Once inside and behind the wheel, he lifted a laptop he had left in the passenger well and turned it on. Within a matter of seconds, a satnav-like display showed a map on its screen with a flashing arrow indicating the location of the tracker.
Straker smiled to himself. He started his car and drove away.
Backhouse and Straker had supper at a local pub. After their early start that morning from Monte-Carlo, both were relieved to turn in relatively early — at Backhouse’s two-bedroom terraced house in Tysoe.
Straker woke at half-past five the next morning and immediately checked the tag-tracker device on the laptop. He was relieved to see Michael Lyons’s car still appeared to be parked out in front of Flax Cottage.
Straker drove straight for Gaydon and was back on his verge within view of Lyons’s driveway by six-thirty.
At seven thirty-five, Straker’s attention was caught by the white reversing lights of the Peugeot backing out of the drive from Flax Cottage. Simultaneously, the tracker beeped into life on his laptop, confirming Lyons’s movement and that, more importantly, the device was working.
He waited until the Peugeot was out of sight before following on behind. Any sight of Straker, now, would draw attention to him, particularly in such a quiet country byway. Once they were on the open road, it wouldn’t be so much of a problem; he could lose his presence among other traffic.
Straker eased along, past Lyons’s home. Still out of sight, he saw on the tracker that his man was turning left towards the middle of the village. Straker followed suit.
Lyons headed for the motorway, turning north towards Warwick and Birmingham.
Hanging back, Straker followed him, observing the Peugeot from some distance behind, comforted by being able to track him electronically at the same time.
Lyons left the M40 and headed for Royal Leamington Spa. Straker followed him into the centre of the town, in amongst its surprisingly elegant white stucco Regency townhouses and dark green cedar trees.
Lyons parked by a meter in the town centre.
This was odd, thought Straker. Where was Lyons going? Not to his office, if he was on a meter. Was he there for a meeting or a trip to the shops? Still some distance away, Straker quickly came to a halt, pulling over on the opposite side of the road, hoping to observe the direction in which Lyons might be making on foot. Straker saw his man walk down the street away from him. Lyons reached the intersection with The Parade and turned right. Driving on again, Straker pulled up to the same crossroads. From there, he was able to wait long enough at the intersection — before anyone honked him from behind — to see Lyons crossing the road a little way further down the hill. Lyons, dodging through the traffic to the far side of The Parade, soon disappeared into the grand entrance of The Regent Hotel.
Straker needed to follow him on foot to be sure. Sod’s Law had it there were no free parking spaces or meters nearby. Straker had to drive on down past the hotel and over the River Leam. It wasn’t until he reached Bath Place — two turnings on and some distance later — that he found a parking space. Bolting back from the car over the bridge, and up to the hotel, he reached the main entrance and walked in.
Slightly out of breath, he ordered a coffee to be taken in the reception area. Asking for the lavatories, Straker walked on into the hotel past the dining room. He managed to spot Lyons over by the window having breakfast with someone. Straker looked around his immediate location to check whether he was being stealthy enough. Believing he was, he moved slightly behind a door, pulled out his phone, switched it to “camera” and, as surreptitiously as possible, aimed the lens at his quarry, zoomed in, and fired off a couple of shots. In one, he managed to catch Lyons’s rendezvous almost face on.
Straker returned to his low table in among the armchairs of the reception area, where he helped himself to the coffee and, reading one of the broadsheets available in the hotel, kept a discreet but attentive eye on the main entrance in the lobby.
Michael Lyons walked out an hour or so later.
Straker, raising his eyes from the crossword, saw him go and, within a few seconds, had dropped a note into the leather bill holder, replaced the newspaper, and followed Lyons as far as the door. Through the porch windows to one side, Straker was able to watch Lyons make his way back up The Parade to Regent Street, and presumably his car.
Moving quickly from the main entrance of the hotel, Straker turned left and ran swiftly and easily down the street in the opposite direction, back over the river and to his own car in Bath Place.
Ten minutes later, Straker was three cars back from Lyons as he saw the Peugeot indicating left to turn into an industrial estate. Still some way behind, he followed Lyons through the business park before his quarry pulled up in front of a sizeable and impressive modern factory complex. Michael Lyons parked in what looked like a reserved bay, among the heavily manicured beds and trees out the front. Above the glass doors of the main entrance, Straker saw the name of the business. It rang a bell from his tour round the Ptarmigan factory the day before: Trifecta Systems. And, from the respectful nod Lyons received from the security guard standing by the main entrance, and a smile from a woman coming out of the building, Straker felt comfortable in deducing that Lyons was well-enough known here for this to be his place of work.
Straker made it back to Ptarmigan shortly after nine-thirty, and passed on his findings to Backhouse. ‘Michael Lyons had breakfast with a guy in the Regent Hotel,’ he told him, ‘and then pitched up for work at Trifecta Systems.’
‘Trifecta?’
‘Didn’t you mention them yesterday?’
‘I did — when we were talking about working with Benbecular. They provide our bespoke EMS — engine management system.’
‘What else do Trifecta do? It looked like a pretty big set-up.’
‘It is. They’re not just into engine management. They produce all our on-car electronics.’
‘All of them?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Including radios?’
Backhouse’s eyebrows raised as he realized the implications. ‘Oh Christ. But that doesn’t make sense, at all. Why would Trifecta be out to sabotage one of their own clients?’
Straker smiled, appearing to relish the conundrum.
‘It can’t be Trifecta on their own,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’s much more likely to be another Grand Prix team behind this.’
‘I agree. How many other teams would Trifecta be involved with?’
‘Most, in some way, shape or form. They’re more or less motor racing’s in-house electronics firm.’
‘No immediate leads there, then,’ concluded Straker as he pulled out his iPhone and, flicking through his pictures to find the clearest shot, handed the device to Backhouse. ‘Okay, what about this, then? Here’s the guy Lyons met for breakfast. Any idea who he is?’
The race engineer looked down at the snatched portrait, before frowning. ‘No.’
Backhouse studied the picture closely. He paused. ‘Hang on, can you zoom in?’
Straker leant across and demonstrated a two-finger spread on the screen. Backhouse copied the action for himself, zoomed in to enlarge the picture, and then peered closely at the image. ‘Well, looky there,’ he said turning the screen round to show Straker. ‘This guy’s wearing a Benbecular lapel pin — logo and all. What’s the betting he’s a company man?’
‘Where are Benbecular based, then?’ asked Straker.