“If Slick was taking part in some kind of road race when he died,” I went on, only too aware of Jacob’s doubtful stare, “then MacMillan’s going to go after everyone involved and that includes Clare. All we want to do is keep her out of it but we can’t do that if we don’t know what’s going on.”
Jacob slid his eyes away but I could see him making an effort at calm.
“I can’t tell you what’s going on if I don’t know what’s going on,” he said at last. “I don’t know why Clare should be trying to hide anything from you, Charlie – if she is. Until I’ve had the chance to talk to her myself, I can’t answer that.”
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up, planting his knuckles on the table top to push himself stiffly out of his seat.
“As you’re well aware,” he went on, “I was in Ireland to buy motorbikes. Two Vincents and a Brough Superior that were due under the hammer this morning.” He jerked his head towards the hired Citroën outside. “The only reason they’re not in the back of the van right now is because I dropped everything when I got that phone call. I’ve already got a buyer lined up for one of the Vincents, who’s going to be very fucking pissed off that I’ve come back empty-handed, I can tell you.”
I hardly ever heard Jacob swear seriously and now, despite the evenness of his tone, it gave the profanity an uncommon weight.
And still I had to have one last go.
“Clare’s asked me to go to Ireland and keep an eye on Jamie,” I said. “She said she’s worried about him punching out of his weight, trying to keep up with the big boys. Can you think of any other reason why she might be worried for his safety?”
“I don’t know. Jamie and I don’t see as much of each other as we probably could – or should – have done,” Jacob said, candid. “But if he’s any sense he’ll have given Slick and his bunch of nutcase mates a wide berth. I’ve certainly been doing nothing underhand with them and you either believe that or you don’t,” he added with a quiet dignity. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I went to see my other half.”
He didn’t even slam the kitchen door on his way out but the soft click it made when he pulled it shut behind him still made me flinch. He closed the front door on his way out with more force, though, and we watched him hurry across the forecourt to the Range Rover. I let out a long breath.
“Well, that went down well, I thought,” Sean said, heavy on the irony.
“Yeah, like a knackered lift.”
The elderly diesel Range Rover, ostensibly cream but long patinated with rust, started up in a cloud of black smoke. It swung round in a tight circle on the mossy cobbles, leaning precariously, and shot off up the driveway.
“So, do you believe him?” Sean asked then.
“About what?”
“That he’s nothing to do with the Devil’s Bridge brigade.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, aware of a low-level churning beneath my ribs that could have been anxiety. “When you first mentioned them, I don’t know, there was something in his face . . .” I broke off, remembering the doubt. “But when you mentioned Ireland he seemed a lot more . . . emphatic, somehow.”
“And you don’t fancy the idea of tying him to a chair and shining bright lights in his eyes until he cracks,” Sean said.
“No,” I said with a smile, “I guess I don’t.” I paused, let my breath out hard through my nose. “Why is it that it’s a hell of a lot easier asking questions of people when you don’t give a shit about them?” I muttered.
“I always make it a rule never to interrogate people I like,” Sean agreed gravely, although there was a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“So, where do we go from here?” I asked, repeating his earlier question.
“I think you just have to wait and see what story Jacob comes back with.”
I glanced up. “I have to wait?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My gear’s already packed. I’m afraid I have to go back to work,” he said, softening the blow with a smile of his own. “There’s a diamond courier flying in to Heathrow tomorrow afternoon from Amsterdam and they want me to head the team looking after him personally.”
“Why do they need you?” Can’t someone else do it? “I mean, why are they so jumpy?”
“The customer is always right.” Sean shrugged. “And if you were walking round with a briefcase chained to your wrist with half a million in gems inside, you’d be jumpy, too.”
I didn’t answer that. He’s going. I felt a sudden tightness in my chest, the anxiety upgraded close to panic.
“I think it might be for the best, in any case,” he added.
“Oh. I see,” I said. Stupid, when clearly I didn’t. “Why?”
He shrugged again, little more than a restless lift of a shoulder. “I need you to come to a decision about me – us, the future,” he said, turning away. “I’m not sure you can do that when we’re together.”
I opened my mouth to speak, realised I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say, and shut it again. The silence stretched between us until it had become a chasm too wide to fill with mere words.
“OK,” I said at last. Tell him, an internal voice urged loudly in my ear. Tell him not to go. Tell him how you feel.
But I couldn’t, and I didn’t.
Thirteen
The motorway was quiet. Sean kept the Shogun at a steady eighty-five in the centre lane, overtaking a strung out line of trucks. At the same time he was making arrangements for the Heathrow job on his mobile, which was plugged into a hands-free kit on the dash.
I sat in the passenger seat staring out at the countryside flowing past my window. I tuned out Sean going over the logistics of mapping the route they were going to take to the courier’s destination, the possible bottlenecks and choke points, how many vehicles, how many men.
I knew he would have already pre-planned all this meticulously enough not to need to double-check it now. It was just Sean’s inbuilt thoroughness.
That didn’t make it any easier to bear.
With my stomach clenched tight, I was trying not to let my desperation show on my face. But I could feel my chances of getting across half of what I wanted to say to him slipping away with each passing mile.
It had seemed like an ideal opportunity at first. Sean was heading back down to King’s Langley and I needed to collect my Honda FireBlade from my parents’ place in Cheshire. It meant only a relatively minor detour off the M6 for Sean and I’d thought the hour-and-a-half journey would have given us plenty of time to talk. As it was, we were already passing the Blackpool turnoff and had barely exchanged a word.
Before we’d left Jacob and Clare’s I’d had a thorough look at the damage to the Suzuki, just in case it could be patched together to last me a bit longer. It looked a lot worse in daylight than it had in Gleet’s workshop the night before. The back end was a mess. It was pure luck, I considered, that the Transit driver hadn’t wiped my rear wheel right out from under me. I patted the bike apologetically on its dented tank.