Risky Business Read online

  “That’s the glamour boys, just arriving.” From which I assumed Gloria meant the pilots. “I’m surprised they’re on their own but perhaps Josh is providing the entertainment,” she added, almost to herself. “The one on the left, the taller, dark-haired one who thinks he’s good-looking is Simon French, the driver of the boat. He fancies himself as quite a ladies’ man, Cleo, so watch yourself.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “And the shorter, stockier guy next to him is Dave Mason, his throttleman.”

  “Are they friends as well as colleagues?” I asked.

  “Yes, they grew up together on the Isle of Wight and have never wanted to do anything other than play the powerboat game.”

  “Only those with nerves of steel and oversized testicles need apply.”

  Gloria smiled. “Quite.”

  “French looks like a natural leader,” I remarked.

  “Oh, he is, very much so.”

  I wondered if Mason resented playing second fiddle and had resorted to underhand tactics to take over the driver’s seat. But I didn’t see how he could be behind the things that had happened so far since all the sabotage had affected him as much as French. Still, it was best to keep an open mind and not dwell upon Paul being the only pilot not inconvenienced so far. I was determined that my antipathy toward him would not cloud my judgement.

  “Gloria!” French enveloped her in a fierce bear hug, lifted her clean off her feet. She extracted herself from his grasp, smiled at Mason with genuine warmth and then introduced us to both men.

  “Charlie’s parents are old friends of mine,” she explained as Cleo and I shook both men’s hands.

  “That your trawler on the mooring, is it?” Mason asked.

  “Sorry if it lowers the tone.”

  “It’s an unusual craft. What engine do you have in it?”

  I fell into conversation with Mason about my floating home. He asked a lot of intelligent questions and I found myself being drawn away from Cleo, leaving French free to make a move on her. I resisted the urge to intervene. Cleo was a big girl, well able to deal with the likes of French. Or so I hoped. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he oozed artificial charm. Mason and French were chalk and cheese, which possibly explained why they connected as a team.

  “What does a throttleman do exactly?” I asked Mason. “I have a feeling there’s quite a bit more to it than just keeping an eye on the rev counter.”

  Mason cocked a brow. “Just a bit. Have you ever ridden in a powerboat when it’s crashing through seas that are supposed to be calm but never are at speeds of over a hundred miles an hour?”

  My back twinged at the mere prospect. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “You’re strapped into a flimsy fibreglass cockpit. It’s like being in a straitjacket, or a ruddy coffin. I’ve never been able to decide which.” He flashed a good-natured grin. “You’re surrounded by other lunatics in boats as flimsy as your own and wonder what the fuck you think you’re doing. I tell you, Charlie, it makes your teeth rattle when you hit the waves wrong, and that’s on a calm day. You don’t want to know what happens when there’s a swell running.”

  “Sounds like a masochist’s game.”

  He took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “If you mean it helps to be a head case, then yeah, you’ve got it dead right.”

  “Then why do it?’”

  Mason’s grimace turned into a puerile grin and he suddenly looked years younger. “What, apart from the glamorous locations, the accolades and the gorgeous girls anxious for a part of me?”

  I wasn’t buying it. “There must be more to it than that.”

  “I do it for the rush,” he said. “There’s nothing like it. I’ve tried sex, drugs, booze, you name it, but nothing comes close to crossing that line, knowing you’ve driven a near-perfect race.”

  I nodded. A bit like my stubborn determination to live on my boat, I supposed, even in the depths of winter when it was freezing, damp and uncomfortable. I’d given up trying to explain to my ex-wife what made me do it. She’d never understand because she didn’t want to.

  “You were explaining what you do on the boat, apart from sitting back and admiring the view.”

  “Cheeky bastard.” Mason waved to someone across the room. “Simon has to keep his hands firmly on the wheel and watch for rival boats, often just yards off our stern. There are strict rules about overtaking that can make a big difference to the points the team scores. If you miss a buoy you can’t retake it so you go through all that torture just to be penalised for something you could have avoided if you’d taken a little more care. It’s fucking infuriating.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Simon uses his eyes and the GPS system in the boat. My job is to keep blipping the engines on and off to avoid over-revving them. I also have to keep control of the trim tabs, make sure the engine temperatures and oil pressures stay within the right parameters, and provide a second pair of eyes. The hard-to-spot corner buoys are real bastards.”

  I nodded. “So wouldn’t it make sense to have a navigator on board to take care of that sort of thing? I thought Hal mentioned that it’s permissible to have a three-man crew.”

  Mason shook his head. “We tried it a couple of times with Paul on board but it didn’t work out. Simon and I are used to one another and perform better as a two-man team.”

  From which I surmised that he and French weren’t exactly Paul’s greatest fans either. I’d lost sight of Cleo but she appeared out of nowhere at that precise moment and grasped my arm.

  “I think Gloria’s trying to attract our attention,” she said.

  “Okay, duty calls. Catch you later,” I said to Mason, allowing Cleo to lead me away.

  We drifted across to Gloria, who greeted us with a smile.

  “Oh, Charlie, Cleo, I’d like you to meet Josh Harling, the team’s manager.”

  Harling was stockily built, wearing a cream linen suit over a shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was thinning and I figured he must be in his forties. He was sporting artfully cultivated designer stubble and had a woman clinging to each arm. He was not more than five-nine and his leggy companions both towered over him, although he seemed smug rather than embarrassed by that. Maybe these girls were the entertainment Gloria had predicted he’d supply for the pilots. Part of his job description, perhaps.

  Harling chatted about the team and its prospects for the coming season. He might present a ludicrous figure with his pathetic attempts to appear trendy but he seemed to know his business backwards. Given that he was employed by Hal, that shouldn’t have surprised me. But he could sure as hell make an exciting sport sound tediously dull and had the pedantic nature of a methodical man born to organise. He must have beaten himself up about the fiasco with the pilots’ medicals.

  “Seem to have lost my companions,” he mumbled at one point. He obviously hadn’t noticed when French and a couple of other guys lured them away.

  An exceptionally statuesque waitress with chocolate-coloured skin walked by, carrying a tray full of drinks. Harling wasn’t the only man in the room who stared at her with his tongue hanging out, myself included.

  “Angie!” Harling raised a hand to attract her attention. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Harling,” she said politely. Her eyes ran briefly over me, lingering for a moment as though she was trying to place me.

  “Who was that?” I asked Harling as we watched her walk away.

  “Her name’s Angie Bradley,’ he said. “She’s the stewardess on Hal’s boat but she gets drafted in to do other jobs if the boat’s not being used.”

  “Really,” I said casually. “I don’t recall seeing her on his boat before.”

  Harling smirked. “And you’d h
ardly forget, right?”

  “She’d stand out in a crowd,” I agreed.

  “Right, and she’s comparatively new. Been with Hal less than a year.”

  That got me wondering. She was so attractive, moved so instinctively well, that she was obvious model material. From the few words I’d heard her speak she appeared to be educated and could probably have landed a far better job than the one she’d settled for. And there was something niggling at the back of my brain. Something I ought to remember about her but couldn’t.

  “You’ve got that pensive look I’m starting to recognise,” Cleo said as we strolled away from Harling. “What are you thinking?”

  “That Mason doesn’t enjoy playing second fiddle to French in all aspects of his life.”

  “Oh, but he seems so nice. Surely you don’t suspect him of being the saboteur?”

  “If all guilty people looked the part then my old job would have been a lot easier.”

  “Hmm, I suppose.” She helped herself to a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress. “But still—”

  “It’s just an observation, that’s all. And Harling’s another candidate. He has a severe case of small-man syndrome and a point to prove.”

  “Hence his tall lady friends.”

  “They weren’t here for his benefit. How would you feel if you were expected to act as a glorified pimp?”

  “Point taken.”

  “And then there’s the lovely Angie.”

  “So you think she’s lovely?”

  “Turn of phrase, love. Didn’t really notice.”

  She offered me a kindly smile. “No, of course you didn’t.”

  “Seriously though, she’s too well qualified for the work she does.”

  “What’s better than working on a superyacht and seeing the world?”

  “Lots of things. It sounds glamorous but in reality it’s nothing more than domestic service wrapped up in pretty packaging.” I shot her a look. “And then there’s the seasickness to consider.”

  “You enjoy bringing that up, don’t you? Stop being such a dork and tell me why Angie interests you. Apart from the obvious reasons, of course.”

  “Well, that boat goes to all the races, and Angie wouldn’t be monitored like the others. She’d probably have opportunities to do all sorts of things she shouldn’t, and no one would think about suspecting her. I asked Hal if anyone new had joined the outfit since the sabotage started and he didn’t mention Angie.”

  “You’ve got a suspicious mind, Mr. Hunter.”

  “No, gorgeous, I’ve got a copper’s mind.”

  “So you’ve already figured out three possible culprits.”

  Four actually. I hadn’t mentioned the obvious suspect, aka Paul Flint, nor did I intend to. Time was getting on and Paul had yet to put in an appearance. That shouldn’t really have surprised me. Paul liked to make an entrance, and I idly wondered just how long he’d leave it before he deemed the time right to honour us with his presence.

  We joined a queue at the buffet and filled our plates with all sorts of delicacies, few of which I could have named. I’m more of a steak and chips man myself. Our table had been filched by a crowd of musicians, some of whom I recognised from the old days. I returned their waves and promised to catch them later. Cleo and I wandered outside with our plates and settled on the balustrade on the edge of the terrace. I went in search of alcoholic refreshment and returned with two brimming glasses.

  We’d only just finished eating when ominously loud static squawks emanated from the giant speakers inside the marquee. Some long-haired kid seized the moment to murder a Clapton guitar riff. His efforts earned him a round of muted and undeserved applause. I’d bet a lot of dosh that it wasn’t being led by my mum’s old colleagues. The tables were now pushed back to form the perimeter of a dance floor, and that was my cue to distance myself. Loud rock music, especially when it’s badly executed, simply isn’t my thing.

  “I think I know where we can go to escape that racket.” Cleo nodded toward the marquee where figures were energetically gyrating on the makeshift dance floor.

  “Lead me to it,” I said with feeling.

  The inside of the house was deserted and thankfully a rock-music-free zone. Only as Cleo led me up the stairs did I realise, too late, what she had planned. On the first floor was a huge room devoted to Gloria’s music and—surprise, surprise—it was now almost full to capacity with some of the musicians I’d seen in the marquee.

  I shot Cleo a look, wondering who’d put her up to this, but she’d already been swallowed up by the crowd, leaving me to fend for myself. I was greeted warmly and felt myself being inexorably swept back in time. Instruments were being tuned and the abbreviated conversation that would sound like a foreign language to anyone else was…well, music to my ears. Everyone wanted to know what I’d been doing with myself. I diverted their questions and told them not to let me interrupt their improvised session.

  “You’re not interrupting,” someone said. “In fact you’re just the person we need. We’re short of a pianist.”

  “Sorry.” I turned my hands palms-outwards and shook my head. “I don’t play classical piano.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Charlie,” said a female violist who looked familiar but whose name escaped me. “This is no time for the classics. In fact, a little jazz would be in order, if only to block out that racket from the marquee.”

  In spite of my anger at being manipulated, I didn’t say that I no longer played. Instead I found myself being propelled toward the Steinway grand piano and didn’t protest. God knows why not.

  “What’s it to be, Charlie?”

  I ran my fingers over the keys. In spite of my misgivings I felt as though I was being welcomed back into an exclusive club. The beautifully tuned instrument made my clumsy attempt at a major seventh sound almost melodic. Until panic seized me and I abruptly stopped tinkering. What the fuck did I think I was doing? I was about to leg it but glanced up and could see there was no way they’d let me back down now. Sighing, I figured the only way to escape was to jam with them and get it over with.

  “How about this one?”

  Someone tapped out the basic rhythm of Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag,” which was when the panic turned into outright fear. My brow felt damp. My fingers shook. “Maple Leaf Rag” was a masterpiece in syncopation. I’d just about nailed it, after hours of sweat and toil, when my mother was killed. Some of these people knew that but none of them remarked upon my hesitation. Instead, a double bass picked up on the sixteen-note rhythm, a cello joined in and then so did a snare drum.

  Inexplicably my fingers had stopped shaking and were now itching instead. Before I could stop myself, I launched into the number. Fast, like Joplin played it, just to show them that I really was a lost cause. It required good left-hand control to play it right and I very much doubted that I was still in possession of that particular skill. Still, an assault on their collective eardrums was the least they deserved for railroading me into this.

  The generic ragtime beat rang inside my head and it took a moment for me to realise that everyone else had stopped playing. Instead they were all looking at me, smiling encouragement. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as bad as I’d feared. Caught up in it now, I closed my eyes and gave it my best shot. As I did so I found myself wondering where I’d be with my music today if I’d stuck with it. But I’d learned the hard way never to let my thoughts dwell upon what-ifs, and distracted myself by running with a few ostinato patterns, nodding to encourage the rest of the ensemble to rejoin me.

  I hadn’t noticed Cleo and Gloria materialise. They were standing immediately behind me, watching my fingers pick out the notes. I glanced up and scowled at them.

  “You’ll pay for this later,” I warned them.

  Cleo’s lilting smile was almost my
undoing and I hit a wrong note.

  “Stop looking so smug. It won’t be pretty.”

  “Don’t blame me,” she said. “I was only obeying instructions.”

  I sighed. She wasn’t the first pretty girl who’d enticed me back to a piano recently. Talk about being led by the balls. Did being unemployed imply that I’d somehow get involved again when I’d always been adamantly opposed to the idea?

  “When all else fails it’s the messenger who should face the music. Er, pun intended,” I told her, bringing the number to an end with a flourish of my right hand.

  The rest of them actually stood to applaud. Coming from professionals that was praise indeed, and I’ll admit I was pleased by their reaction. I caught Gloria’s eye. She looked genuinely moved and mouthed a thank-you to me. I inclined my head, realising now that she hadn’t once asked me if I still played. Anyone in the music world who knew me back in the day always asked that question. Presumably she already knew the answer and had recruited Cleo to help her change my mind. Well, I was glad to have pleased her, if only for Mum’s sake, but not to the extent that I was prepared to play anything else.

  They let me go without protesting too much. Cleo and I drifted from the room and found Paul leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb. He was dressed as flamboyantly as ever in a pale blue suit with a black shirt and tie and a fedora tipped over his left eye.

  “Well, well, little brother,” he said, taking his time to straighten himself up and giving me a slow, ironic round of applause. “I guess you still have what it takes.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cleo glanced at Paul as I made the introductions. Perhaps sensing the animosity already building between us, she kissed my cheek and said she’d see me later. Left alone, neither of us offered to shake hands. I couldn’t think of a single time when we ever had, which said a lot about our relationship.

  “How are the old folks?” he asked as we drifted off in search of a quiet corner. “I hear you honoured them with a royal visit.”