Newton’s Fire. Will Adams

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      Pelham, then.

      He called Directory Enquiries again, asked for his friend’s home number. It just rang and rang. Probably out with one of his women, though maybe he’d be at his lab, even on a Sunday afternoon. For all his protestations, the man was a workaholic. And why not? His company paid him a fortune to do the kinds of R&D he’d gladly done for free at his old college. But, for the life of him, Luke couldn’t remember what his company was called. They’d moved into purpose-built laboratories at a Cambridge science park a couple of years back. Luke had taken Maria to the opening. But what the hell were they—

      The pub doors suddenly slammed open. He span around to see policemen flooding in from the main bar and the car park, truncheons in their hands.

      ‘Raid!’ yelled one of the bikers. ‘It’s the pigs!’

      II

      ‘Twenty million,’ said Grant, when finally he rang back. ‘That’s the highest I can go.’

      ‘One hundred,’ replied Croke. ‘That’s the lowest I can go.’

      ‘Seriously, my friend. You don’t know the people I work with. They think you’re trying to take advantage of them. They hate people taking advantage. There’s no chance whatsoever that they’d go for forty, let alone a hundred.’

      ‘That’s a shame,’ said Croke. He looked out his window at the French Riviera thirty thousand feet beneath, the distinctive shapes of its marinas, the white specks of the cocaine super-yachts. It wasn’t just how much they cost in themselves; it was their berthing fees and running costs. It was the salaries for their crews.

      ‘So we’re agreed, then? Twenty million.’

      ‘I’m not risking my life for twenty mill.’

      A beat of silence. Two beats. ‘Thirty, then. I can probably go as high as thirty.’

      ‘Ninety,’ said Croke. ‘For what your friends will be getting, ninety’s a steal.’

      ‘You know nothing about my friends.’

      ‘I know they’ll be getting a steal at ninety.’

      ‘Fine,’ sighed Grant. ‘Call it fifty. But success-only, understood? No crying about near misses.’

      They settled on seventy. Less than Croke had hoped; more than he’d expected. Now for the next stage. He called Avram in Jerusalem. ‘I need you to speak to Thaddeus for me,’ he told him.

      ‘Why me?’

      ‘Because I don’t speak his language.’

      ‘You don’t speak American?’ asked Avram, puzzled.

      ‘I don’t speak Bible.’

      Avram grunted. ‘And what do you want me to say to him?’

      ‘Everything you told me before. Why you’re so confident about finding it. Why this is the time. Why it has to be tomorrow night. I need him to do something he won’t want to do. I need him excited. I need him rash.’

      ‘Leave it to me.’

      ‘Good. And when he’s ready, have him give me a call.’

      III

      The police raid was surely meant for Luke; but the bikers didn’t realize that. And they evidently had something to hide. A moment of stillness, as though neither side could quite believe the presence of the other. Then a pool-cue blurred and a policeman’s cheek burst red. War cries of pain, anger, fear and defiance. The two bikers near Luke stood up and sent their table toppling, pint glasses, wallets and keys crashing to the floor. A wash of foamy ale swept a keychain to Luke’s feet. He crouched and picked it up without even thinking, walked briskly into the washroom. The sash window was half up and he rolled beneath it, out onto the gravelled car park. He clicked the remote on the key-fob. The lights of a black-and-chrome Harley flashed. He straddled it, kicked it off its stand and started it up. Two bikers had escaped from the washroom after him. They yelled and tried to grab him. He twisted the throttle and squirted between them.

      A police car screeched across the car park exit. Luke slithered to a halt, pulled a sharp turn, roared up a grassy bank into the beer garden, weaving between tables as men grabbed their pints and women grabbed their kids. He tore through a tangle of white and red roses, bumped down a bank onto a lane, raced away up a hill. He hadn’t ridden a bike in years, not since his student days, and that bike had been nothing like this beast. Yet the skills returned quickly. He leaned into corners, trusting the bike a little more with every moment. But the spike of adrenalin soon began to ebb, allowing dismay to take its place. He was a fugitive now. The police would take it for granted he’d fled because he’d killed Penelope. Even more than before, he’d become his own only hope of proving himself innocent.

      He came up fast behind a green Volvo as it slowed for a blind corner, overtook it in a blur. At a junction, he glimpsed motorcyclists approaching from his right. They accelerated when they saw him, fell in behind, caught up fast. Of all the days to nick a Harley, he’d chosen BikerFest! He took a corner too fast, began fishtailing wildly, fighting desperately to regain control. A roundabout ahead, a long line of traffic to his right, held back by an old artic labouring up the hill towards it. He muttered a prayer and gave it everything, flashing past the lorry’s bumper with nothing to spare, earning himself an indignant ‘parp’. He was going so fast that he was late on the brakes and couldn’t help but ride up the far verge, his back tyre sliding around, the casing pressing hot against his leg.

      The line of traffic had balked the bikers behind him, earning him maybe thirty seconds grace. He hurtled past fields of mustard and barley, took a slip road down onto dual carriageway and swung straight out into the overtaking lane. A glance around, no sign of pursuit. He breathed a little easier. Sheer speed made him feel almost euphoric, stirring his spirits like a battle-cry. Wind buffeted his body, forcing him to hunker down and squint. He lost track of time and distance, simply putting in the miles. He overtook an accidental convoy of lorries, belatedly saw a sign for a place called Cherry Hinton. Cherry Hinton was the name of Pelham’s science park, he was sure of it. He braked and cut across traffic, missing the slip road itself but managing to bump across a narrow strip of grass onto it. Then it was up through the gears and away.

      SIX

      I

      Rachel found Bren out in the garden, reading an old copy of Jane’s in the shade of an oak. She could tell he was angry from the stiffness in his posture and because he didn’t look up as she approached, not even when she stooped to kiss his forehead.

      ‘You were supposed to be here half an hour ago,’ he said, turning another page with his right hand, holding it down against the breeze with the stump of his left elbow.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She showed him the fronts and backs of her hands as witnesses for the defence, though she’d cleaned the oil off as best she could. ‘More trouble with the Murcielago.’

      ‘I wish you wouldn’t call it that,’ said Bren. ‘I wish you СКАЧАТЬ