than the others. He looked up, took in my face and got to his feet immediately, steering me out of earshot round the far side of a pillar.

A waiter hurried past, heading for a small group who’d been celebrating a birthday on the far side of the bar. He was carrying a dessert with two lit sparklers stuck in the top of it and Sean waited until he was gone before leaning in close.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

I filled him in briefly. “I didn’t see who it was,” I finished. “Have any of this lot moved?”

Before Sean could answer there came the click of heels and Tess appeared from the direction of the ladies’ room, still rearranging her short skirt. She smiled slyly at the pair of us as she went past and I had to control the urge to distance myself a little from Sean. Come on, Fox, you don’t have to hide this any more.

“Well, that answers that one, I suppose,” I said, wry, watching Tess totter back to her seat. “But whoever was in the car park then went up the stairs like a rat up a drainpipe. No way could she have done that in those shoes. Anyone else?”

“Just one,” Sean said, and his face told me I wasn’t going to like it.

“Who?”

“Jamie.”

***

Getting Jamie on his own to ask him about his involvement with Reginald Post was no easy task. Tess seemed to have latched herself onto him and every time he went to get the drinks in she was with him. She certainly didn’t want to leave him on his own with me, that was for sure. Eventually, Sean took over distracting her long enough for me to slide in alongside him at the bar.

“So, what’s with you and Reg Post?” I asked quietly while the barman had gone off to fetch more bottled beer.

“What?” Jamie had been watching the bike racing on the TV and only pulled his gaze back to me with an effort. Again the resemblance to his father hit me square in the chest. “Who the hell is Reg Post?”

“Remember the Lucky Strike Suzuki that’s been tailing us?” I said. “That’s him.”

“What about him?” Jamie said, making a good job of sounding casually disinterested now. “We haven’t seen any sign of him since Bushmills.”

I shook my head. “He’s here,” I said. “I saw him in the car park less than half an hour ago.”

“Car park . . .?” Jamie repeated slowly, then gave me a slow smile. “Are you checking up on us?”

“Of course,” I said, allowing mild surprise to coat my voice. “I promised Clare and your dad I’d look out for you, and that’s what I’m doing.”

He shook his head, still wearing a look of bemused amusement at my actions. “I don’t know anyone called Reg Post and I don’t need you looking over my shoulder all the time.” He flipped a couple of euro notes at the barman and picked up the drinks. “You want to mollycoddle anyone, try Daz,” he said over his shoulder. “He seems to be the one who’s losing his bottle with this.”

***

We didn’t learn anything more during the evening, despite the fact that the boys should have drunk more than enough to loosen their tongues. In fact, I began to wonder how they were going to be sober enough by morning to find their way to a racetrack, never mind ride around it.

I was very surprised that everyone made it down to breakfast on Sunday looking more or less fit. Even so, there was a lot of strong coffee being drunk and not many fry-ups being eaten.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked when the serving staff had cleared away the plates and brought another pot of coffee for the table.

“We have to have a plan now?” Paxo asked with a groan, clutching his head with one hand and reaching for the coffee pot with the other.

“Bearing in mind what you’re up to, it might not be a bad idea,” Sean said, sitting back in his chair.

Paxo tried to bristle at the remark but couldn’t find the energy.

“We get to Mondello Park, get out on the track and have some fun. Don’t forget to take your driving licence, by the way, or they won’t let you on the track,” Daz said, deliberately obtuse. “And don’t wear your radio and headset, either. They don’t allow them inside the circuit – they interfere with the communications gear between the marshals and race control, or something.”

I glanced at Sean but it was a moot point for him – he didn’t have a radio anyway. He shrugged.

“Better leave it behind,” Daz said. “If they catch you with it they’ll probably confiscate it, whether it’s switched on or not, and besides,” he’d added with a grin, “I would hate you to trash it if you drop the ‘Blade.”

“And here was me about to throw the bike up the track if you hadn’t said that,” I muttered, sarky.

“So, what about the exchange?” Sean said, not to be deflected and it was Daz’s turn to shrug.

“We meet this guy and make the exchange back here this afternoon – after we get back from Mondello,” Daz said, matter-of-fact, as though he was describing a far more conventional shopping trip. “Then we get back on the ferry tomorrow and go home. Back to work on Tuesday morning, eh lads?”

“Just like that?” I said, trying to keep my tone level. “Do you know him by sight – this guy you’re meeting? If not, how will you recognise him?”