GHIGAU 30 (PT2)

The Mercedes certainly was a beautiful car, if you liked that sort of thing. It was whisper quiet, with seats that cooled and massaged their occupants and a dashboard that looked like something out of a sci-fi film. The double glazed windows rendered the city outside virtually silent. At various points a disembodied female voice relayed information or offered choices to the driver in the manner of a devoted and efficient personal assistant. It was another world.

    Barnaby drove, (Lenny having professed his disliking for London traffic and pointing out again that he would mostly be a passenger anyway).  Not that the roads were busy, the heatwave was keeping people indoors still. Lenny wondered what would happen if it just never cooled down again. Would people adjust and return to their normal routines? Or would the world remain muted and semi-abandoned, like a scene from a zombie movie. Only the parks were busy, mostly with young people ignoring the public health warnings and lying prostrate in the blazing sun, their thin, pale bodies reddening by the minute.

    They wafted along Park Lane and on to Knightsbridge in their climate-controlled, leather-trimmed cocoon. Barnaby asked what he thought of the ride and Lenny said he thought it was amazingly smooth. Barnaby commented that only Rolls-Royce could match this aspect of the Mercedes, before adding that even that famous British brand was essentially German now anyway.  

    Lenny spent sometime trying to figure out a way to move the subject round to who bought these cars when, unexpectedly, Barnaby presented him with the opportunity on a plate.

    “You know, you’ll be in the very best company if you choose to go with the 600,” he said.

    “Oh really?” Lenny was interested.

    “Oh yeah, there’s only a handful of these on the road you know.” Barnaby went on.

    “A handful?” Lenny said.

    “About fifteen I think. But it’s not just the rarity, it’s the customer too. We’ve sold these to royalty, global corporations, billionaires. I mean you won’t find one parked next to you at Waitrose I can promise you.” Barnaby chuckled at his own joke.

    “I was a bit concerned about that. I want the car to be an extension of our company, high quality, but not flashy, not gauche.” Lenny said.

    “Absolutely, absolutely,” agreed Barnaby. “You want it to say — we are the best but we don’t need to shout about it — Am I right?” Barnaby looked at Lenny for confirmation.

    “Indeed, which is why I wouldn’t want to buy a car that might associate us with the wrong image, like say a pop star or that kind of thing.” Lenny paused for a few seconds, trying not to sound too eager, then went on, “So Royalty you say?”

    Barnaby gave a look that said, I shouldn’t really tell you this, before confiding, “The Sultan of Brunei has two.”

    “No way!” Lenny feigned surprise despite the fact that nothing could have interested him less.

    “Yes way,” said Barnaby, smiling proudly.

    “Go on, anyone else interesting? I thought they would all be bought by limousine companies or that kind of thing.” Lenny said.

    “Absolutely not,” Barnaby said emphatically. “Those sorts of companies buy the 300, and even then not the custom model, I mean why would they spend that extra money for exclusivity when they’re hiring them out, right?” 

    They drove on, Barnaby steering the limousine with one finger of one hand.

    “I suppose you’re right” said Lenny. He was feeling frustrated that he wasn’t getting more info from Barnaby. “So it’s all oil money buying these then?”

    “No, I wouldn’t say that, we have many customers like yourself. Discerning business people, high net worth individuals who want the very best.” Barnaby was laying it on thick now. 

    The huge car glided on, turning left onto Earls Court Road, heading towards the embankment.

    Lenny decided to go for broke. “I think I would want to know exactly who else was going to show up in one of these before I committed to buy.”

    “How do you mean?” Barnaby frowned, nonplussed.

    “I’d want a list of the other buyers, just to put my mind to rest that Justin Bieber isn’t going to show up in one the week after I buy it.” Lenny said, feeling that this was possibly the thinnest excuse for stealing data he’d ever heard himself. Surely it wasn’t going to work.

    “You’ve heard of GDPR Jack? You must have that in your business?” Barnaby sounded just a tiny bit suspicious.

    Lenny agreed, “Yes, I know. It’s not as if its really sensitive though is it? I just don’t want to buy something that…”

    At this point Barnaby abruptly pulled the car over to the kerb and switched off the engine. He looked across at Lenny who was surprised by the sudden stop. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?” Barnaby said. The unctuous tone had disappeared and a hint of east London had crept in to his voice.

    At first Lenny was going to protest, but something told him to try a different tack. “Can I trust you Barnaby?” He said finally.

    “That depends, not if it’s illegal you can’t.” Barnaby said coyly.

    “My wife went missing over a week ago, said Lenny, the car that was seen picking her up was one of these.” He indicated the Mercedes they were sitting in. “I have no-one else to help me, the police say they have to wait for some kind of paperwork until they get the details. I just want to know who owns these cars. No one is ever going to know you gave me the info.” Lenny sat back and waited.

    “Realisation dawned on Barnaby James’ podgy face. “You’re that art woman’s husband!” He exclaimed, “Right?”

    Lenny nodded, “Yes, I am.”

    “Jesus, you must be going nuts, not knowing where she is.”

    Lenny didn’t like the choice of words but he let it slide. “I am, as you can imagine, very, very worried.”

    “And you want to know who bought these cars because you think one of those people took your wife? Is that it?

    “I don’t know, but I’ve got to start somewhere, right?” Lenny said, mirroring Barnaby’s phrasing in an effort to gain his trust.

    Barnaby thought for a short while, then, narrowing his eyes shrewdly, said, “How much?”

    “How much what?” Lenny was genuinely confused.

    “How much are you going to pay me for that list?” Barnaby said, enunciating each word distinctly, as if talking to someone hard of hearing.

    Lenny’s instinct was to tell Barnaby what he thought of him and get out of the car. But he thought of Nikki, and he knew he wouldn’t do that. “How much do you want?”

    Barnaby looked at Lenny weighing him up, as if to decide how much he could squeeze out of him. “A grand,” he said finally.

    “Fine,” said Lenny, without hesitating.

    “Fuck, I should have asked for more.” Barnaby whined.

    Something snapped in Lenny at that moment, all the worry, fear and sleepless nights, all the nightmare scenarios imagined, all the moments of panic when the phone rang — came crashing in on him like an immense wave. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them he had Barnaby by the throat. “You guttersnipe,” he was saying, through gritted teeth. “Get me that list, take your grand, and piss-off back to whatever hole you crawled out of. OK, Bar-na-by,” he hissed.

    Barnaby’s face was puce, his eyes were bulging and his mouth opened and closed like a distressed goldfish as he gurgled his assent. 

    As quickly as it had come upon him, Lenny’s anger evaporated. He released Barnaby, letting go of him as if his skin was too hot to touch, or he had a highly contagious virus.  He stared at the man blankly, not quite believing his own actions. 

    Barnaby, clasping his throat and coughing violently, pressed himself back against the driver’s door, keeping as far from Lenny as he could. He looked scared, and profoundly shocked. “What the fuck?” He said hoarsely.

    Lenny slumped back, saying nothing, breathing rapidly through his nose and feeling his heartbeat thump against his chest wall.  He was thinking hard. What had he done? 

    After what felt like minutes of silence, he eventually said, in as even tone as he could manage, “Just drive us back Barnaby.” He wanted to get this over with.

    The journey back to the showroom was silent and awkward. Every now and then, the salesman looked sideways at Lenny, while raising a hand to his Adam’s apple and feeling it gingerly. 

    They stopped at a cash machine, so that Lenny could draw some money out, and arrived on a side street at the back of the showroom a few minutes later. Barnaby said he would go inside and that Lenny should wait in the car. Lenny reminded him that he had the car keys so Barnaby had better come back.

    After a minute or two Barnaby appeared with a brochure in his hands. He handed it to Lenny and stood silently, fidgeting and looking around furtively, as if the two of them were doing a drug deal.

    “Relax Barnaby, you’re not a criminal mastermind.” Lenny had completely calmed down by now, but his dislike for the man hadn’t lessened any.

        He opened the brochure; tucked inside was an A4 sheet printed on one side with what appeared to be a list. He recognised the first name, a well known FTSE 100 company. Next to that, a vehicle registration number and model description of the car. He replaced the sheet and handed the cash over.

    “Thanks,” he said. Then, feeling that he should tie up the whole episode somehow, added, “Listen Barnaby, I’ve been through a lot lately as you can imagine, I’m probably not myself right now. I shouldn’t have handled things like that. I shan’t be letting anyone know where I got this, ok?” He held up the brochure. “And I trust I can expect the same discretion from you?”

    Barnaby nodded, instinctively touching his neck again, “Yeah, no problem, hope you find your Missus.” He stared at the floor, sweeping the ground with his right shoe.

    Lenny turned, walked away, and didn’t look back.