‘Where could he have gone?’

‘I don’t know, but never far from cars or some kind of motor racing. I suppose the Vitanza boy told you of Jo-Jo’s dreams? Plans, I should call them. He’ll do what he says. All he needs is training and experience. He has the drive.’

‘They both do,’ I said, and told him about Petey coming to me, and about the fifty bucks.

‘A good boy, Petey, but not strong the way Jo-Jo is. Peter has the dreams, not the drive. He’s too human, he wants too many other things. Jo-Jo is a rock. Pride if you like.’

‘Where do you fit in?’

‘I once drove for Ferrari.’

He looked at his empty glass. I waved for another round for both of us. I never let a man drink alone. For a drunk that is demeaning. I’m lucky; I don’t depend on a drink. Not yet. My hiding places have not become prisons. That doesn’t say that they won’t someday, and I try to remember that. A man in prison needs a human word.

‘A relief man,’ Rhys-Smith said. ‘Useful to test the cars. There was the bottle. Once I had ideas. When I did not get what I needed the bottle was the consolation. Now I console the bottle. But I was a driver. I know racing. I know fuel injection. Jo-Jo liked to talk to me. He is a generous boy.’

‘Can you give me any leads where he might go?’

‘I don’t really know much about him beyond his plans.’

‘What about women?’

‘No, none that I ever saw. He was a remarkably controlled boy. Pete and women, definitely.’ Rhys-Smith smiled. ‘Pete is like me. Not that Jo-Jo did not have use for a female. But he did not get involved.’

‘And Vikings?’

Rhys-Smith laughed. ‘Ah, yes, the Vikings. He knew all the sagas. How brave they were, he would say. They could outsail anyone. They had pride, he said, style. Yes, style. He could reel off their names: Harald the Stern, Sweyn Fork-Beard, Halfdan the Black, Harald Fair-haired, Eric the Red, Sweyn Blue-Tooth, Gorm the Old. All they needed was their ship, so Jo-Jo said.’