***
Compared with the kind of pace Daz had set north of the border, we had an almost leisurely cruise along the toll road round the western side of Dublin. It was just fast enough to keep a cooling draught rolling up over the FireBlade’s fairing. Every time we slowed I could feel the heat building inside my leathers and bouncing up at me from the shimmering tarmac. If the temperature didn’t let up a little tomorrow, I decided, this promised day at Mondello Park was going to be unbearable.
Since I’d acquired the FireBlade I’d done several track days with it – at Oulton Park in Cheshire, mainly, which wasn’t much more than an hour from my parents’ place, even allowing for traffic. I’d even had a day at the Superbike school at the new Rockingham circuit near Northampton, learning to lay the big bike down far enough through every corner to kiss my knee-sliders across the kerbs. It wasn’t as manoeuverable as my little Suzuki, but with any luck this previous experience meant I wasn’t going to make a complete fool of myself out there tomorrow. If only that was all I had to worry about.
From Dublin we headed slightly southwest and as we got closer to Naas, we started to pick up signs for Mondello Park. The number of bikes had increased into a swarm so that it was almost impossible to spot if the Suzuki with the Lucky Strike paintwork was still shadowing us, but I had faith that, if he’d been there, Sean would have spotted him. There was no sign of our friendly Vauxhall-driving thugs, either.
Naas itself seemed to be strung out along either side of a single main street and at first we struggled to find our hotel. There was a fair amount of reasonably good-natured banter over the radio from the lads about Daz’s duff navigational abilities.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re bent, Daz?” I heard Tess demand when we’d made yet another U-turn. “It’s just I thought it was only real men who would never ask for directions.”
When we did finally find the right turnoff it was to discover a massive modern hotel lurking at the end of what seemed to be an industrial estate. The building was all stainless steel and glass, artistically interspersed with dramatic swathes of stonework. As we pulled up in a line near the fountain by the impressive main entrance, I was aware of the sinking feeling that I hadn’t packed anything remotely suitable to wear at such a venue. Mind you, by the look on Tess’s face, neither had she.
As soon as we walked into the granite and marble-lined lobby I could tell it was a proper high-class hotel – rather than merely one with high-class pretensions – by the reaction of the staff. There wasn’t one. The polished professionalism of the chic-looking woman manning the reception counter never missed a beat as she smiled a welcome to this dusty bunch of fly-splatted reprobates and handled our check-in.
The room Sean and I were given matched the rest of the place – all sleek modern styling around a huge bed and a claw-footed bath in the en suite. As well as the usual mundane trouser press and in-room safe, you were given a DVD player and a PlayStation as well. We’d only been in there five minutes when there was a knock at the door from a member of the housekeeping staff offering to turn the bed down for us.
When she’d gone I said ruefully to Sean, “I don’t think I even own anything that would make me fit in here and, if I do, I certainly haven’t brought it with me.”
He grinned. “We’re going to have to do something about that when we get back,” he said. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re going to need to blend in a bit more with the kind of people who’ve got the money to hire close protection personnel.” The grin took on a wicked tint. “Perhaps I should get Madeleine to take you on one of her infamous shopping raids on the West End.”
Madeleine and I got on much better now than we had done initially, as Sean well knew. But we still didn’t have the kind of girlie friendship where I could see myself squeezing into a changing cubicle with her at Versace in my underwear.
I grinned back and went into the bathroom. It was only once I was there that the true import of what he’d said sank in. Sean had assumed, almost automatically, that I was coming back to work for him.
I shut the bathroom door behind me and leaned back against it, momentarily staring at the limestone tiles on the opposite wall.
“Stay involved with Sean Meyer and you will kill again,” my father had said. “And next time, Charlotte, you might not get away with it . . .”
I turned my head away, eyes squeezed shut as though to avoid having to see the words in front of me. My future was irrevocably bound up with Sean’s, I knew that. But, despite my brave words to my father, did that mean I was necessarily destined for a permanent career as a bodyguard?
Had I learned nothing from the disaster in America?
I opened my eyes. The hotel bathroom reasserted itself. I couldn’t avoid a wry smile as I realised that these very surroundings were an indication that no, I hadn’t learned anything. Here I was, on another assignment, another country, another babysitting job.
Besides – if I didn’t do this, what else was there for me?
Sean was just finishing a call on his mobile phone when I came back out.
“Speak of the devil – that was Madeleine,” he said as he folded the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.
“Well, you know her best,” I said sweetly. “And?”
“No large amounts of loose cut diamonds have been reported stolen anywhere in Europe,” he said, ignoring my jibe. “And the Suzuki with the custom paint is registered to one Reginald Post. It’s a Lancaster address. The name mean anything to you?”
I shook my head slowly. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Mm, back to square one, then,” he said, pulling a wry face. “I hope you’re not planning on sampling too much Guinness later though, Charlie,” he added, “because I think maybe tonight we should keep our wits about us.”
***
Perhaps with the previous night’s unplanned entertainment in mind, the boys opted to stay and eat in the hotel bar that evening, which made keeping an eye on them somewhat easier. By prior arrangement, Sean and I took it in turns to make some excuse to leave the group and do a number of quick and apparently casual sweeps of the hotel’s public areas.
Around ten-thirty I murmured something about the little girls’ room and strolled out of the bar. There was a widescreen TV over in one corner that had been tuned to one of the satellite sports channels. The highlights of that day’s Moto GP qualifying had just come on, so I didn’t think I’d be missed.
I started on the upper floors and worked my way down, passing through the foyer and sticking my head into the restaurant, before taking the stairs to the basement car park.
The underground car park was a maze of concrete on a single level, brightly lit and, if the number of empty spaces was anything to go by, far too large for the current capacity of the hotel. For the most part there were far more bikes than cars. The hotel must have been the favoured choice for those attending Sunday’s track day.
And there, in a line of others, tucked in a far corner, I found the Lucky Strike Suzuki. I approached it carefully, tried to remember if I’d noticed it earlier and couldn’t decide. But when I poked my fingers through a gap in the fairing, the engine casing was still warm to the touch.