ESSEX
Corporal John Richards woke, as he always did, at 5:59 a.m.
His wife rolled over and flung out a hand, catching his in a sleep-weakened grip.
‘Morn’,’ she mumbled.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said with a smile, bending to kiss her. She smelled warm and sexy. ‘See you later.’ He was due on duty at MOD Rothford at 7:00 a.m., guarding the gate.
She rubbed at her nose, smiled and then rolled over. She was snoring quietly as he went for his shower. Ten minutes later, exactly, he dressed in his uniform and went downstairs to put some toast on and make tea.
He glanced out the kitchen window, to see whether anybody was about on Gladstone Road. Sometimes he saw their neighbour, Roy, a large man with a small dog. Roy’s bearing suggested he found the contrast embarrassing, as if he’d been spotted wearing high heels and a skirt in the centre of the village.
Of Roy, there was no sign. But John frowned anyway. Someone had parked a big black car right outside his house, blocking his drive. He pulled the net curtain aside for a better look.
This was no ordinary car. It was a Camaro. One of the new ones. A jacked bodybuilder among the weedy family saloons and hatchbacks that populated the rest of the street. Captain Wolfe had one. It was a standing joke between them whenever he or that gorgeous Israeli fiancée of his, Eli, dropped in at the base.
If you ever need someone to look after it for you while you’re away, just let me know. You can drop the keys through my letterbox!
Haha!
Captain Wolfe would smile and say, ‘Maybe next time.’ Or Eli would wink at him and say, ‘Why, John, fancy giving me a ride?’
And John would blush, pleasurably, as she grinned at him before gunning the huge V8 engine and rattling the muscle car’s fat black tyres over the traffic restrictors.
Of course, that was before.
Before some nutjob terrorist had blown the admin block to shit with a truck bomb.
Before another member of his gang – or the same one, for all John knew – carried out a hit on Colonel Webster.
Before the outfit Colonel Webster ran – whatever it was (they all had ideas, but as no word, not even a mouse-fart, ever escaped, it was all speculation) – was shut down. Orders from on high.
He’d seen neither of them since. Didn’t really expect to. That was the way with Special Ops types. For a moment, though, he wondered whether Captain Wolfe had come to say hello. Bit bloody early in the morning, though. John peered at the side windows. Blacked-out. Illegal. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, because that would be a problem. But he couldn’t see whether anyone was sitting behind the wheel.
Shrugging, and realising it was more likely to have been joyriders, he went to the front door, intending to take a look inside the Camaro. One way or another he needed it moved or he wasn’t going to be able to get to work.
A white padded envelope lay on the doormat. John flashed on a course they’d all undertaken on the risks of IEDs and chemical/biological weapons in the post. Uprated security in the wake of the attack a year earlier.
‘Nah,’ he said to himself. ‘Who’d go to the trouble of sending anthrax to a bloody corporal?’
He bent and prodded the envelope. It was lumpy. Not deadly white powder then. Maybe Sarah had ordered something online. But their regular delivery guy never appeared before seven at the earliest. He picked it up and turned it over.
He frowned. No address label with a QR code. Just his name.
John Richards.
And a slightly smeared image stamped in black ink.
A wolf’s head.
He took the envelope back to the kitchen and slit the non-opening end with a boning knife from the block. Spread the sides apart with two fingers and peered inside.
With a growing sense of puzzlement, mixed with excitement, he upended the envelope and tipped the contents into the palm of his left hand. The black plastic key fob had the usual white symbols: lock, unlock, bootlid, plus a red speaker with jagged red lines. He flipped it over. A gold cross: the Chevrolet logo.
Possessed of a sudden insight, his heartrate speeding up like he’d just mainlined a quad espresso, he aimed it at the car through the kitchen window and depressed the open padlock icon. The indicators flashed orange. He pressed the closed padlock. Another flash.
He reached into the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper that had enclosed the key. Opened it out and started to read the handwritten letter.
Dear John,
You always admired ‘the Beast’.
She’s been in storage since I bought the Jag. That’s not fair on her, or you.
I’m leaving, and I want you to have her. Before you protest (not that I am there to hear it), I have already transferred the ownership to you. You should be getting the new V5 in the next couple of weeks. The rest of the documentation and the other keys are in the glovebox.
I hope she brings you pleasure.
One request. She has a name: Lucille. It was given to her by a friend. Please keep it.
Yours,
Gabriel Wolfe
He read it a second time. Nothing changed. More for form’s sake than out of any genuine belief he was still asleep, he slapped himself. Hard. He was still standing at the kitchen counter. The key was still in his hand. The car – his car – was still outside.
The toaster and the kettle switched off simultaneously with a double clack, making him jump. Ignoring both, he went outside, blipped the fob a third time and pulled open the driver’s door.
After lowering himself into the fatly padded seat, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the rich smell of leather, underlaid with a delicious tang of petrol. Or was that just his imagination? Didn’t matter. Smiling, he reached across and lifted the catch on the glovebox. Inside, just as the letter promised, lay a black leather folder that, when he checked, contained the service handbook and half a dozen documents, plus two more keys.
As he sat there, caressing the perforated leather steering wheel, he wondered about that phrase in Captain Wolfe’s letter.
I am leaving.
Leaving for where? And who just gave away a superb sportscar like that? They nodded hello to each other. Swapped a bit of banter. But that was all. Hardly the basis for a gift like this.
He shook his head.
‘Not my problem, is it?’ he said aloud in the empty cabin, then patted the steering wheel. ‘Well, Lucille, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’
He twisted the key in the ignition and grinned as the deliriously loud engine roared into life, shattering the peace on Gladstone Road.
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