Sudden Death Read online

  The call of a police siren cut through the air.

  ‘We’d better pull over,’ yelled Jake. Dad’s going to kill me.

  But instead of slowing down Devon gunned the engine and steered down an alleyway lined with bins. Tall walls towered either side, as he swerved the bike around the trash. The police sirens disappeared.

  Looking back, Jake spotted the remaining paparazzi bike still sitting right on their tail.

  This was getting risky. Running from the press is one thing, but the police is another.

  They turned a couple of times, a left, then a right, and Devon took the bike down several steps. They entered a concrete jungle, daubed with graffiti. The other bike was gone now too, but Devon kept going. The speedometer read forty miles per hour, but it felt faster. Devon turned to look behind, and didn’t see the pothole in the concrete.

  The front wheel jammed and twisted.

  The handlebars jarred sideways and the bike went into a skid. Devon must have squeezed the brakes. Jake’s foot went out automatically to stabilise himself, but he fell from the bike, hitting the concrete and rolling. His helmet smacked off the ground.

  He heard Devon cry out as he too bailed off the Yamaha. There was a crunch as it hit a lamppost.

  ‘Jake?’ said Devon, scrambling over and pulling off his helmet. ‘Don’t move your neck!’

  Jake couldn’t help but try. Thankfully, it responded fine. He lifted his head slowly and raised a hand to take off his helmet. The hand was bleeding from a graze and his shirt was torn, but other than that he was unharmed.

  A plane crash and a bike crash . . . what’s next?

  ‘I’m OK, I think,’ Jake said. Then panic jolted him. What if Devon was injured? They’d be in a world of trouble. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Devon, helping Jake up. ‘Which is more than I can say for the bike.’

  The front wheel was still spinning slowly. The axle was bent out of shape and fuel was leaking in a puddle from the tank.

  ‘Should we call the police?’ said Jake uncertainly.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Devon. ‘I got two more of those back at the hotel. Let’s just find a taxi.’

  Jake stretched his neck as they walked away. ‘That was crazy,’ he said.

  ‘Damn photographers,’ said Devon. ‘I can’t go anywhere these days.’

  That wasn’t quite what I meant, Jake thought, but he kept quiet.

  They were lost, no doubt about it. Some sort of dilapidated housing estate made up of tower blocks and clusters of low-rises surrounded them. Half the windows were boarded up, and some shreds of washing hung outside on lines, but there wasn’t any sign of life. With dark closing in, Jake suddenly felt a shiver of fear.

  ‘I think the main road is this way,’ said Devon, pointing to a narrow alley. Jake wasn’t at all sure, but he followed anyway. They soon reached a dead end where a mesh fence blocked their path. ‘Maybe not,’ said Devon.

  The scuffle of footsteps made them both turn. Back the way they’d come, two men were blocking the alley entrance.

  We’re trapped.

  Jake couldn’t make out their faces, but as they walked towards him and Devon, there was no mistaking the menace in their steps.

  9

  Jake raised his fists and stepped in front of Devon. The guys were big, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. With any luck, he could get in a punch and give them time to escape. He doubted very much that these giants could beat them on foot.

  As the men walked out of the shadows, Jake saw that one of them had a nasty pink scar down one cheek, and from the bulges in their jackets he guessed they were both carrying guns.

  ‘Are either of you hurt?’ asked one of the men.

  Devon put a hand across Jake’s chest. ‘They’re on our side, Jake.’ He shook his head at the men. ‘We had an accident, that’s all. No one to blame.’

  ‘Good,’ said the man. ‘Mr Popov would be upset if his investment was damaged. Follow us please, Mr Taylor.’

  There was no arguing with the tone in his voice. They followed in the wake of the bodyguards to a waiting black Mercedes. One of the men opened the door.

  ‘What about the bike?’ asked Jake as he climbed inside.

  ‘Mr Popov will take care of it,’ came the monotone reply. Jake shared a look of concern with Devon, but he just shrugged.

  The car threaded through the backstreets of the city and stopped at Devon’s hotel on the way back to the stadium. The concierge opened the door for Devon.

  ‘Dad will kill me if he finds out about this,’ Jake said. ‘Can we keep it quiet?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Devon. ‘My sponsors wouldn’t be too happy, either.’

  As the car pulled away from the hotel, Jake’s mind reeled. How had Popov’s men found them? They were following us. But even that didn’t explain the speed with which they’d been discovered. It could only have been three minutes max between the crash and meeting the men in the alley. Popov’s men had been just as fast to the scene of their plane crash.

  Clearly Popov liked to keep a very close eye on his ‘investments’.

  They must have used a tracking device. On Devon’s bike.

  At the stadium, Jake found Stefan asleep at the wheel of his Mercedes, a copy of the St Petersburg Times open on his chest. Jake knocked on the window and Stefan sprang up, wide-eyed.

  ‘Can we go back to the house, please?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said Stefan.

  As they drove home, Jake stared absently out of the window. Popov would find out about the crash and how close he and Devon came to getting hurt. But would he tell Jake’s dad? Any responsible owner would, and chances are the player would be disciplined. One thing Jake was sure of, Popov was no stranger to secrets. Doing things behind the scenes seemed to be his style.

  At home, Jake binned the torn shirt in the outside bins, before showering and treating his grazed hand with antiseptic cream. Hopefully his dad would think it had happened in the plane crash.

  As it was, his dad didn’t make it back for dinner. Despite Karenya’s offer to make him something, Jake made do with some pasta he cooked himself, then he had a proper scout around his dad’s room. He was surprised how little guilt he felt at snooping.

  He checked the obvious places: beneath the mattress, at the back of drawers and in the top of the wardrobe. He pulled up the rugs and checked all the floorboards, looking for any places his dad might have concealed personal items. Like a gun.

  It’s got to be here somewhere.

  He couldn’t find anything. No safe, no suspicious hollow spaces behind the walls.

  But the lack of evidence only made him more sure. His dad obviously knew how to keep things hidden.

  About eight o’clock, he went down to the pool to loosen up with a few lengths. He was towelling off when he heard the sound of a car in the driveway, then a key in the front door.

  Through the pinewood panelling that housed the pool, his dad’s voice was clear.

  ‘No, I repeat, Pelé is number one choice. If pushed to substitute I’d recommend Charlton . . .’

  Huh? That’s some weird game of fantasy football.

  ‘In defence, I’d say go for Butcher, definitely, question mark over Carlos.’

  What’s he going on about? Terry Butcher last played in the eighties. Roberto Carlos hasn’t been good since the late nineties. They were all old footballers.

  ‘. . . any more news on the knee scan? We confirmed malicious intent, yes?’

  It sounded like his dad was talking about an injury, but there was something stilted about the way he was speaking, as though he was reading a script. The conversation became muffled as his dad walked away through the house. Jake wrapped a towel around himself and headed upstairs. He found his dad pacing across the lounge; his eyes flicked to Jake as he entered the room.

  ‘Listen, Seb, I’ve got to go . . .’ He nodded. ‘Sure, we’ll make sure the dressing room’s clean as soon as .
. . you too . . . take care. I’ll call you at half-time.’

  His dad hung up. ‘Hey Jake, how was your day? Stay out of trouble?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jake forced a laugh. ‘I met Devon Taylor and the team.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said his dad. ‘More than your old man managed. Back-to-back meetings with the support staff and the sponsor, then a dinner with a load of suits – the great and good of St Petersburg.’

  ‘And you want to bring in Pelé?’ said Jake, mimicking holding a phone to his ear.

  For a fraction of a second his dad’s face hardened, then he broke out into a grin. ‘Oh that!’ he said. ‘Just talking about my all-time fantasy squad with an old team-mate from the playing days.’

  ‘And you’d go for Charlton instead of, say, Van Basten?’

  His dad turned so Jake couldn’t see his face. ‘It’s just an opinion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Jake. ‘But Charlton wouldn’t get into my top thirty.’

  His dad faced him again. The smile was still there, but it was forced. A mask.

  ‘So what was that about the dressing room?’ Jake asked.

  His dad was already on the way to his bedroom. ‘What’s with the third degree?’ He paused at his bedroom door. ‘And the eavesdropping?’

  Jake shrugged, trying his best to act casual. ‘Just curious.’

  His dad stared at him for a long moment before he continued. ‘I was just telling Seb that we need to get the facilities sorted out before the first big game. Can’t expect players of Devon Taylor’s calibre to put up with second-rate changing rooms, can we? See you tomorrow, son.’

  ‘Night then, Dad,’ Jake said.

  His dad turned to go but then hesitated. ‘And, Jake,’ he said, his tone clipped and serious. ‘I’m dealing with some delicate matters here. It’s best if you stayed out of my business.’ He shut his bedroom door before Jake could respond.

  Jake turned off the lights in the lounge and headed up the stairs to his own bedroom. As he brushed his teeth, the feeling of unease in his stomach grew. His dad didn’t know it, but Jake had been in those changing rooms. They were spotless, state-of-the-art. They were quite simply the best facilities he’d ever seen.

  And Jake also knew his dad’s playing career better than most people. He’d made a point of memorising the result in every league game his dad had played. He could certainly have reeled off all his dad’s team-mates.

  There wasn’t a Seb, or a Sebastian, among them.

  Jake set his alarm early for the next morning. He wanted to have another look around before his dad and Karenya got up. He must have overlooked something yesterday. His dad was hiding something and there had to be a clue somewhere among the personal items that he had made such an effort to rescue from the burning plane.

  Jake inched open his bedroom door, careful not to make a sound, and tiptoed downstairs. But his dad was already in the lounge, scanning newspapers at the table. He had his reading glasses on and his mobile phone was resting beside him.

  If I can get my hands on that, thought Jake, maybe I can get some answers as to who this Seb is.

  ‘Morning,’ his dad said, glancing at Jake. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Jet lag, I guess,’ he replied, shrugging. He grabbed the daily newspaper and flopped down next to his dad, flicking through the paper anxiously. He half-expected to see something about the motorbike chase the day before or a picture of him and Devon making their escape from the paparazzi. But there was nothing.

  He heard a door slam outside. Karenya was climbing into Stefan’s car.

  ‘Where’s she off to?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I sent her out to get some fish for dinner,’ his dad said. ‘I thought we’d eat together tonight.’

  ‘I didn’t think you liked fish,’ Jake said. ‘That’s what Mum always said.’

  ‘Jake,’ said his dad, suddenly more serious. ‘What do you think of Karenya?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His dad took off his reading glasses. ‘I mean, have you seen her behaving oddly? Suspiciously?’

  Was his dad worried that Karenya was spying on them?

  ‘It’s just,’ his dad said, ‘I think she’s been snooping around a bit. In my room.’

  Jake swallowed, fighting the blush that threatened to rise into his cheeks.

  ‘Well, she’s a cleaner, isn’t she?’ Jake said, turning a page of his newspaper and pretending to read.

  His dad slipped his glasses back on. ‘I guess so,’ he murmured, returning to his papers.

  Jake felt his face cool. ‘Are you heading to the stadium again today?’

  ‘After lunch, yes. I’ve got a guy coming to do some work this morning.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Jake asked. ‘The place is brand new.’

  ‘Just a few adjustments to make it seem more like home,’ his dad said.

  ‘Like what?’ Jake folded the newspaper and gave his dad his undivided attention.

  ‘What’s with all the questions? A few electronic bits and pieces. Can we leave it at that?’ His voice sounded almost natural, but Jake detected a slight quaver. His dad sighed and shuffled some papers, then stood up stiffly. ‘Want a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Jake said.

  His dad started to walk over towards the kitchen, leaving his phone. But at the door he turned, came back to the table, and retrieved it.

  ‘Don’t want to miss the boss, do I?’ he grinned.

  Without the phone, and with his dad in the house, Jake’s plans to look for the gun or any other clues had to be put on hold. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t explore different avenues. Perhaps his mum could tell him something about this Seb. Or maybe even Chernoff.

  Jake tried to call her at eleven, taking his mobile out into the garden. He figured the best time to get her would be in the morning. In the evening it would no doubt be fashion parties until the small hours. Jake wondered if he’d have been better off in Milan.

  The phone rang four times, then voicemail kicked in.

  ‘This is Hayley Maguire. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Leave me a . . .’

  Jake snapped the phone shut and kicked the head off a dandelion. He hadn’t realised his mum had started using her maiden name again, and he didn’t really see why it should bother him so much. His parents had been separated for almost ten years, after all.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it?

  I’m still a Bastin. I can’t get away from that.

  By changing her name, his mother had distanced herself not only from his dad, but from Jake too. The thought brought another flush of anger. His parents had always told him the marriage broke down because of their different career paths, but if his dad had lied to his mum as much as he lied to Jake, he couldn’t blame her for walking out on him.

  As he pocketed the phone, a sound at the back gate made him spin round. A bag of some sort landed over the gate and then two hands appeared. A man heaved himself over. Jake took an involuntary step backward.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he called out.

  The man landed heavily and retrieved the holdall. He had a thick beard and shaggy hair. He must have weighed sixteen stone, and was shorter than Jake. If he was a burglar, Jake wasn’t scared.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said the man. He had an accent from somewhere in London’s East End. ‘This is the Bastin gaff, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jake, approaching him. ‘And I asked who you are.’

  ‘You must be the youngster,’ said the man. ‘Lester’s the name. ’Ere to check the electrics.’

  ‘Why did you come over the fence?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Your dad wanted me to check the cables behind the property. Is he in?’

  Cables? I didn’t realise there were any.

  Before Jake could answer, his dad shouted from the house. ‘How are you, Lester? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

  Jake’s dad was by the back door. He came out with a wide grin and embrac
ed the electrician warmly.

  ‘Certainly has, Mr Bastin,’ Lester said.

  Jake’s dad took Lester’s arm and turned him round. ‘And you’ve met my son, Jake.’

  ‘Gave him a scare, I reckon,’ laughed Lester. ‘Anyway, nothing to report out back. I’ll get started around the house if that’s OK.’

  As the electrician went inside like he owned the place, Jake and his dad followed. Lester peeled off into the lounge and knelt next to his bag.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ his dad said.

  In the kitchen, Jake asked, ‘What’s he doing in Russia? He sounds like he’s from Dalston.’

  Jake’s dad laughed. He dropped a couple of peeled oranges into the juicer, and switched it on. The kitchen was filled with the sound of a whirring blade. ‘Lester’s a contractor. Goes where the work is. He did our house years ago when your mum and I were still together. He’s a specialist on security systems, too.’

  ‘Won’t Popov do that?’ Jake asked, having to raise his voice over the noise.

  ‘I wanted a second opinion, you know.’

  Jake walked over and switched off the juicer. ‘Dad, are we in some sort of danger?’

  His dad grinned. ‘Don’t be daft, Jake. Just keep out of Lester’s way, yes?’

  Jake headed back to his room. As he passed through the lounge, Lester was holding something that looked like a paint-roller. He was passing it back and forth across the surfaces of the walls, and he was wearing headphones.

  What’s he doing? Jake wondered. It didn’t look like any piece of equipment he’d seen an electrician use before. But then it was obvious that Lester, behind the banter, was no ordinary electrician. If he didn’t know better Jake would have thought the guy was checking for bugs.

  Lester was there for most of the afternoon. He repeated the strange search in every room, including Jake’s, though he said he was just making sure there were no dangerous circuits. ‘You know this Ruski wiring!’ he joked. Jake laughed, but he wasn’t finding it funny.

  Despite his dad’s promise, it was dinner on his own again and Karenya made Jake a traditional Russian fish stew. Afterwards, Jake emailed his mum:

  Hey mum, how’s it going? Hope the shoot is going well. Russia’s great, though Dad is very busy. I had a kick-around with Devon Taylor (!) yesterday, but that probably won’t mean anything to you. Think the David Bailey of football. Anyway, gotta go.