Driven (32 page)

Within ten minutes it arrived. Two paramedics, exercising great care, lifted the still-horizontal and foetal Straker onto a stretcher and then into the back of the ambulance. Accompanied by Krall, he was driven to A&E at Warwick Hospital in Lakin Road. For the next four hours Straker was put through extensive tests, scans and X-rays. He barely recovered his demeanour and lucidity.

Krall’s anxiety showed in her face – amplified by her tiredness. ‘What kind of mugging
was
that?’ she asked.

Straker inhaled through his mouth, the pain still keenly felt around his nose. ‘That was no mugging,’ he said with a light coughing fit. ‘Muggings don’t involve five people and a getaway car. That was a deliberate attack.’

Krall’s face registered even more concern. ‘Who’d want to attack
us
?’

Straker groaned, clearly not comfortable in the A&E bed. ‘Someone involved in the case? Someone looking to intimidate us – to frighten us off?’

‘You
think
so?’

‘Why not? It’s the most obvious possibility.’

‘But why now?’

‘Because of the raids,’ he said quietly, trying not to exert his chest. ‘Those Search Order raids will have changed,’ he said pausing to inhale, ‘the whole dynamic of Massarella’s spat,’ another shallow breath, ‘or whatever the hell this is.’

Krall looked up from a plastic cup of coffee bought from one of the hospital vending machines. ‘Massarella took us to a hearing at the FIA. How much more could the dynamic change beyond that?’

‘Quite a way,’ replied Straker with a half-pant of discomfort. ‘Until then, we’ve only been the reactor to their bullshit.’ He paused to breathe. ‘Your invoking the High Court has shown our readiness to take the fight
to
Massarella. Those Search Order raids were proactive – they were an invasive act.’

‘But they were done in self-defence.’

‘To us,’ replied Straker. ‘To the other side – they’re an act of war.’

‘I don’t get it. How’s this
worth
all that?’

‘Very easily,’ groaned Straker again, now trying to shift his position in the bed. Krall put down her coffee cup and helped him rearrange the pillows behind his back. ‘Control of billions of Formula One dollars – let alone our $750 million from Mandarin Telecom – are at stake here,’ Straker half-whispered. ‘Whoever’s behind this: Van Der Vaal? MacRae? Obrenovich? God knows who else,’ he breathed, ‘might just fear our raids could expose what they’re already doing – or stop them from getting their hands on it all by unlawful activity.’ Straker had to breathe deeply, but slowly. ‘I
had
expected them to react, in some way. I’m pissed off I hadn’t anticipated them do so this quickly.’ He inhaled. ‘Even then, I’d never’ve expected
that
level of violence.’

Straker settled back against the pillows with another groan and a grimace. ‘The only consolation I can take,’ he said, with a smile-through-the-pain, ‘is that we’ve quite obviously got them rattled.’

S
traker was not discharged from hospital until late the following morning. While he had only broken a couple of ribs, they were still painfully sore – as were his black eye, fat lip, and the other bruises across his face. Taking him by surprise was the party that came to pick him up. Accompanying Krall was Remy Sabatino. Up at the Ptarmigan factory to work on the simulator, she had been distressed by news of the attack, and insisted on coming with Krall to pick up Straker and his car.

Sabatino was clearly disconcerted to see the state of Straker’s face and his general condition. She even felt moved to offer him an arm as the six-foot-two figure tried to shuffle from the main entrance of the hospital towards the waiting Ptarmigan courtesy car.

Driven back to Grumman & Phipps’s office in Leamington, Krall, clearly fired up by the events of the night, was motivated to fight back – ready to go straight to work on the documents seized from Michael Lyons and Trifecta Systems the day before. Straker – finding it hard not to lisp – gave her a series of firm instructions: ‘Do not touch your car – I will arrange for the police to check it over, and then for it to be collected – and repaired – if necessary. Do not leave Grumman’s offices unaccompanied – I will have you picked up later by a Ptarmigan car, when you are ready. Also, I will arrange for you to be put up locally in private accommodation, instead of in the hotel you’ve been at.’ Straker, this time, was not asked why these precautions were needed. Krall nodded her acquiescence to them without objection.

Straker, too, was keen to get back into the assignment – to return to the factory and push on with the next stage of their FIA defence. Sabatino, though, having seen him heave himself so awkwardly out of the Ptarmigan car, and grimace as he pulled himself to his feet
alongside the Morgan, declared he was not fit to do anything, let alone drive – stating that she would instead.

‘I’ve seen the way you drive,’ he retorted. ‘The difference is that I don’t have a team of mechanics to take out the dents – when it all goes tits.’

Sabatino just smiled, letting the taunt to go by. She simply walked to the passenger’s door, ready to hold it open. But then Straker, very suddenly, took her by surprise. He lunged forwards and grabbed her forcibly – staying her arm – stopping her touching the car door. He almost lost his balance doing so. She looked startled by the ferocity of his action. Gently, he let her go. Then, instead of making to get in, Straker, inelegantly – and with much groaning – lowered himself down onto the surface of the road, to look up under the chassis of the Morgan.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Taking heed of last night’s attack,’ he hissed as, in a contorted press-up position, he crawled awkwardly across the tarmac to the next wheel arch.

Sabatino, seeing how seriously Straker was taking all this, didn’t find herself laughing at or mocking his unusual actions – particularly having heard from Krall about the viciousness of the attack.

Straker crawled awkwardly round the whole of the car, checking its entire underside. Having finished, and groaning back to his feet, he then fiddled with the external release catches, and looked under the engine covers, particularly around the electronics. He finished his security check, and closed the car back up.

‘Right, go and crouch down behind that wall,’ he wheezed, pointing her across the street to the low balustrade. Sabatino looked concerned, but didn’t argue.

Checking she was a good distance away, Straker gingerly opened the car door manually. Without getting in, he checked the car was in neutral – before inserting the key. He turned the ignition. The V6 fired. There was nothing untoward – it fired cleanly first time.

Sabatino walked back across the road. Straker limped round to the passenger side. She suddenly found herself looking at him, almost
asking permission to open the door. With her help, he lowered himself gingerly down into the low-slung sports car.

Sabatino, trying to lighten the mood, asked: ‘Can we drop the top?’

He explained how, and the roof was stowed away. She climbed in behind the wheel. ‘British Racing Green, bonnet louvres, wire wheels, cream leather seats, walnut trim – very nice,’ she said musically in genuine appreciation of the car.

‘Look after it, then,’ he said as he tried to pull on his seat belt. Hearing the stifled groan that it induced, Sabatino leant over and helped him buckle up.

Sabatino reversed out of the parking bay. ‘I heard Stacey’s description of the attack. You took some beating. Is this where it all happened?’

Straker nodded.

‘Talk about taking one for the team,’ said Sabatino. ‘The least I can do is buy you lunch.’

They found their way out of Leamington and onto the southbound stretch of the A429. Straker may have felt less than comfortable, and while the open-top Morgan on such a glorious sunny day should have cheered him up, his mind was still working – and concerned. His senses were sharp.

The A429 was a straight, fast and busy road. He used its openness to check behind in the passenger-door mirror. On such an open road, he was confident he would have spotted any unwanted company, had there been any. As they reached the Fosse Way, he checked again.

So far, at least, he was sure they were not being followed.

Twenty minutes later they passed through the market town of Shipston-on-Stour, and were soon heading east on the B4035 towards Banbury.

Just after one o’clock, Sabatino pulled the Morgan Roadster into Brailes and onto the elegant sweep in front of the lychgate of St George’s church. Appropriately, a St George’s flag flew lazily in the gentle breeze from the top of the stone tower.

Parked in front of the Old Parsonage, Straker awkwardly climbed out and stretched himself up. He was still in significant discomfort. Sabatino offered him an arm again. They walked side by side down to the edge of the main drag through the village. Crossing over towards the pub, Straker looked discreetly left and right. As far as he could see, there was no one there.

It would be a very different story on the way out.

Inside the George at Brailes, Sabatino scouted a table in the garden before leading Straker – walking unsteadily – out into the sunshine at the back. Having ordered, and got themselves settled with a drink, Sabatino said: ‘Stacey told me you reckon the attack was related to the case,’ and took a sip of her Guinness. Straker nodded. ‘It was far too well organized – particularly at two o’clock in the morning – to be a random crime,’ he said firmly. ‘It was too carefully co-ordinated.’

‘God, and Stacey said you think they’ll have another go?’

Straker shrugged. ‘We’d be daft not to think they’ll try something else. That attack shows we’ve put them on the defensive, now.’

Sabatino looked worried by the implications of this violence. The contrast between the mood of their conversation and the serenity of the English garden all around them – bathed in sunshine – was stark. Their food arrived, but a cloud hung over their lunch while they ate. Straker had to eat carefully and hesitantly, his fat lip making chewing particularly uncomfortable.

After an hour, they left the pub. Emerging onto the main road out the front, they looked both ways, and made to cross over.

Straker was instantly aware of something. Over to his left.

Looking that way again – as if being extra careful while he crossed the road – he made a mental picture of everything in view. Some way down was a car, parked among others on the opposite side. He was sure there was something about it. Under his breath he said: ‘That black Range Rover – two hundred yards down there on the left – is trouble …
don’t
look round!’

Her face registered concern.

Straker walked them back up the side road to his car.

‘How? How do you know?’ she asked, her voice also indicating concern.

Straker’s 14 Int Company experience and his two tours with the Hereford Gun Club were not really for public discussion. ‘A bit of military training and hard experience in Iraq.’

‘What does that car being there mean, though?’

‘That we need to be on our guard going back to the factory.’

Sabatino nodded. ‘Just as well I’m doing the driving, then,’ she said in a nervous attempt to lighten her mood.

Straker checked under the car again before they got in.

Sabatino fired up the engine, swung the Morgan round the rest of the elegant sweep in front of the Old Parsonage, and headed back down towards the war memorial to rejoin the B4035, the Shipston to Banbury road.

As she pulled up to the junction, Straker said: ‘See if you can clock the Range Rover when you check both ways – but
don’t
make it obvious.’

She looked left and lingered slightly to the right. ‘Yep. It’s still there. What now?’

‘See if it’s going to follow us,’ said Straker without taking a look himself.

Sabatino turned left and accelerated gently away up to the speed limit. Reaching the end of the village, she accelerated a little more as they headed up Holloway Hill, out into the countryside. The Morgan’s 3.7 litre V6 purred effortlessly up through the revs and gears, comfortably reaching fourth towards the top of the hill.

Despite the aches in his side, Straker leant forward to take a look in the wing mirror of the passenger door. As the car crested the rise – emerging through the tree line on the upper side of the spinney – his field of view improved, enabling him to see further back down the road behind them. ‘It’s definitely there.’

Sabatino had a discreet look for herself.

‘Okay, keep going,’ said Straker. ‘Let’s get some distance between
us, but don’t make it look like you’re trying to get away. Don’t want them to know
we
know they’re there.’

Sabatino accelerated on, the car responding well on the smooth tarmac surface as they headed for the foot of the next hill by Coombe Slade.

With the road still level, Straker took another look in the passenger-door mirror.

The Range Rover was there all right, hanging back about a quarter of a mile.

They started climbing the hill, the ribbon of grey road leading off into the distance – its neat dashed white line running up the middle – standing out against the fields of crops on either side. The Morgan gave more without protest. At the top of that hill, Sabatino eased off at around the sixty-mile-an-hour mark. Here, the road straightened out, with good visibility for at least half a mile. She looked back in her mirrors. Drifting to the left-hand side of the road, she said: ‘What if we gently invite them to overtake?’ and allowed the Morgan to drop its speed.

‘Worth a shot. This’d be the perfect place for them to get by.’

Straker watched in the mirror to see the reaction. He saw the Range Rover emerge round the last corner behind them as it joined them on the straight. Now the Morgan had slowed, the size of the vehicle’s image in the mirror started to grow larger.

Sabatino’s sedate pace on such a straight road with good visibility was a clear prompt for the car behind to overtake.

The Range Rover continued to close in.

Straker watched in the passenger-door mirror.

The Range Rover was approaching – as it continued to accelerate.

It looked like it was building up speed to overtake.

It was closing in.

Still on their side of the road.

It
stayed
on their side of the road.

It wasn’t showing
any
sign, though, of pulling out.

It was still getting faster.

Getting closer and closer.

Now heading straight for the back of the Morgan.

Sabatino looked on disbelievingly. Then swore ferociously.

Urgently, she revved the engine, double declutched, dropped two gears, and started accelerating hard – racing the V6 up to a straining growl. Sabatino hammered the engine, desperate to build up speed to get away.

But it wasn’t enough.

They could hear the sound of the bulky Range Rover closing in behind them.

Sabatino screamed the Morgan’s engine.

The Range Rover slammed into the back of the Morgan.

Sabatino wrestled violently with the wheel – the downward impact of the bull bars momentarily lifting the Morgan’s front wheels off the ground. She fought vigorously to keep the car straight and on the road after the collision.

‘Holy shit, what the fuck are these people doing?’