Page 19 of Broken Beyond Repair
CHAPTER6
Sydney punched a code into a small security unit attached to an old brick wall. Beside it stood two stone pillars holding a pair of intimidating, ornate wrought iron gates. A green light appeared on the unit, accompanied by a whirring noise as the gates slowly opened.
She leapt back into Gertie and drove through, ensuring the gate closed behind her with a glance in the rear-view mirror. The road wound through half a mile of romantic woodland, catapulting her out into a vast, rolling parkland with views extending for miles to more woodland on the horizon. It was so breathtaking she brought Gertie to a stop to take it all in.
“Bloody hell, Gertie! Do you see what I’m seeing? It’s…” Sydney stopped, noticing a large, late Victorian house high up on the hill. “Magnificent. We’ve worked at some whoppers in our time, Gert. I reckon this one takes the biscuit. Oh, to be excessively wealthy.” She lovingly patted the dashboard. “We’ll keep dreaming.”
Ascending the hill, the view only became more enchanting as she neared the sprawling three-storey mansion with its high-pitched roof, moulded gable barge boards, and terracotta hanging tiles. A pointed turret poked its head out over the roof. She would have to sneak a look in there; she was already imagining it would make a perfect writing den.
Gertie dragged her heels as the road transitioned into a gravel drive in front of the house. She was underpowered enough without gravel to battle against her rubber. Climbing from Gertie, Sydney admired the view down the hill to a lake, as a soft, warm, southwesterly breeze brushed against her. Although the house benefitted from being remotely situated within its own parkland, she would bet that the elements gave it a thorough battering during the winter months.
Turning, she took in the house again. The scale of it was off the charts. The windows were enormous with, she would guess, excessively large rooms beyond them. She couldn’t wait to see inside.
Following the drive around the side of the house, she discovered it was twice the size she imagined it to be. At the far end, a modern ground-floor extension supported a large balcony, which disappeared around the other end of the house.
A large garden extended up the hill to the tree line, and a quick peek over a privet hedge revealed a swimming pool. A four-bay wooden garage with a terracotta-tiled roof stood to the right side of the house. Finding the side door with a security box next to it, Sydney punched in the number for the garage.
A fumble inside the door revealed a light switch, and with a click the darkened garage illuminated to reveal four vehicles. Sydney grinned as she drank them in. Moments like this would never tire in her mind. All her clients were wealthy, high-profile sorts, so she was used to seeing luxury cars — even driving some of them. It was one of the highlights of her job, along with living in multimillion-pound mansions.
All four vehicles were black. Either this woman thought she was the Queen, or she needed a serious injection of personality. She’d hazard a guess it was both. The first was a Rolls-Royce Dawn convertible, an excellent choice for gliding around the South Downs in the summer. She pressed her face to the window. A walnut trim, accompanied by light cream leather with black accents and the RR logo embroidered into the headrests. Gorgeous.
The second was another Rolls-Royce, a Ghost, just as elegant, with an identical design inside. She’d driven a Phantom, one of Rolls’ sister models to the Ghost, before; it was like nothing else with its deafening silence and powerful serenity. Hard, tarmac roads became 13-tog-rated winter duvets. Jostling with traffic was a thing of the past as other drivers surrendered their position on the road. Speed bumps and potholes were flattened and filled as the Rolls drifted over them. Driving it was like floating on air.
The third was a Range Rover SV. Sydney ran her hand along the black satin finish, admiring the matching alloy wheels. A peek through the window revealed a similar finish in cream leather. This she anticipated to be her run-around — a £200,000 run-around.
Standing at the end of the garage was a Mercedes Sprinter van, a rather unusual choice. Finding the box her new employer had described, Sydney punched the number in and extracted the key with a Mercedes fob. A click of a button opened a side door to reveal interiors straight from a private jet. Four cream leather reclining seats faced each other atop a soft, wool carpet. The passengers could also enjoy a mini bar and a TV on the rear bulkhead. A check of the rear revealed enough space for the luggage of the vainest of travellers. It put the likes of Gertie to shame.
Sydney could gain a good understanding of her clients by examining their cars. Beatrice Russell was a lady who was consistent in her style and knew what she liked — a selection of cars that would block out the morning sun. The lack of personalised number plates and privacy glass in all her vehicles said she liked to move around unnoticed. There was a great divide when it came to the rich and famous. There were the ones who liked to attract attention — usually those who didn’t receive any — and the ones who shied away from it as attention was all they received. Beatrice Russell must have been the latter.
A check of her watch put the flight’s arrival at two hours out. Allowing an hour and a half to get there, Sydney needed to make tracks. Another key on the fob opened the electric garage door. Taking position in the front seat, she pushed the start button only to be met with silence.
“Fuck.”
She’d dealt with enough vehicles in her time as PA to know a dead battery when she heard one. It was common amongst the busy travellers who left their cars sitting idle for months on end. She was going to need to check all the other vehicles when she had time. For now, she needed a working 12-volt battery to jump it. She’d have to pray the electronic control unit didn’t throw a hissy fit; she was down a vehicle anyway and the clock was ticking.
Gertie would fit the bill, thanks to her previous owners upgrading her underpowered 6-volt battery to a 12-volt. Sprinting across the drive to retrieve Gertie, she backed her up to the Mercedes and proceeded to hook them up with Gertie’s well-used jump leads, remembering everything her dad had taught her: positive first, negative, earth. She turned Gertie over and let the two vehicles sit for a few minutes until she grew weary of waiting. If she was going to need a plan B, it would be better to know sooner rather than later.
“Come on, Gertie, this is your time to shine. Let’s stick it to the moderns.”
She hopped into the Mercedes and pushed the start button. The Mercedes sprang to life.
“Whoop whoop, Gert, you did it!”
Now time to get the hell out of here.
Leaving the engine running, she unhooked the cables and moved Gertie. She’d have to check her battery on her return.
Biggin Hill was already in the satnav of the Mercedes, and Sydney made it into the Signature VIP Arrival Lounge with five minutes to spare. A woman in sunglasses was being pushed into the lounge in a wheelchair just as she arrived, a bright pink cast poking out from under her dress. That was her, though her choice of colour for her cast was a little out of character for the profile Sydney had already established.
Even with the woman’s diminished stature, her presence emanated from the chair; it was a presence that could not be ignored as she left those around her breathless.
Sydney sighed.
Beatrice Russell was magnificent.
She had a unique beauty about her rather than a classical beauty; her face on first impressions appeared quite plain. Her blonde, wavy hair dared you to stroke it to attest to its softness, and her prominent cheekbones enticed you to prod them to check they were real. Calling for a different touch entirely were her wide, rouge glossy lips.
Sydney gulped, bit her lips in, and plunged her hands into her pockets.
