The Lucy Ghosts

'A 1955 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing. Fourteen hundred made, about three hundred left.'

'Horny shape. For a car that old. How fast?'

'About a hundred and fifty.'

'Good brakes?'

'No. Drums, not discs. Which is why there's only about three hundred left.'

'Expensive, is it?'

'Yes.'

'How much?'

'A lot.'

'Go on. How much?'

'About a quarter of a million.'

'Pounds?'

'Pounds. But this car's not about money.'

'When you've got a quarter of a million in a car, you can afford to say that. Here, give us another chip.'

He leant towards Adam and helped himself. 'You're being watched, you know.'

'Watched?'

'Yeah. Don't look, but that grey Rover across the street. I saw it pull up just after you. When you went in the chippie, the passenger got out and came over, watched you through the window. Scarpered back just before you came out.'

'Thank you.'

'No sweat. You're not bent, are you?'

'No,' Adam laughed. 'And it isn't a stolen car.'

'Never thought it was. Anyway, they're not police. I know all the unmarked cars. '

'So why tell me?'

'Why not? Fellow shares his lunch with me, he deserves a favour. Even if he does drive a car that could pay my wages for the rest of my life.'

The warden moved off as Adam swung himself into the car. Climbing into a Gullwing was an acquired knack and he made it look easy. As he pulled the door down, he examined the Rover in his rear view mirror.

It was Army.

He knew what they wanted, knew they'd been trailing him ever since he got back.

He switched her engine on, the roar of the 3 litre exploding as it always did.

Emma was a car born on the racetrack. The strange method of entry, with the doors opening up instead of out, was necessary because of the side members of its, for then, advanced multi-tube frame. The engine, a 2996 c.c. straight six cylinder, with Bosch fuel injection, pulled 240 b.h.p. The four speed, fully synchromeshed gearbox was positive in its movement, unlike many other squashy boxes of the era, and powered the car from a standing start to 60 m.p.h. in just over seven seconds. The most remarkable feature was the engine, tilted at sixty degrees to its left, which allowed the hood to be lower than any other sports or racing car of its time.

Adam slipped the thin, upright gear stick into first and pulled out from the kerb.

The Rover hastily swung into the line of traffic behind him and caused an elderly driver to brake her Renault sharply.

'Bloody amateurs,' he chuckled as he heard the woman blare her horn at the Rover.

He half saluted the traffic warden who winked his acknowledgement as he ticketed his way down the street.

The Mercedes worked its way through Shepherd's Bush and onto Bayswater Road, towards Central London. It was early in the afternoon and the traffic light. The Rover kept its distance, not wanting to be noticed in the near empty road, an impossible task at the best of times. Five minutes later Adam passed Marble Arch and swung right into Park Lane. He kept the speed steady at twenty miles an hour, grinned when he saw the Rover being honked at by faster moving traffic. Staying in the bus lane, he passed the Grosvenor House and Dorchester before turning into the set back road at the front of the Hilton. He drove past the commissionaires at the entrance, the small crowd waiting for taxis gawking at the bright red sports car, and into the rear entrance where he pulled up under the canopy and parked.

Although it was a 'No Parking' zone, he knew the car was safe, Wardens and policemen were usually reluctant to ticket or clamp it. The advantages of being a legend.

Adam walked into the Hilton lobby, round to the lifts in the centre of the foyer. He took his time, knew they would be following him. The lobby was crowded, the lifts busy. It wasn't difficult to waste time, he was just one of the crowd.

One of his followers came around the corner and towards the lifts. He stopped sharply, surprised at seeing Adam still there. He was an earnest young man, probably a pen pusher.

Adam stepped forward towards the lifts and spoke to the man next to him.

'Hope these lifts don't stop on every floor.'

'Que?', asked the man, an Hispanic foreigner.

'Lifts. Very slow. You like London?'

'Si. Si. Very nice.'

'First time here?'

'Que?'

'Good. Very nice.'

'Si. Is very good.'

'You enjoy. Is a great city.'

Adam laughed and slapped the man gently on the back. He knew pen pusher would be confused, would think Adam knew the stranger well.

They both entered the lift, the follower also slipping in behind.

The foreigner pushed the button for Floor 16, Adam selected 17. Pen pusher, having elbowed himself to the back of the crowded lift, did nothing.

The Otis lift stopped on Floors 2, 7, 11 and 12 before reaching the 16th.

As the doors slid open, Adam once again patted the foreigner's shoulder.

'Well, have a good time.'

'Si. Thank you,' replied the surprised man, stepping out into the corridor.

'See you later. Won't be long,' shouted Adam through the closing door, waving a final farewell.

The stranger, now totally mystified, waved back as the door finally closed in his face.

There were only three people left in the lift, Adam, the pen pusher and a grey haired man in a Burberry raincoat.

The lift stopped on the 17th floor and Adam stepped out. Pen pusher didn't have the nerve to follow him, which is what Adam expected. He saw him lurch forward as the doors started to close, probably pushed the button for the 18th floor. Adam walked quickly to the housekeeper's closet by the emergency steps and went in, pulling the door to, but not shut, behind him.

A few moments later pen pusher appeared out of the emergency exit door, having climbed down from the floor above. Adam gave him five for resourcefulness.

Pen pusher disappeared down the corridor and turned left at the end.

Adam slipped out from the closet and went through the emergency exit. The concrete, uncarpeted stairs dropped away endlessly. Without hesitation he started to run down the stairs, two at a time.

Two hundred feet below, in the foyer, pen pusher's colleague had come in search of his partner. After a fruitless quest he went to the concierge's position to ask if there were any restaurants or coffee shops on other floors, just as Adam came out of the stairwell doorway and left by the front entrance. Neither saw each other in the throng of the lobby crowd.

Adam walked round the building and to the back entrance where he saw the Rover parked. The Gullwing had drawn a small crowd of admirers, two boys in jeans and their mother. Adam crossed the street quickly.

'Excuse me,' he said, putting the key in the lock and turning it to release the slim door handle.

'Your car, mister?' asked the elder of the two boys.

'Yes.'

'It's beautiful.'

'Thank you,' replied Adam, swinging the door up.

'Cor!' blurted the younger brother. 'It opens up.'

'Would you like to sit inside?'

'Could they?' said the mother.

'Of course.' Adam knew he should be moving, but also enjoyed sharing the car with these two young boys. He reached out and lifted the younger brother, no more than seven years old, and lowered him into the car.

'The steering wheel's broke,' said the elder of the two.

'No it's not,' answered Adam, leaning in and pulling the tilted wheel upright, locking it into place. 'It's meant to be like that. To make it easy to get in. Remember, this was a racing car. Not many would be able to get in, let alone drive it.'

He watched the young boy twist the wheel and pretend to drive the car.