2
Next time I looked at my watch it was 11.05. I was slouched over an espresso thick enough to tar a road, watching a Georgian celebrity chef do something interesting with an onion and a couple of oxen.
The delay was beginning to worry me. Once Baz’s Audi was found with a present in the boot, the police would be swarming all over the house, trying to work out how Father Christmas had dropped by there as well. Or it could be the other way round. Whatever, it didn’t matter which way this nightmare unfolded. If there was any CCTV footage in the can, it wouldn’t be long before they were huddled round a monitor, watching the f*ck-about in the yard.
Had I left any DNA at the cemetery? It was too late to worry about it now. But I did, just a bit.
Adrenalin and caffeine were taking their toll. I could almost feel the tension pumping round my body. At least the pain in my Adam’s apple was starting to ease.
I took another sip of my now-tepid brew and concentrated on looking as bored as everyone else, but the bites in my swollen tongue made that easier said than done. Shit, it hurt. I wouldn’t be putting away any packets of salt and vinegar for a while.
Five flights had been delayed so far. I heard the occasional Brit and American voice, and now and then a snatch of French and German, but most of the chat seemed to be in Russian or Paperclip.
A hardtop 110 Land Rover was still parked outside the terminal, either waiting for a pick-up, or until the driver was sure his passenger’s flight had actually taken off. For his sake, I hoped he’d brought his thermos and a paper.
Two men came out of the terminal, dragging their carry-ons behind them, and headed towards the sheds. They wore the international uniform of the travelling fifty-something American executive: blue blazer, button-down shirt, chinos, very shiny loafers and a laptop bag for good measure. They were clearly in a good mood, and anxious to share it. Some guys who’d been chatting in French, and switched instantly to English as they approached, were today’s lucky winners. ‘Hey, good news, fellas. The Vienna flight’s at 12.25. We gotta check in now.’
There were sighs of relief and jokes about Georgian inefficiency as the crowd gathered their bags and headed for the terminal.
I stood up just as Charlie emerged from the main entrance, laptop bag on his shoulder. He saw me, up and ready, and turned back.
I was about to follow when I caught a glimpse of the latest TV news bulletin. And what I saw made my body feel so heavy, all of a sudden, I had to sit down again.
Baz’s Audi filled the screen.
Then the camera cut to a glistening pool of blood in the mud, directly under the boot. Some of the rubber stops must have been missing from the drainage holes.
The reporter gobbed off, then a policeman answered a series of questions. A string of Paperclip flashed along the bottom of the screen, with what I assumed was a summary of the morning’s breaking story.
The camera homed in on the open boot, where the Hulk lay curled up like a baby, the satchel still shoved behind his back. He was big, and a lot darker-skinned than most locals.
It zoomed in even closer on the entry wounds. An ambulance crew stood by as forensics guys took swabs and checked for prints.
I took a casual sip of stone-cold coffee. Third-party awareness: I couldn’t look as if I was flapping. There were still people around waiting for their flights, chatting, smoking, ignoring the TV.
I tried to calm myself. I mean, so what? We’d be checking in any minute. In just over an hour, we’d be airborne.
Then my heart switched to rapid fire again, and it wasn’t because of the coffee.
With a still of the Audi filling half the screen behind him, a reporter was poking a microphone under the noses of three teenagers in multicoloured shell suits outside the graveyard. Two of them seemed to be explaining what they had seen. The third looked so out of it he wouldn’t have known if anyone had fallen on top of him anyway. The first two’s hands charted a course across their zit-filled, heroin-racked faces; I tried not to admit it to myself, but f*ck it, what was the use – they were describing what I looked like.
Then it was back to the studio, where the anchorwoman spoke for a few moments. They flashed up a shot of the target house, with blue-and-whites all over the street, and cut to a close-up of the cameras mounted on the wall.
A few seconds later they broadcast the pictures that killed any hope I had of boarding the 12.25 to Vienna.