The Untouchable (2 page)

Chapter Two

Marco Dallariva walked through the garage, spoke briefly to his crew chief, Terry Craig, and went out to the pit lane apron where the new motorbike waited. The current Moto GP season had ended with him one point short of the world championship. His arch-rival, Roman West, had snatched glory in the dying moments of the season.

Not good enough, and God he was tired. Tired of maintaining peak fitness for top-level performance, tired of regulating his diet, tired of extreme physical effort, and sick and tired of perverse media attention. He felt way older than his twenty-nine years
—
each fibre in his body screamed that fact.

West hadn’t been fast either, but he’d been solid. West, super-smooth British rider who rode strong and steady through each race, always finishing second or third, never falling off, not in tests, free practices, or warm-up laps, not even in a hotly contended sprint to the finish line. And that’s how he’d won the championship, as debonair as James fucking Bond, making Marco look hot-tempered and reckless by comparison.

Forcing those issues aside, he gritted his teeth and
dropped into a squat next to the bike, to stretch his leathers and loosen up. The season lay behind him, along with the shittest year of his private life. He wouldn’t look back. He wasn’t going that way. Only one approach, one option existed. Focus, work harder and dedicate every waking second to winning next year’s title, starting right now, right here, with these December speed tests at the Jerez racetrack in southern Spain.

He got on the bike. A few short months remained before the start of the new season. Scant time in which to increase his fitness with a gruelling training regime and strict diet, never easy over Christmas when—in spite of a fan base of millions, and his high-profile A-grade celebrity status—he would be by himself. He snorted in amusement at the irony.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Is something wrong?” A young engineer crouched next to the bike.

“No, I’m ready to go.” He preferred to be alone. The ignition fired and, with a glance over his shoulder, he swung the powerful bike into the pit lane, stuck meticulously to the speed limit until he reached the track, where he rolled on the power to start the outlap.

Intent and aggressive, he built speed, riding to the edge, pushing the bike to a blistering pace, way beyond the maximum intended, ending the programme as the fastest man on track. Exhilarated, he slowed for the cool-down lap, surprised when his mind, usually one hundred percent focussed on technical issues at this stage of a test, turned to Frederick Hamilton. Frederick had been right to tell him to concentrate positively on those parts of his life he could control. Frederick wouldn’t be going away for Christmas, nor have guests. Marco looked forward to getting home and seeing him again, discussing the speed tests with him and listening to his wise words over a glass or two of red wine.

“Get on the bike and win. It’s what you do best. Forget the rest,” Frederick had said, earlier that year when Marco’s private life had spiralled terrifyingly out of control. “Focus on the Dallariva magic the fans love, at least until the fuss dies down.”

And Marco had, over and over, at races all around the world, in the East, the USA, South America, and most of Europe
—
and he would again. He had to. Even though the fuss hadn’t died down. If anything, it was worse.

He cruised into the pits and handed the bike over to the engineers. After a detailed discussion on set-up, performance, and handling, Marco took himself off to shower and change.

Terry Craig, Dallariva Racing Team chief engineer, stopped Marco in the passage.  “Nicely done, Marco, and fast. Early days, but the initial data looks terrific.”

Did Marco imagine that Terry had gone grey overnight? Or had it been a gradual process over a punishing season? “Thanks.”

“All ready for Christmas?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“Will you be seeing family? Friends?”

“I’m taking off with Zavi tomorrow for a few days’ skiing.”

“What about Christmas?”

Marco frowned. “I haven’t thought. I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Look, Sally and I are taking the kids to the chalet for a bit of skiing ourselves. You’d be welcome to join us. We’d love to have you.”

“No, thanks. That’s kind, but…” Marco started walking again, “you need your time together.” He opened the door to the shower room and turned back, holding out a hand. “Thanks for everything.
Happy Christmas.”

Terry took his hand, looked him in the eye. “You’re positive you’re okay?”

“Sure.”

“A loner doesn’t have to be alone, Marco, especially at this time of the year.”

“I know. I’m fine, honest.”

“Then, happy Christmas yourself. Call if you change your mind.”

The door swung shut, Marco stripped, and turned on the cold water.

Ten minutes later, he stepped from the shower, shivering. Whatever his reservations about a solitary Christmas, some time out would be great. As soon as he finished here, he’d ring Zavi and finalize plans for their short trip into the mountains. Zavi, disabled in an accident during a previous racing season, determined to ski again one way or another, had needed no encouragement to accompany Marco to a private resort in the remotest peaks
of the Italian Alps. They would spend their days on the slopes and their nights in front of the fire, drinking good wine and flirting with the sexy chalet girls. At least Zavi would flirt—Marco would drink, and watch.

He grabbed a towel. Zavi had invited him to spend Christmas with his parents, four pretty sisters and vast extended family in Milan, but he’d declined, pleading exhaustion after nine months of travelling the world, exposed to the unforgiving public eye. The truth—and he wouldn’t think too hard about it
—
was that Christmas with that tightly woven, devoted, perfect family would ram home what he had lost.

Unbearable.

But he would buy a load of books and movies at the airport bookshop. Maybe lighten the training schedule and get some rest. It was just a few days, a week or two at the most. Anyone could survive that, couldn’t they?

He rubbed his head dry, tossed the towel aside and raked his fingers through his hair. Dressed, he grabbed his kitbag and jacket and left the shower room, walking through the back of the garage, out into the mild, Spanish dusk.

Instinct held him back in the doorway. He hesitated, looking for photographers, but saw
only a black Mercedes parked beside his luxury motorhome. A driver stood alongside, waiting to take him to the airport.

***

On his way home several days later, a few miles from Turin, enjoying the drive in a powerful 4X4 early in the morning on an empty motorway, Marco reflected that the ski trip had been a good idea. A few days in Zavi’s company, some good sleep, and plenty of time on pristine black runs had been good for the soul. He’d put a full stop at the end of his dismal year. Another week of R&R over Christmas was all he needed to forget his failure, and psyche up for the racing season
ahead.

He stopped for fuel and knocked back a double espresso, standing relaxed at the counter in the service station, leaving his sunglasses on in case someone recognized him. Back on the road, he’d been going for ten minutes when his phone rang. Reluctant to let the outside world intrude on his pleasant mood, he left it, and let it go to voicemail.

“Marco, it’s Lydia. Please call me. It’s about Frederick and it’s urgent.” Her voice, clogged with tears, alarmed him. Lydia, the super-efficient housekeeper he shared with Frederick, maintained her cool in every situation. Although he had a hands-free system, Marco pulled over as soon as he could move the big vehicle well off the road. With an awful sense of foreboding, he returned Lydia’s call.

Chapter Three

“The funeral’s been arranged,” Ricky explained, once he’d collected Rosy from Nice airport. “Your father wanted the formalities to be over quickly. He said he didn’t want to hang around upsetting people once he was dead.”

No, she thought, he did enough of that while he was alive.

“Also, there’s the thing about the body.”

“What about it?”

“Well, you’ll need to sign it off with the authorities, and you might…like to see him.”

“I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years, so I wouldn’t recognize him if I fell over him in broad daylight. And I certainly don’t want to see a dead body.”

“Right.” Ricky drove in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again. “Anyway, after the service, there’ll be drinks and food at the inn opposite the church, your father’s favourite watering hole.”

“If that’s the Auberge Saint Michel, then that’s where I’ve booked a room.” They were on the motorway now, travelling fast in sparse traffic, Rosy convincing herself with every passing mile she’d been mad to come. “Perhaps you could drop me there?”

“Lydia’s expecting you to stay at the house.”

“Lydia?”

“Your father’s housekeeper. She’s gone to quite a bit of trouble.”

Rosy stared ahead. “Could I ask a favour?”

“Sure.”

“Please don’t say ‘your father’. Just ‘Frederick’ if you don’t mind.”

A moment passed before Ricky answered. “Okay.”

“Thanks.” The ache of tears took her by surprise.

They left the motorway and turned north, into the foothills of the Alpes Maritimes, behind the French Riviera.

“In case you don’t know,” Ricky said, “Saint Michel is a perched village, the most beautiful in the area. Frederick’s house, in the valley, has a great view of it. And, the house is totally private, so you may prefer that to the Auberge?”

“I probably would,” she answered, not wanting to make an enemy of the unknown Lydia.

Reaching the village, Ricky avoided the centre by following a narrow road that skirted the stone battlements. Looking away from the sickening drop to the valley floor on her side of the car
—
over an inadequate crash barrier
—
Rosy noticed narrow streets, crammed with bakeries, cafés, and shops and, taking up half the public parking area, a good-sized market. Past that, the Auberge, with its blue-shuttered, balconied front dominating a small cobbled square with a central fountain. Once out of the village, she opened the window while Ricky concentrated on the tight, downward turns. He drove with the heel of his hand on the horn, tooting as the road dropped and switched back. They met an oncoming cyclist. Rosy held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Gosh,” she said, “he seemed to pass through the car.”

“Pretty hairy roads.” Ricky braked as the road curved again. High walls and old trees pressed in on both sides. The rush of the motorway and the bustle of Saint Michel faded into another world. Between pines, laurels, and cypresses, Rosy glimpsed the tranquil shimmer of a river, curling along the valley, shining silver under the winter sun. Fresh, cool air, smelling of woodland, flooded the car.

The sudden shriek of a high-performance engine jolted her, the seatbelt biting her shoulder. A massive motorbike screamed past with millimetres to spare between wing mirror
and wall. Gesturing with a gloved hand, the rider swerved in front of the car.

“He wants me to pull over.” Ricky slowed to a stop.

“As if there’s room!” Rosy eased the seatbelt with a trembling hand.

The motorcyclist stopped in the middle of the road, dismounted and left the engine idling.

“Kawasaki Ninja,” Ricky marvelled. “One helluva bike.” He opened the door and got out.

The person approached, clad in full leathers, including boots, gloves, and a full-face helmet. Judging by his size, it had to be a man—at least six three, big-shouldered, legs slightly bowed, and the hint of a limp. A warrior, triple stitched into a suit of armour. He lifted the visor and stripped off his right glove, shaking Ricky’s hand. They spoke for a minute or two before he approached the car, bending to look through the window.

Rocket fuel eyes, more brilliant than the metallic blue glitter of the Kawasaki’s petrol tank, absurdly thick-lashed under handsome, dark eyebrows, stared at her, unblinking.

“Hello,” he said.

Words jammed in her throat. Pinned by the blueness, she managed, “Hi.”

“I am sorry about your father.”

“Th-thank you,” she stammered, locked onto his gaze, lost for words, riveted by his subtle Italian accent.

He looked at her for a few seconds, then straightened up. For a moment the hand holding the glove rested on the rolled-down window, the fingers straight and strong on the black leather, but for the little finger, slightly crooked as though it had been broken. It was the clean, beautiful hand of a big poet, not a hands-on biker. He walked away, pulling on the glove, fastening it, snapping his visor shut.

Ricky got back in the car, starstruck. “Jeez, awesome,
wow
!”

The man threw a leg over the bike, gripped the handlebars, and revved the engine. He kicked off, cruised around the bend, opened the throttle and blasted down the road.

Rosy winced, pulling up her shoulders. “Ow. Who’s that?” she asked, but her voice had disappeared.

Ricky drove on. She cleared her throat, ran her tongue around her dried-out
mouth and tried again. “Who’s that?”

“Frederick’s neighbour. World champion motorcycle racer, Marco Dallariva. I guess you haven’t heard of him.”

“I’ve seen his picture in the paper. His racing number is thirteen. What an
idiot
.”

Ricky shot her a sharp glance of surprise. “Actually,” he said, “it’s seventy-three.”

The road levelled and straightened, descended and turned. They swung right onto a paved, tree-lined driveway between imposing stone gateposts.

“This is a shared driveway.” Ricky pointed ahead, at the avenue of towering cypresses, identically spaced. “That’s the Villa Diana, where Dallariva lives.”

A little way up the hill, a broad, solid steel gate blocked the way. “That’s ugly,” Rosy said. “There’s an electric fence along the top of the wall, and razor wire.”

Ricky shrugged. “He’s entitled to his privacy. And he’s a recluse. It’s amazing he stopped to pay his respects back there.”

Oh really? Rosy kept her thoughts to herself, unable to deny that Dallariva’s charisma still permeated the car. Or was it ego?

“He and Frederick knew each other,” Ricky said.

“Why does he even live in France?” she asked. “He’s Italian, isn’t he?”

“According to Lydia, half French on his mother’s side.”

About to ask another question, she caught her breath on the words. Ricky had turned the car through a lesser set of gateposts and stopped outside a small double-storey villa.

“It’s lovely!” she said, surprised. So much had been ugly about Frederick, she couldn’t imagine him living in this beautiful house. It stood in a circle of pale gravel, shutters wide open to the valley, embraced by sturdy plane trees, their solid, bare branches mottled silver against the blue winter sky.

“Sure is.” Ricky switched off the engine and handed her the keys. “The car belongs to the house, so you’ll have wheels while you’re here.”

“Great.” Rosy got out and gazed up at the friendly windows of the perfectly maintained yet suitably worn house. Ricky got her bag from the boot and carried it to the front door.

Inside, he introduced Lydia, a petite Frenchwoman of indeterminate age with cropped black hair, spiked silver. She greeted Rosy with lowered eyes, red from crying, her mouth unsteady.

She lifted Rosy’s suitcase. “The guest room is ready. Come, I show you.” She glanced at Rosy’s jeans. “You must change,” she said. “Your father was a beloved man. Everyone will pay their respects.”

The words stung. Rosy, having lost the argument about who would carry the suitcase, bit her tongue and followed Lydia upstairs. Not loved by me, she thought. And he hadn’t loved her. But, she could do this for a few days until the funeral was over. As Fiona insisted, quite rightly, she
had
to. It was the right thing in her mother’s absence. Then she could return to London and carry on with life.

Lydia showed her the room, eyes lowered. “Monsieur Albert, the lawyer, will call in half an hour, to set up a meeting to discuss your father’s affairs. Please tell me if you need anything.” She left, closing the door.

Rosy stood at the window, watching the glint of the river, like watered ink under the cold blue sky. Higher up the valley were the weathered roofs of a large villa. Dallariva’s house, secluded in a fortress of ancient trees. For a few moments, she gathered her thoughts and then, determined, she turned to her suitcase, swung it onto the mahogany chest at the foot of the bed and opened it, searching for black dress and shoes.

Fiona had been right to take her shopping. Rosy lived in jeans and owned nothing formal, although she hadn’t intended to implode her credit cards.

“God, Fi, it’s
one
funeral. I don’t need that much black stuff.”

“Catholic country,” she muttered, snatching a scarlet cocktail dress off the Fendi rail.

“So, what’s that for?”

“Saint Michel is full of celebs. You never know who you might encounter in leafy lanes between secluded villas.”

“The back’s so low, I’d show bum cleavage. Not suitable for a leafy lane.”

“You might get invited out.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You so do, sweetheart.”

Fiona reached out, upsetting her armful of clothes. Hangers rained down. “Rosy, Luke was a great guy, the best. You loved him with all your heart.” The garments escaped Fiona’s clutches and slithered to the floor. She put her arms around Rosy and hugged her tight. “I hate to see your life slipping by. Luke would too. There’s life after Luke, honest.”

Rosy felt the bleak ache swell inside. “
Is
there?” How could Fiona, devoted to Charlie
—
her childhood sweetheart IT geek husband
—
and their two cherubic toddlers, know anything about life after Luke?

Fiona bent to rummage in the well-cut fabrics at her feet. “Trust me. Now get into that fitting room and get naked.”

Rosy, to humour her friend, had stepped into a cubicle and undressed with shaking hands. She’d touched the scarlet dress, letting the silk run through her fingers. Fragile as a soap bubble in a gale force wind, she’d rested her forehead on the cool mirror, eyes closed, willing the feeling to pass.