The driver got out of the car and let himself into the car showroom. A light came on inside. Now at least I knew where Terry Fitz had come by his trade plates. And why he seemed to go for seriously expensive motors. Five minutes later, the interior light snapped off and the driver got back into his Merc. I still hadn’t had a good enough look at him to attempt identification. We drove back into the town centre. It was quiet; not even the designer clothes shops had attracted late-night browsers. We passed the station and headed out of town. By now, I had a shrewd suspicion where we might be headed.
Prestbury has more millionaires per head of population than any other village in England, according to the media-hype types. The only way you’d guess from hanging round in the main street is from the motors parked outside the deli and the chocolatier. They don’t have sweetie shops run by Asians in places like Prestbury. They don’t have anything that isn’t one hundred per cent backed up by centuries of English Conservative tradition. But then, in Prestbury, you don’t get the kind of nouveau millionaire celebs that give the paparazzi palpitations. We’re talking captains of industry, backroom boys and girls, the high rollers whose names mean nothing to anyone outside a very select circle. You can tell it’s posh, though. They haven’t got pavements or streetlights. After all, who needs them when you go everywhere by car or horse?
About a mile from the centre of the village, the Merc signalled a left turn. I signalled right, then killed my lights and pulled on to the verge. Someone was going to have a major tanturm when they saw my tyre marks in the morning. I jumped out of the car and sprinted towards the gateway he’d entered. I crouched behind the gatepost. The deeply incised letters told me I was outside Hickory Dell, the land that taste forgot. The house was built on the side of a slope, a split-level monstrosity that could have housed half Manchester’s homeless and still have had room for a wedding reception. A four-car garage bigger than any house on my estate stood off to one side. One garage door was open, the drive outside it spotlit with high-wattage security lights. I heard the soft slam of a car door, then the heavy-set man emerged. As he swung round to check the door was closing behind him, I got a good look at his face.
I’d seen him before, no question about it. The problem was, I didn’t have a clue where or when.
Chapter 17
I stopped running and took a couple of seconds to work out exactly where I was. I could feel the prickle of sweat under my helmet as I swivelled my head from side to side. I turned sharp right and started running again. As I rounded the next corner, my heart sank. I’d hesitated too long. The tank was heading straight for me, blocking the entire width of the street. Desperately, I turned back, in time to see the helicopter closing off my retreat by dropping a block of what looked remarkably like granite into the street.
Resigned to defeat, I pulled off my helmet and glove. In the next playing area, Davy was still inside his helmet, one hand on the joystick that controlled the tank, the other punching the air triumphantly. I hate kids. They’re always better at the computer games where hand — eye coordination is vital.
I tapped the top of his helmet and undid the straps. Reluctantly, he let go the joystick and climbed out of the seat. ‘Time up, cybernaut,’ I said. I glanced at my watch. ‘They’ll be closing soon.’ The brand new VIRUS Centre (Virtual Reality UniverSe, I kid you not) had proved to be the best possible way of amusing Davy without doing my head in. It had only opened a month before, and secretly I’d been dying to try out the twenty game scenarios promised in their lavish brochure. I’d been wary about coming on a bank holiday Monday, but it had been surprisingly quiet. I blame the parents. Not that I’m complaining — their absence gave me and Davy a lot more scope for enjoying ourselves.
I suppose I should have felt guilty, indulging myself with swords and sorcery while Richard was still languishing, but he seemed to think that his son’s enjoyment was just as important as my attempts to get him released. Besides, Alexis had had to go into the office anyway to do some last-minute work on the child porn exposé that would launch the Chronicle’s latest campaign. At least I’d pitched her into trying to find out who lived at Hickory Dell.
We headed back to the car via the souvenir shop. ‘Enjoy yourself?’ I asked. Pretty redundant question, really.
‘It was boss. Top wicked.’ I took that to mean approval. ‘It was a lot better than Ice World,’ he said judiciously. ‘Skating gets boring after a while. Your ankles get sore. And the other stuff was pretty boring. You know, all that discovering the South Pole stuff. The models are really naff, and they don’t do anything. ’S not surprising there was hardly anybody there,’ he added, dismissing Alexis’s attempts to entertain him.
‘Wasn’t there?’ I asked, more for something to say than out of interest.
‘There was no queues,’ he said indignantly. ‘Anything worth doing always has queues.’ He looked around the souvenir shop, where we were the only customers. ‘Except this place,’ he qualified.
How bizarre to be part of a generation where queues are a sign of approval. Me, I’d pay money to avoid standing in line. I’m the driver everyone hates, the one who jumps the queue of standing traffic on the motorway and sneaks in just as the three lanes narrow to two. I nearly said something, but Davy was already delving through a box of transfers.
I left him to his browsing and ambled over to the ego board by the door. It displayed five-inch by three-inch colour photographs of the creators and senior staff of the VIRUS Centre, captioned with their names and executive titles. They all looked interchangeable with the mugshots on the board down the local supermarket. I turned back to check on Davy, and suddenly my subconscious swung into action. No queues at Ice World, coupled with the ego board, had finally woken my memory. The answer had been there all the time, only I’d been too dozy to spot it.
• •
When we got back, Alexis was sitting in my conservatory, trying to look like she was engrossed in the evening paper. I knew she was only pretending; Chris gave the game away. ‘You were right,’ she said to Alexis in a surprised voice. ‘It was Kate’s car. Hello, you two. Have a good day?’
That was all the encouragement Davy needed. He launched into a blow-by-blow account of the VIRUS Centre. Like an angel, Chris steered him off towards the kitchen, seducing him with promises of fish fingers and baked beans. I collapsed on the sofa and groaned. ‘Thank God for contraception,’ I muttered.
‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ Alexis said. ‘He’s good as gold. You want to spend a day looking after my nephew. He’s hyperactive and his mother’s the kind of divvy who fills him up with E numbers. Any more complaints from you and I won’t tell you what I’ve found out today.’
I closed my eyes and leaned back. ‘The occupant of Hickory Dell is Eliot James,’ I intoned. ‘Boss man at Tonik Leisure Services. Owners of, among other things, Ice World. Which, if what Davy says is right, must be struggling. If you’re half-empty on a cold bank holiday Sunday morning, you’re not going to weather the recession indefinitely.’ I sneaked an eyelid half-open. Alexis’s expression moved from fury to disappointment to amusement. Luckily for me, it stopped there.
‘Nobody loves a smartass,’ she growled. ‘OK, clever clogs. So what else have you dug up about Jammy James while you’ve supposedly been off entertaining me laddo? I mean, I don’t know why I bother putting myself out when you just bugger off and do it yourself anyway!’