The French countryside whipped past our windows as we ate up the miles. The weather was cool and overcast, but it didn’t ruin the view.
‘So Claudia is an undercover British Customs agent,’ Dylan said. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘I feel like we’re the last ones to laugh at a poorly told joke. Do you think we can trust her?’
‘About as much as anyone at this point.’
‘In other words, we can’t. Shit, we’re really in a hole.’
But I thought if anyone would throw us a lifeline, it would be Claudia. Barrington cared about the win at any cost and Claudia was ambitious, but I felt she was principled. She wouldn’t burn us for the success of the case. I hoped for once that I was reading her correctly.
We raced by places I’d only ever seen on a map, eventually stopping in Reims to refuel. I didn’t realize how stiff I’d gotten at the wheel until I got out and I was glad of the decision to bring Dylan with me. I tossed him the keys so he could take over driving duties. He didn’t get into the car.
‘You know where we are, don’t you?’ Dylan said.
‘Reims.’
‘And that means we’re a short distance from the old grand prix track. We have to see it.’
‘We’re on the clock, if you haven’t forgotten.’
‘Mate, I know we’re under a lot of thumbs, but when are we going to be out this way again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There you go then. We’re ahead of schedule and we can afford to play tourist. We have to go.’
‘You’re forgetting that we’re being tracked.’
‘And we’re not supposed to know that. We’re supposed to be on a jolly. If we don’t act like it, then someone is going to suspect us.’
Dylan made a good case. Then again, I got the feeling Dylan was going to make any case he needed to get his way.
‘OK, let’s go.’
‘Good man.’
Dylan parked the Honda on the start-finish line and we got out. Not much remained of the historic circuit — just the pits and the grandstand. It wasn’t surprising, really. Reims wasn’t a traditional racetrack. Triangular in shape, it ran on public roads connecting three villages. It had been home to the French Grand Prix in the fifties and sixties. The circuit had been closed for forty years and the rot had set in. Now it was nothing more than a motor-racing ruin. Stonehenge for racers.
Traffic whipped past us as we wandered through the pits. Not all was lost at Reims. Restoration was in progress. The pits had been cleaned up. Names of old sponsors had been repainted on the control tower and all along the pit garages.
‘I want a picture of this,’ Dylan said.
We jogged across the road and climbed the grandstand. I sat while Dylan snapped photos with his mobile.
I watched a lorry disappear into the distance and imagined what it would be like to go barrelling down these narrow French roads. Driving on commercial roads must have been dangerous in its day, but it would be lethal in today’s cars that need a mirror-flat surface.
Dylan pocketed his phone and sat next to me.
‘This was a good idea,’ I said.
‘I have them from time to time.’ He smiled at me, then the smile disappeared. ‘You shouldn’t have shut me out. I get why you did it, but you still shouldn’t have done it.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘That’s all I needed to hear.’
And it was. I wouldn’t have to apologize to him again and he would never raise the subject again. Something bigger than my stupidity had to come between us for it to become a friendship-breaking issue.
‘Do you think drugs is what got Jason killed?’
‘Probably. I do wonder if he was aware of it, though. He could have been following up on this cheating angle and walked into something much worse.’
‘Shit. I’m so glad we’ve got Customs looking out for us.’
I wasn’t so sure.
‘I know I’ve only been working at Ragged for a week, but I’m having a hard time believing that they’re drug traffickers,’ Dylan said. ‘Nobody is acting like they’re hiding something and no one’s excluding me.’
I was having a hard time with it too. Barrington liked to tar everybody with the same brush, which was the easy way out. I pulled out the set of keys that Jason had had on him when he died. ‘Anyone asked for their keys yet?’
‘Not yet, they haven’t. I’m keeping my eyes open.’
‘Good.’ I checked my watch. ‘C’mon, play time is over.’
We hit the road. We kept talking about our situation without coming up with a solid theory, but the conversation carried us all the way into Strasbourg where we stopped for a fuel and food stop. We’d been on the road six hours since driving off the ferry and the car wasn’t the only one in need of fuel. We gassed it up and drove around until we found a restaurant that looked interesting. The menu seemed to have more in common with German cuisine than French. Then again, with the German border in spitting distance, we were in that twilight zone where nationalities blended.
We half-arsed ordering a meal in English and bad French, laughing as we went, but we got what we were after — something filling in the form of Alsatian Choucroute. It was a heavy meat and potatoes thing consisting of sausages, sauerkraut and lots of root vegetables which made Dylan very happy. Seeing as I was resuming the driving after our meal, Dylan ordered a beer.
Our clumsy attempt at ordering dinner drew a few odd looks from our fellow diners, but I didn’t care. It had been a long time since I’d enjoyed myself. Life had gotten so serious since Alex Fanning’s murder at the end of last season. I’d gone from that investigation to testifying in multiple trials, then into the driver shootout, which led to my professional driving contract and the fallout from Jason Gates’ murder. The simple act of hanging out with my friend as we drove a car across three countries was something I hadn’t gotten to do. In the process of all this seriousness, I’d forgotten how to have fun.
After we’d finished, we walked out to the car park, where everything changed. The fun of the day evaporated in an instant as my stomach clenched and the seriousness returned to my life.
‘Oh, shit,’ Dylan said.
He couldn’t have summed up the situation any more succinctly. The car was gone.
Lap Twenty-Five
With Mathieu Schöenberger, the restaurant’s owner, acting as interpreter, I reported the car’s theft to the police. He poured us free coffee while we waited for the cops to arrive. He was very kind under the circumstances, but I think it had a lot to do with the car being hijacked from his car park. There was nothing for us to do but wait.
‘The police will be here within the hour,’ Mathieu said.
I checked my watch. That meant in twenty minutes. ‘Thanks.’
Dylan and I stared at my mobile phone on the table in front of me.
‘You’re going to have to call Rags,’ Dylan said.
I was clinging to the vain hope that the cops would pick up the car thieves in a blink of an eye and Rags wouldn’t have to know. It was a delusion I couldn’t commit to with any great faith. I sighed and picked up the phone. I scrolled through my directory and was just about to select Rags’ number when I stopped. An alternative hit me.
‘Please let it be so.’
‘What?’ Dylan said.
‘Stay here a minute.’
I went outside and punched in Claudia’s number. She answered on the second ring.
‘The car’s been stolen. Did you do it?’
‘What car? The car you’re delivering?’
Claudia sounded genuinely surprised, but I couldn’t tell for sure. She’d already proved to be an expert liar. I only had Claudia’s word there was a GPS tracker on the car. In fact, she could have been the one who’d planted it. I had no idea who to trust anymore.