“Of course,” I murmured. “That’s how McKenna knew Blakemore used to be in charge of the driving, not Figgis.”
“What?” Madeleine said. “Oh, yes, according to the reports, Blakemore was supposed to be responsible for the class at the time. He claimed that McKenna’s uncle was using one of the school cars on his own time, without permission. It all got very messy, but the Major managed to slide out of any suit for negligence. Looking at the financials for the time, it probably would have been enough to finish him.”
“So why does McKenna now want to be a bodyguard? And why has he come to the same place that might have been responsible for the death of his uncle?” I wondered aloud, although as I said it, I realised there were two possible answers.
Justice. Or revenge.
“Well, he certainly doesn’t seem interested in this as a long-term career,” Madeleine said. “He’s actually a driving instructor back at home, and before he left for the course he put in an order for a new car, which he’s having modified to dual controls for when he gets back. Hardly the action of the man looking to chuck it all in and become a full-time bodyguard, is it?”
“A driving instructor?” I queried. He’d never shown any particular spark during the driving lessons. In fact he’d been awful. But then, I’d tried not to show any in the unarmed combat, either. If he was hiding his abilities, he had to have a reason.
I don’t know what Madeleine said next, I wasn’t paying enough attention. Instead I was remembering those skid marks at the crash site. There was something precise about them. Something measured. A driving instructor.
I wonder.
“McKenna was in the village today,” I said. “I bumped into him after I left the café but, when we got back, he was here waiting for us.”
“I thought you said he had concussion and he’d stayed at the Manor?”
“That’s where he was supposed to be, yes,” I said.
“So how did he get there – and back, for that matter?”
I didn’t answer straight away. None of the students had brought a vehicle of their own to Einsbaden Manor, but that didn’t mean there weren’t plenty available at the school. The Audis we used every day, for example, always had the keys left hanging in the ignitions. Anyone could take one, if they wanted to.
But if they had . . .
“Listen Madeleine, I’ve got to go,” I said hurriedly. “I need to check on something.”
Madeleine did her best not to appear offended at my sudden departure. She just told me to keep in touch and let her know if I needed anything.
I tried not to run back downstairs, but I didn’t have to field any awkward questions in any event. I moved quickly across the tiled hallway out of the front door, skirting round the edge of the house to the parking area at the rear.
The school Audis were lined up along the far side, as always, and I took a casual turn along the backs of them. Spotting broken glass wouldn’t have been difficult, but only if there’d been any.
I made a return pass along the fronts, but there were no new dents or scratches anywhere. I felt my shoulders slump a little. So I’d been wrong. I started back across the car park for the Manor again, when a flutter of bright blue plastic caught my eye.
Over in the corner, half hidden behind the trucks, were the remains of the three cars we’d wrecked in the forest. They’d been dragged back and covered over with a tarpaulin sheet. I’d assumed they were all written off.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the house, but nobody was visible at the windows or on the terrace. I moved quickly behind the trucks, out of sight, and lifted the nearest corner of the cover.
The car I’d been in – the one Hofmann had been driving – was a mess, completely undrivable. All the glass was gone and the body had deformed sufficiently from the roll that the doors were no longer capable of closing, even if all of them had been still attached.
The lead car, with Declan at the wheel, was also out of the running. When it had bounced off the track it had hit a tree hard enough at the front to fold the metalwork into a sharp vee, splitting the radiator in two. The rad had sheared right off its mountings and half of the core now dangled out from under the front spoiler on the end of a single piece of rubber hose.
But the last of the three, the one Craddock had run into the back of us, had escaped remarkably unscathed. I worked my way round to the front end. He’d hit us with the right-hand front corner, which was crumpled out of shape and already showing the first tint of rust. All the glass in the headlights and indicators was smashed on that side.
The other corner, though, should have been undamaged. It hadn’t even been exposed to the gunfire from the men in the Peugeot. So how had the lights on that side been broken? And what had caused those shiny new gouges in the paintwork along the wing just above the front bumper? I wiped the dirt from my hands and I stood up slowly.
As I did so I heard a sound very like a gasp.
I turned quickly. McKenna was less than half a dozen strides away from me and had obviously been heading for the damaged cars. He stopped dead when he saw me appear, took one look at my glowering face, then turned and ran.
Not towards the house, but out towards the woods that surrounded us. He had no genuine reason to be running unless it was from guilt. There was only one way to find out.
I set off after him. I’ve never been that fast as a sprinter, but the memory of Blakemore’s senseless death was a stark incentive. Still I might not have caught up to McKenna, had he not tripped over a root as he reached the tree line and gone sprawling.
He started to scramble up straight away, but I dug deep for a final spurt of energy and tackled him before he’d made it to his feet. My momentum bowled him over, sending both of us tumbling. He came to rest with his back thumped against a trunk, winded.
I rolled to my feet. Even with the ache in my breastbone that the rough contact had set off, I had my breath back first. When McKenna had recovered enough to focus on me I realised he wasn’t just breathless, he was terrified.
Of what? Of what he’d done? Or of being caught?
“Why?” I bit out. “Why did you do it, McKenna?”
He swallowed, twisting his head from side to side as though he could escape the blame that way. I grabbed hold of his chin and held his face straight, but he just allowed his gaze to slide away from mine.
“You talk to me now, or you can explain it to the Major,” I threw at him. “It’s your choice.”
That got his attention. His eyes snapped open fully, then began to fill with tears.
I let go and stepped back from him, disgusted with both of us.
For a while he sat there willing his emotions into submission, then he glanced up at me, sheepish.
“I know you’re only here because of your uncle,” I said, more gently this time, ignoring his surprise. “Want to tell me about it?”
It took McKenna a little while to find a way into his story. His hands curled into fists of frustration in his lap. Eventually he burst out with, “He would never have just taken that car like they said. He wouldn’t!”
“Like you wouldn’t just take one of the school cars without asking, you mean?” I said.
He flushed, turned away. “That’s different,” he said, sulky.
“How is it different?” I said, and without waiting for a reply I added, “Oh yes, I know – he didn’t set out intending to kill anyone, did he?”
McKenna’s face crumpled again, folding in all the way this time. I remembered, too late, that his uncle had indeed ended up killing someone. Himself.
Damn, I thought, and let him cry.