6. THE RESTORATION PROJECT
THE JET SKI WAS A TWENTY-YEAR-OLD KARUDA, sleek silver and purple bodywork wrapped around a powerful marine combustion engine. Quite why his father had bought it, Tim never knew. He certainly couldn’t remember the machine ever being used. His mother hadn’t been able to shed any light on the mystery other than saying: “Probably a midlife crisis.”
It had spent most of two decades stored in a polyethylene bubble in one of the manor’s many fusty outbuildings. Then Tim and his friends had decided to resurrect it for some fun when the warm weather arrived in April. They carried it over to the stable, which had been converted into a workshop for the gardener, and stripped the protective polyethylene off. The bodywork had lost its luster over the intervening years, but the engine had been well oiled before it was cocooned. Now the streamlined machine was clamped on top of a long carpentry bench with a frame of crude wood. Body panels had been removed, exposing the framework, and various dismantled parts were lying around it. The engine was held upright in its own clamp, allowing them to strip it down as best they could.
On Saturday morning they all gathered around to do a couple of hours’ work on it before going out. A big old flat polycrystal screen was fixed to the wall behind the bench, displaying the engine’s service manual. Tim and Martin were looking at it, trying to match the neat drawings to the oily metal components they were attempting to reassemble onto the block.
“I’m surprised they’re not in here with you now,” Simon said. He was sitting on a battered old leather sofa at the other end of the workshop, below a big poster of Stephanie Romane wearing her UK team beach volleyball costume and a lot of body oil. “Then they can make sure we’re conforming to Brussels working practice directives.”
“Piss off,” Tim snapped. Europol had been guarding him for a week now. The first few days eluding the bodyguards had been fun. Martin and Colin had helped out quite a bit. He’d sent encrypted avtxts to all his friends, formulating elaborate plans. On the first day he started off walking to the bus stop as usual, then Simon had zoomed by on his e-trike and Tim hopped onto the back. The officer had yelled frantically into the mic on his PCglasses, and the team’s BMW 25 series had pulled out of the White Horse pub’s parking lot within thirty seconds. But Simon drove off down the old Exton road, which Rutland Council had classified as D-status and no longer had a tarmac surface. The Europol car couldn’t cope with the narrow limestone and moss track, and had to abandon pursuit.
They were waiting stony-faced for him when he walked into his first lesson. Surrounded by laughing friends, Tim just waved impudently. When he arrived home in the evening, Lucy Duke was waiting with a lecture about ingratitude. He listened a few seconds, then asked her to order Chinese takeout for him. “You’re a public servant, aren’t you? So serve.” The contortions on her face as she had struggled to keep her temper were hysterical.
On the second day a four-wheel-drive Range Rover AT was parked conspicuously in front of the pub. It followed the bus closely. Tim waited until they reached Whitwell, then bailed out of the bus’s rear emergency exit. Colin was waiting by the church with his trail bike. They zoomed off down the nature route footpath and through the wood, where the Range Rover couldn’t follow.
A Europol captain was sent out from the Nottingham office to give the protection team a dressing-down about being outwitted by a teenage boy. The captain and Lucy Duke then spent a fruitless half hour pleading with Sue Baker. The whole Europol team hated Tim after that, and didn’t bother to hide the fact.
Tim hadn’t tried to give them the slip for several days, although there were quite a few strategies he hadn’t tried yet. It was just that actually doing it was such a lot of effort. In any case, Natalie Cherbun, a twenty-five-year-old French officer, had been reassigned from his mother to his day guard duty. Not that Tim liked her, obviously, but she was rather easy to look at.
“They’re going to be a problem when we take this thing out,” Colin declared as he threaded the new clutch cable through the handlebars.
“No,” Tim said irritably. “They won’t be.”
“Your gestapo mates are supposed to keep you from harm. They’ll be with us the whole time, and they’ll stop you using it.”
“They’re not my mates, and I can use this whenever the fuck I want.”
“But they’ll be there.”
“Watching, that’s all.”
“God, Tim, they’re just trouble,” Simon said.
Tim clamped his teeth together and pretended to study the diagram on the big screen for a moment. There had been a lot of verbal acrimony between him and Simon since the party. “I can handle them. Can’t you?”
“I shouldn’t have to handle them, that’s the thing.”
Tim turned to face him. Simon was sprawled on the ramshackle sofa, as usual. He never did much actual work on the Jet Ski, just hung around while everyone else got their hands dirty. “You got something else on your mind?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Me and Annabelle?” It had been going quite well between them during the last week, despite the clinging presence of his bodyguards. At school they’d started to sit together at meals, and were now spending time together in the afternoon. On Thursday she’d come back to the manor with him so they could study in the evening. Tonight she was coming along with them to Stamford. Every week—except when there were parties at someone’s house—a group of them would tour the town’s clubs and then grab a kebab before the last bus home at one-thirty.
“That doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” He gave Tim a defiant smile. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
For an instant Simon looked vulnerable. “You know why I dumped her?”
“She dumped you.”
“Crap! If that’s what she told you, she’s lying. I ended it. I thought it couldn’t be better. Then…” He shook his head as if to throw off the memory.
“What?” Tim demanded.
“Nothing.”
“She finally got your number,” Colin taunted. “Told you she’d hear about you bragging about how much you bonked her. They always do. It’s like telepathy or something.”
Simon gave Tim a straight look. “She comes over all confident, like she’s lived a dozen lives. But she’s dependent. I think she’s really insecure. The really beautiful ones always are. It means she can switch on you like that.” He clicked her fingers.
“Bollocks,” Tim said. “You blew it, that’s all.”
“Not me. She went and shagged my brother.”
“Derek?”
“Yeah. I told you, she’s a real slut.”
Tim clenched his fists, giving Simon a hard stare. “You what?”
“All right, sorry, not a slut. But she did shag him. That’s when I dumped her.”
“You lying piece of shit,” Tim said. He was furious that Simon would dare say anything bad about Annabelle. There was going to be blood spilt over this, even though he didn’t really know how to fight.
“He’s jealous,” Colin told Tim, trying to calm things down. “That’s all. Just ignore him.”
“I’m not jealous,” Simon insisted. “What you and she get up to doesn’t bother me at all. Why should it? I’m on to fresh pastures now.”
Tim eyed one of the big wrenches, wondering what it would look like sticking out of Simon’s head. Good, he expected.
“Who?” Martin challenged.
“Rachel, if you must know.”
“Crap. She’s going out with Nigel.”
“Not anymore. She’s coming to Stamford with me tonight. And we’re going to the Summer Ball together.”