Recoil

7

I drove west. I wanted to cross London, get on to the M40 to Oxford, then off towards Hereford. There had been no call from Silky, and it had taken a lot longer than I’d wanted to get hold of the little Corsa 1200. The problem was, my Virginia driver’s licence carried my old address in Crystal City, just outside Washington DC, and my credit card had the Swiss address. I’d done the switch when Silky and I had moved from Australia so there was somewhere to send my bills. I’d stood my ground while the computer stood its own: I told the woman behind the counter that it wasn’t going to process my details because they didn’t fit the software. At last she accepted my ‘I’ve just moved over there to work’ excuse. The final receipt would be sent to Lugano.

I knew I should have taken the M25 orbital, but it felt more immediate to cut directly through the city. I just wanted to keep moving in the right direction.

Big mistake, as I realized within twenty minutes when I crept from traffic light to traffic light in Silvertown. Then I hit a faster stretch of road and got flashed by three consecutive cameras that had sprung up like weeds since the last time I was here.

I couldn’t help but think about the row we’d had yesterday. Maybe it was me who’d sparked this whole thing off . . .

I’d just got away from another lot of traffic lights and was stuck between two trucks when the mobile rang.

At last.

I picked it up but didn’t see the twelve digits I was hoping for. It was the Swiss prefix instead.

‘Nick?’

‘Étienne . . .’

‘Just calling to say still no news. Come in for a coffee if you want. It’s fresh on.’

‘Thanks, mate, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on that. I’m on my way to a mug of tea.’