Crash Course by Derek Fee (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📕

the waiter’s tray and hoped it was enough. “Of course, now I’ve got another kindly old dad, don’t I?”

“And who would that be?” Doc asked.

“You, of course.” Kane tipped his glass to Doc’s. “Sláinte as they say in the old country.” He sipped his beer. “I’ve been thinking lately how we might move this process along.”

“And what have you come up with?”

“I’m getting nowhere proving what a hard-arse I am by mouthing off.”

“And?”

“I think it’s time I got physical. Someone will get hurt.”

“You’ve got someone in mind?”

“There are a couple of candidates. I’ll see if I can piss someone off during this race.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’ll have to play it by ear and hope an occasion presents itself. If we don’t get moving on the investigation, we’ll end up drawing our pensions at Penhalions.”

“It’s a risky strategy. Most of the drivers are toffs. You dust them and it might mean jail.”

“I’m sure Davenport can square that.”

“Is there something going on between you and Morweena?”

“There’s nothing going on and nothing will go on. This is strictly business. I will not compromise the operation. If there is any operation to compromise.”

“If you say so. She’s not like the piece of skirt you bedded last night.”

Kane raised his eyebrows. “My, but we are on the ball.”

“I hope you managed to cram a few hours’ sleep into your night.”

“Maybe we should relax a bit. We’re sitting in the foyer of a five-star hotel in Sorrento for God’s sake. We’re rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and at the same time we’re two simple coppers earning a pittance.”

“Tell that to Davenport and Bell. They want a result.”

“We can only give them what we can give them.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Dark grey clouds enshrouded Sorrento as dawn broke on the day of the opening race of the European Offshore Powerboat Championship. Crowds began pouring into the town by early morning. Despite the overcast skies, there was a festival atmosphere in the Piazza Tasso and the surrounding streets. Cafés were filled to overflowing as the crowds descended on the sleepy town. This was one of the major sporting events of the year and it was totally free. No tickets were required only the procurement of a good vantage point and either excellent eyesight or a pair of binoculars.

The festival proper began after lunch when the drivers and throttlemen made their way through the packed town towards the Piccolo Porto. Mechanics had been testing equipment since the early hours and the road to the small marina had been cordoned off from the public by the police.

Drivers and their teams chatted excitedly; smiles pasted on their taut faces. The scene of activity at the marina was the same as that before any big sporting event, with the added scent of danger which fast sports engender. Two hours of high-speed racing in a sleek machine loaded to the gills with high octane fuel was calculated to loosen the bowels of even the strongest stomach. All sportsmen appreciate the positive benefits of apprehension and the increase of adrenaline it produces and Kane wasn’t immune to the atmosphere. A glance at his opponents showed him that he was not alone.

“You look like you’re suitably hyped up.” Morweena joined Kane as they passed through the police cordon at the road that led to the marina.

“Raring to go. What about you?” His teammate’s face was flushed with excitement.

“The butterflies in my stomach have butterflies in their stomachs. My breakfast stayed down for exactly fifteen minutes before finding its way into the toilet bowl.”

This is like the lull before a spin, he told himself. The similarities were all there. The forced hilarity and bonhomie. The underlying fear that something nasty could very well happen to you. Except this time he wasn’t going up against Yardies with Uzis. He was up against the cream of the powerboat racing world and they would chop his balls off to gain their place on the winner’s podium. He wasn’t sure which he feared most. At least with the Hardies, he knew who the enemy was. The area in front of the marina was ablaze with boats painted in every colour of the rainbow. The owners appeared to be trying to outdo each other in the gaudiness of their paint jobs. There was Jackson’s Brit1 draped in the blue, red and white of the Union Jack. Tadeka’s Nippon had a great red sunburst painted the forty-foot length of its hull. Beyond, he could see the black and yellow of Kernow. In the middle of the port, engines were being gunned, smoke belching from their exhausts. Propellers were churning the slate grey waters to white. They were the sights and sounds which had been specifically designed to quicken the pulses of the participants and the spectators alike.

“Some sight,” he said to himself. “The waiting is the hardest part.”

“And you’d know. Useless you’ve done this before and you’ve been holding out on us.”

“It’s my first time. But I’ve been in this type of situation before. You know that something bad might be about to happen and you want to get at it.”

“You cannot be as calm as you’re acting.”

“My adrenaline is pumping. I’m simply good at hiding it.” He looked back up the hill and saw spectators clinging to every vantage point. The precarious hold some of them had on terra firma led him to wonder whether it was more perilous to participate in offshore racing or to watch it.

“Break a leg, Morweena.” The entourage that was Doug Jackson passed on its way to the sleek catamaran sporting a red, white and blue Union Jack.

“I wish Doug would use some other expression to wish one good luck,” she said smiling. “This isn’t quite the theatre.”

“Hello, you two,” David said. “Everything’s as ready as we can make it. We’ve completed the final checks and she’s all fuelled up. It all up to you now.” He pushed himself up out of the cockpit and stood on the marina in front of them. “I don’t