Not physically, but here.’ He tapped his temple. ‘You see, he wins a race, it is enough for him. He has proved something for a while. The best of them—Nuvolari, Chiron back there, Rudi … maybe even I in my prime, we have to go out and do it the next day and the next and the next. Will, he comes home to his new wife and plays with his dogs.’
‘You make that sound like a crime. I would say that makes him a better human being.’ And, she wanted to add, a better husband, but thought Robert might take that personally.
‘You are right. Except at Bugatti, we don’t want human beings. Too troublesome.’ He laughed. ‘Will thinks too much.’
‘What is Jean-Pierre’s flaw?’
‘Wimille? He wants two things: glory and money. Wants them so, so bad. Then again, that probably isn’t a flaw in this game.’
Robert stood up and tossed the last of the reed into the water, watching it spiral away in the eddies.
‘And yours, Robert? How has God cursed you?’
Robert rested a hand briefly, lightly, on her head and laughed. ‘Me? I fall in love too easily.’
Eleven
LAKE SENLITZ, AUSTRIA, OCTOBER 2001
T HE OLD LADY sits in a canvas chair in the marquee they have hastily re-erected next to the recovered Humber. On the wooden pallet in front of her sits the trunk, scuffed and swollen and damaged. By narrowing her eyes she can see it as it was—swish and elegant, in that hotel room near Berlin, the day she packed it.
Hovering around her and the Vuitton are Warner, his technician, a bored Austrian policeman and Deakin. Rose can sense a sort of irritable excitement in Warner. He wants to see inside the trunk as much as anyone, but dislikes the way this woman has taken control in such a matriarchal manner.
‘OK, Deakin. Let’s take a look.’
Deakin unclips the trunk and, with great difficulty, levers the two halves apart. As the front cracks open, a thin stream of slimy water snakes across the floor on to the pallet. The technician hovers, forceps in hand. Deakin waves him back.
She can smell the long, slow decay within. As with herself, the years have taken a toll. How much of a toll though? Deakin works his fingers into the opening and pulls the two sides apart so it gapes like a razor clam.
Deakin thinks at first there is nothing but mush inside, but as he pulls the rotted fabric aside he realises it is only the top layer on each side that has emulsified, the clothes closest to the perished seal. Deakin peels off the remains of a man’s suit, opening the jacket to read the label. James Pyle. It means nothing to him. He hands it to the technician who carefully places it on a trestle table.
Underneath, still shimmering after all these years, is a beaded dress, the once luminous material flat and dissolved in places, but still clearly something special.
‘Odd choice for our Mr Williams. Did they have, what are they called, cross-dressers back then?’ he asks her.
‘It’s a Molyneux,’ she says tartly, as the technician lays it next to the suit and takes a photograph, the flash making her blink. ‘Very expensive. Or was.’
The items start to come out thick and fast. A pair of silver-backed hairbrushes, hair oil, Lobb shoes, a Hermes belt, some women’s underwear, a faded photograph album and a heavy object wrapped in greased paper. Gingerly Deakin unwraps it. A gun. A Colt .45 automatic pistol, still glistening with its sheen of protective oil. All are laid out and photographed before being labelled and bagged by the technician.
Finally one other object, right in the far corner, a piece of metal, a cylinder, maybe forty centimetres high. Deakin levers it out from its nesting place, where a film of rust has cemented it to the lining. There is no top, and poking out are the slimy remnants of bundles of money, French and English. A lot of money. Enough to want to kill someone for, he thinks. At least, back when it was worth something.
‘Let me see that.’
Deakin hands over the container and Warner
‘You make that sound like a crime. I would say that makes him a better human being.’ And, she wanted to add, a better husband, but thought Robert might take that personally.
‘You are right. Except at Bugatti, we don’t want human beings. Too troublesome.’ He laughed. ‘Will thinks too much.’
‘What is Jean-Pierre’s flaw?’
‘Wimille? He wants two things: glory and money. Wants them so, so bad. Then again, that probably isn’t a flaw in this game.’
Robert stood up and tossed the last of the reed into the water, watching it spiral away in the eddies.
‘And yours, Robert? How has God cursed you?’
Robert rested a hand briefly, lightly, on her head and laughed. ‘Me? I fall in love too easily.’
Eleven
LAKE SENLITZ, AUSTRIA, OCTOBER 2001
T HE OLD LADY sits in a canvas chair in the marquee they have hastily re-erected next to the recovered Humber. On the wooden pallet in front of her sits the trunk, scuffed and swollen and damaged. By narrowing her eyes she can see it as it was—swish and elegant, in that hotel room near Berlin, the day she packed it.
Hovering around her and the Vuitton are Warner, his technician, a bored Austrian policeman and Deakin. Rose can sense a sort of irritable excitement in Warner. He wants to see inside the trunk as much as anyone, but dislikes the way this woman has taken control in such a matriarchal manner.
‘OK, Deakin. Let’s take a look.’
Deakin unclips the trunk and, with great difficulty, levers the two halves apart. As the front cracks open, a thin stream of slimy water snakes across the floor on to the pallet. The technician hovers, forceps in hand. Deakin waves him back.
She can smell the long, slow decay within. As with herself, the years have taken a toll. How much of a toll though? Deakin works his fingers into the opening and pulls the two sides apart so it gapes like a razor clam.
Deakin thinks at first there is nothing but mush inside, but as he pulls the rotted fabric aside he realises it is only the top layer on each side that has emulsified, the clothes closest to the perished seal. Deakin peels off the remains of a man’s suit, opening the jacket to read the label. James Pyle. It means nothing to him. He hands it to the technician who carefully places it on a trestle table.
Underneath, still shimmering after all these years, is a beaded dress, the once luminous material flat and dissolved in places, but still clearly something special.
‘Odd choice for our Mr Williams. Did they have, what are they called, cross-dressers back then?’ he asks her.
‘It’s a Molyneux,’ she says tartly, as the technician lays it next to the suit and takes a photograph, the flash making her blink. ‘Very expensive. Or was.’
The items start to come out thick and fast. A pair of silver-backed hairbrushes, hair oil, Lobb shoes, a Hermes belt, some women’s underwear, a faded photograph album and a heavy object wrapped in greased paper. Gingerly Deakin unwraps it. A gun. A Colt .45 automatic pistol, still glistening with its sheen of protective oil. All are laid out and photographed before being labelled and bagged by the technician.
Finally one other object, right in the far corner, a piece of metal, a cylinder, maybe forty centimetres high. Deakin levers it out from its nesting place, where a film of rust has cemented it to the lining. There is no top, and poking out are the slimy remnants of bundles of money, French and English. A lot of money. Enough to want to kill someone for, he thinks. At least, back when it was worth something.
‘Let me see that.’
Deakin hands over the container and Warner
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