CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,52

ways a nippy 250cc was more fun on twisty British roads than the big beasts driven by gangs like the Brigands.

James whizzed up a gently sloping hill. The luxury houses on either side of the road were all part of the same upscale development. The street was a dead end, so James turned back and hit fifty miles an hour as he passed their house and swung out into a lane.

He drove half a mile, but was trapped behind a motor home plodding at a steady thirty miles an hour. The main road into central Salcombe was clogged with traffic, so he pulled on to a grass verge and turned around.

As he turned he recognised a large piece of land with a tasteless mock-Tudor house and a detached triple garage. James recognised it from a police surveillance photo, but he only twigged that it was the Führer’s house when he saw the house name Eagles’ Nest written in a heavy Germanic font on a wooden sign.

James rolled through a break in the traffic to take a peek down their target’s driveway. There was a rusty World War Two-era German light tank aiming its gun towards the street and a sign that read: Trespassers will be shot.

‘Subtle,’ James muttered to himself, as he opened the throttle and headed for home.

*

It was a warm evening. Chloe had no intention of cooking a meal after the long drive, so they headed into town. Dante’s head flooded with memories as they cruised Salcombe streets in the Range Rover. He saw low walls and post-boxes and remembered jumping out from behind them to surprise his mum when he was little. He remembered the baker’s where she’d buy sausage rolls and donuts and even recognised some of the older yachts bobbing on the quayside.

The road that once led up to the Brigands clubhouse hadn’t changed. Dante choked as he realised that the last time he’d been through here was on the night his parents had been killed.

‘You OK, Dante?’ Lauren asked.

‘Memories,’ Dante shrugged. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘I think it’s best if you start calling him John all the time,’ Chloe said. ‘We can go back if it’s too much for you, mate.’

Dante shook his head. ‘No way. I want to be here doing my job, not sitting around the house brooding.’

What was once the entry gate to the Brigands compound was now a curved concrete ramp that led towards parking spaces behind and beneath the long two-storey development called Marina Heights on their right. At street level there was a paved promenade – no cyclists, no skateboarding – populated with people taking an evening stroll. A dozen upmarket shops sold things like yachting accessories, surf boards and designer walking gear.

The last and largest shop was called Leather and Chrome. Its plate-glass frontage had a display of custom-built motorcycles. People with smaller budgets could go inside and buy items ranging from toy motorbikes to books and motorbike-themed jigsaw puzzles. A Brigands Motorcycle Club Supporter T-shirt could be purchased for twenty-five pounds, along with Brigands mugs, drink coasters, key fobs and leather-jacketed teddy bears.

James had travelled ahead of the others on his bike. Once they’d parked up Lauren found him staring through glass at a £28,000 Arlen Ness custom bike, finished in green metallic paint with a padded seat barely half a metre off the ground and a set of custom-built front forks that made the bike four metres long.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ Lauren said cheerfully. ‘Is it me, or is that bike not terribly practical?’

James grinned. ‘It’d certainly be a bitch in a traffic jam.’

‘Didn’t mean to bite your head off earlier,’ Lauren said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Meh,’ James shrugged. ‘You can’t expect tiny female brains like yours to stay rational all the time.’

‘Let me check my sides,’ Lauren replied, ‘they might have split. Chloe looked on the Internet and apparently the tapas bar upstairs is really good.’

There were staircases at either end of the promenade of shops, which led up to a first-floor courtyard with a fountain in the centre and restaurants behind. The more upmarket places were at one end, with diners in suits and ties eating olives and watching the yachts. At the other end was a fifties-style American Diner and a row of kiosks including a juice bar and a donut shop.

‘Martin Donnington,’ Dante said quietly, as he recognised the Führer’s oldest son working behind the counter in a crêpe stand. ‘The last time I saw that face I beat the crap out of it