‘I’ve said. It was waiting at the car park when we left. It followed Alex Finn’s car. Then it overtook me and Anton. Then it forced Finn off the road.’
‘So why,’ Charlotte asked, ‘was it not on the news? All it said was that he’d come off the road on a notorious bend. And that it was an accident.’
Danny shrugged. ‘I’m just telling you what I saw.’
‘And why doesn’t that Anton bloke write something about it?’
‘I dunno.’ Danny felt guilty not saying, but he knew he should say nothing.
‘Yeah, right!’ Charlotte said.
It was getting cooler. Lights were coming on in houses in the street. The others who’d been talking outside had gone in. Music was hammering out of the house, loud and hard. Danny had spotted faces at the lit windows.
‘And suddenly you’re just heading off to Moscow,’ Charlotte said. ‘Just like that.’
‘Yeah,’ Danny said defensively.
‘Sure.’
‘What?’
‘Danny. Don’t tell me there’s nothing going on.’
‘There’s nothing going on,’ Danny said, deadpan.
‘It’s to do with last time,’ Paul cut in, ‘isn’t it?’
‘Last time?’
‘Sam Roberts. Gawthorpe. All that.’
‘It’s not,’ Danny protested.
‘All I know,’ Charlotte said, ‘is that you’re up to something.’
And then Danny found he was laughing. He was the one who was always accused of seeing crime around every corner: now they were making up things that might not be there.
When Danny had stopped laughing, Charlotte went on. ‘Here’s how I see it. Four months ago you were involved in saving Sam Roberts from kidnappers. But there was nothing on the news. And you swore us to secrecy. And now you’re there when Alex Finn is nearly killed in a car accident. And – what do you know? – it’s not on the news. Even though you say it wasn’t an accident. And – to add to that – you’re off to see England play in Moscow.’
Danny nodded. It was all true. He could see Charlotte and Paul watching him, grinning. He knew why they thought what they thought. And their theories were so exciting he wished they were true. But the truth was that there was nothing going on. Not with him, anyway. Not for sure, but he wondered if he should tell them about his half-baked theories. Why not? They’d kept the Roberts stuff to themselves. He trusted them.
‘Look, it’s all straightforward,’ he said, ‘it’s only…’
‘Here we go,’ Charlotte said to Paul.
Danny lowered his voice. ‘It’s just I think the accident wasn’t an accident. That’s all. I think someone tried to kill Alex Finn.’
‘Who?’ Paul asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Great detective you are,’ Charlotte smiled.
‘There’s a number of things it could be,’ Danny said.
‘Like?’
‘Well, someone had to have a reason to do it.’
‘Obviously,’ Charlotte agreed.
‘So who?’ Danny asked.
‘Like I told you, you’re the wannabe detective,’ she said.
‘Well, it could be another player,’ Danny said.
‘Matt McGee,’ Paul cut in.
‘Why him?’
‘He’s well dodgy.’
‘And Skatie isn’t?’
‘No,’ Paul said.
‘Fair enough. So it could be McGee. But why? Could it be someone else? Who else would have a reason?’
‘Someone Russian,’ Paul said. ‘Revenge for last week.’
‘Yeah, but that’s an extreme reaction,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘No one would try to kill a player of another team – just for beating their team.’
‘Maybe,’ Danny said. ‘Maybe not. Unless there’s more to it than just a football result.’
‘Like what?’ Paul wanted to know.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Great,’ Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.
Danny looked at Charlotte. Why was she always on his case like this? Always wanting an argument.
‘Who else?’ Danny said, pushing them.
‘A bookmaker?’ Paul suggested.
‘Could be.’
‘Why are you asking us?’ Charlotte said. ‘You’re the one who goes to court cases, reads the crime pages in the paper, films burglars, puts newspaper clippings and maps up on his bedroom walls.’
‘Three heads are better than one,’ Danny said. And he meant it. He loved talking to these two about his investigations. If you could bounce ideas off other people they could help you work out what was true and what was a mistake. That’s why he was doing it. He remembered a crime novel he’d read to his dad. Based in Sweden. The main detective used to talk to his colleagues, trying out ideas, letting them rubbish his theories. Until he found the answer.
‘So you reckon McGee,’ Paul said. ‘I do.’
‘I dunno,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve read some interesting stuff about him on the Net.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like he’s involved with all sorts. In fact,’ Danny paused, ‘I saw him with that drug dealer a few weeks ago. In the city centre. The one who was on trial.’
‘There you go then,’ Paul declared.
‘Yeah, but that’s not enough.’
‘Who was the criminal?’ Charlotte said.
‘Gavin Barnes,’ Danny said.
‘Excuse me?’
Danny looked at Charlotte. Who’d said that?
‘EXCUSE ME?’
The voice had come from over the fence. It was a tall woman. Her posh voice piercing the night.
‘Hello,’ Charlotte said.
‘Could you tell your friends inside that if the music is not turned down in one minute I am going to call the police?’ The voice paused. ‘Please.’
‘OK,’ Charlotte said, smiling and getting up, leaving the woman behind the fence to utter murmurs of surprise rather than annoyance.
Danny grinned at Paul. He liked Charlotte: the way she always surprised people.
Seconds later the volume of the music dropped. And Charlotte emerged. The woman nodded and said thank you. Quietly.
‘One more thing,’ Charlotte said to Danny on her return.
‘What?’
‘I want you to send me a video of yourself every day you’re in Moscow.’
‘Why?’
‘Evidence,’ Charlotte said.
‘Evidence of what?’
‘Evidence that you’re OK.’
SUNDAY
FEAR OF FLYING
It was a British Airways Boeing 737. Danny studied the plane through the huge panes of glass of Terminal One.
Here he was again.
Every time he was about to get on a plane he had the same question: how the hell could something so huge and heavy – filled with people, bags and aviation fuel – fly?
He knew he’d never understand it.
He smiled, checking his pocket to make sure his passport and roubles were still there.
So far there had been no sign of the England squad. Holt had come with Danny through to the airport lounge, then
