Taffin on Balance Read online

  Taffin on Balance

  Lyndon Mallet

  Copyright © 2017 Lyndon Mallet

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781788030236

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  My thanks to Austin Legon for wise words: Be Lucky.

  And in memory of Brian Lecomber, for a lifetime’s friendship and inspiration.

  God’s speed, Old Chum.

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  ONE

  SOUNDS LIKE THE OLD TROUBLE starting up again. A knock on the door: a couple of locals with a problem they can’t fix themselves. Harry Hawkins from the Rookwood estate and Ivy Lewis, who may or may not be his girlfriend. They stand in the doorway like lost souls. He tells them, those days are over, but they won’t have any of it. He’s got a reputation and they’ve got long memories. You could fix it, they say, no questions asked. And they fidget like resentful children when he shakes his head.

  From the office window, Charlotte watches as Harry and Ivy walk away across the forecourt, looking back, discussing their disappointment, past a restored ’78 Corvette Stingray, past a Dodge Charger of uncertain vintage, past the sign that says Muscle Motors.

  There hasn’t been a visit like this in a while but Charlotte knew what was coming by the way the couple approached – uncertain, trying to look confident, wishing it didn’t have to be them doing the asking. She heard fragments of the conversation, could picture their faces without having to look, knew the man they came to see wouldn’t say much.

  He never says much.

  THE TOLLGATE BOOKSHOP occupies all available space in a red brick house that once had five bedrooms on two floors. The upstairs rooms have windows with leaded lights that filter the morning sun, casting shadow patterns on floor to ceiling shelves packed with volumes on every imaginable subject, carefully sorted, offering their squashed-up spines for perusal. Inside, you can lose yourself in a dusty wooden maze where floorboards creak and people stand aside to let each other pass. It’s a browsers’ catacomb where book-lovers lose all sense of time: a place of peace and learning.

  The two windows facing the road show racks of books facing outwards: a taste of what’s inside. Nothing new: all well-thumbed. Anything you might be looking for, from historical romance to higher mathematics, drama to economics, comic books, Si-Fi, suspense, theology and everything in between. The bookshop is an open secret; you need to know it’s here, and those who do pass the word around.

  Viewed from the main street, the building looks like many others in the village, hemmed in by centuries of rural architecture, overgrown with wisteria, set about with pots, stone and ironwork. The difference is it stands on the edge, overlooking ten acres of its own land. By any standards, this property is worth owning.

  Lorna Moorcroft works here Tuesdays and Thursdays to alleviate the boredom of retirement forced on her when the library closed. Somewhere to go and be useful, but not for long, if the rumours are true. The owner is under pressure to sell. Control of the bookshop has passed from a benign eighty-seven-year-old to an entrepreneurial nephew who has used a certain disingenuous charm to get into government. Gordon Glennan MP is well aware of the site’s commercial potential and the word is out that he is open to suggestion. There’s a prospective buyer in the background who knows a good thing when he sees it and won’t let anyone’s sensibilities stand in the way.

  Mrs. Royce, in charge of day-to-day management, reports recent visits from men in well-cut suits who say nothing, take measurements, make notes, fill up space, exude disregard for their surroundings and wander among the shelves without buying. She doubts they’re book-lovers, says they make her feel uneasy and, more to the point, they deter regular customers.

  Lorna was hoping no one answering that description would come in on either of her days, but it seems her luck has run out. Someone is at the door. A bulky shadow blocks the sunlight. Hard angles shift, the bell dings as the door opens and closes.

  Slow footsteps on the boards and the room seems to close in. Expecting more sound, Lorna feels a prickling in her ears. Unaccustomed stillness. She looks up from the catalogue she was reading and feels a sudden contraction of the scalp.

  This space was designed for smaller people.

  The face now turned to her occupies its own shadow and conveys no readable expression. Dark hair, dark glasses, no sound; no reaction required.

  On a normal day, Lorna would establish contact, ask if she could help in any way. Not this morning. The stranger is making slow progress down an aisle of obscure titles, browsing, pausing to hook a volume from a shelf, flipping through the pages and becoming engrossed.

  Lorna allows herself to relax. This one at least pretends to show an interest.

  She looks around. He was there a moment ago. Curious, she peers into the shadows and catches her breath. He is here, beside her. Without apparently having moved. Not what you expect from a heavily-built man.

  ‘I’m sorry, you startled me.’ Lorna exhales slowly and attempts a smile. Dark glasses nod once in reply. The man sets a book down on the counter: Debt, Debit and the Economics of Mismanagement by Warren Palmer. Lorna knows the author’s name, looks at the flyleaf where the price is written in pencil.

  ‘That’s five pounds.’ She meets his gaze. ‘Warren Palmer. I’ve tried to read him but this stuff is way beyond me. He says if people didn’t delay paying for things no one could charge interest, so the bankers would have to rethink everything. He’s the one who quoined the term Miseconomics, isn’t he?’

  Dark glasses incline slightly. That’s confirmation, she thinks. Five pounds in change has appeared on the counter and she puts it in the till, deciding, at the same moment, not to be passed over by this stranger.

  ‘Is he British, do you thing, or American? I like to hear a voice in my h
ead when I’m reading. It helps to know something about the author.’

  A hint of amusement brushes the blank face for a moment.

  ‘Scottish.’

  ‘Thank you. I probably won’t try him again, but if I ever do, I can imagine a Scottish voice.’ She hands him the book. ‘Enjoy.’

  Dark glasses dip once more. Floorboards creak. The doorbell dings and the shop is empty again.

  And long after this customer has left, Lorna tries to imagine what use a man like that could possibly have for the ramblings of an obscure professor of economics.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU READING?’ Charlotte tips the book up to see the title and makes a gargoyle face. ‘Economics? Your idea of economy would be a V8 motor with less than six litres of Alfa Male grunt. Who are you kidding?’

  Taffin sits back in the bulky armchair and watches her face. ‘So?’

  ‘What’s so s’posed to mean? I worry about you.’

  ‘What’s the problem, girl?’

  ‘Your reading matter. You’re getting too serious.’

  ‘Broadens the mind.’ A twitch at the corner of the mouth. A scolding from her never fails to lighten his mood.

  ‘Broadens the mind,’ she mimics the flatness of his voice. ‘What did those buggers want this morning?’

  ‘A favour.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I don’t do favours.’

  ‘Except for me.’ She poses, slim hand planted on a delectable curve of thigh.

  He nods, peacefully.

  ‘Yeah...’ her face is serious now. ‘I get twitchy when people ask you for favours. You haven’t told me what they wanted.’

  Taffin lays the book aside and gazes at her. ‘They wanted me to have a word with someone.’

  ‘They wanted you to scare someone fartless. Who?’

  ‘Some politician.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘Lives locally. This one’s a minister.’

  ‘Give me strength.’ Charlotte settles down on the arm of his chair. ‘You mean...’

  ‘A junior minister.’

  ‘They want you pressuring the Government now.’

  ‘I decided against it.’

  ‘Good call. Who is it?’

  ‘It don’t matter. They’re all the same.’

  ‘I might’ve heard of him. You’re not the only celebrity round here.’

  ‘I ain’t a celeb.’

  ‘Of course you are. They made a movie about you, didn’t they? Your name is known, Mark Twill Taffin.’

  ‘Gordon Glennan Em Pee. The Right Honourable.’

  ‘And you’re not interested.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Yeah...’ she leans in close to his face. ‘You’re broody – I know that look. You get involved in anything heavy, young man, and you’ll have me to answer to.’

  FIRST LIGHT. Fresh, clean air. A whisper of wind stirs the treetops over the sprawl of workshop buildings.

  Taffin leaves the Jeep under the sign that says Muscle Motors and wanders among the oversize monsters on the forecourt: automotive junk or classics, depending on your point of view; for Taffin, they’re a living, nothing more or less.

  Ed Pentecost is waiting in the office and turns the lights on as he approaches. Taffin thinks Ed has aged since they’ve been in business, but then, who hasn’t? Ed thinks Taffin looks the same as ever: broad, solid in the timeless dark suit and white shirt, and definitely not inclined to move any faster than suits him.

  Ed is always in by eight but it’s been a while since he was summoned at first light. He breaks the silence.

  ‘Three geezers in a Mercedes turned up here yesterday looking for you. Didn’t leave their names. Said they’d be back.’

  ‘Is that so? I had a visit too.’

  ‘They found you then.’ Ed plugs the kettle in and spoons coffee into mugs.

  ‘No.’ Taffin folds his arms. ‘I was approached by two worried villagers who I know from way back. You say your fellas didn’t leave their names.’

  ‘Not the same people then?’

  ‘No way. Listen to the music, Ed – I’m hearing different tunes.’

  Ed brews the coffee and leans against the counter where the day’s worksheets are already laid out in order of priority from left to right. Charlotte’s system, established when they first set up the business. Ten years ago, or is it twelve?

  ‘What did your worried villagers want?’

  ‘A favour, Ed. It happens now and then.’ Taffin ambles to the counter and takes a mug, nursing the warmth in his hands.

  ‘Like old times?’

  ‘Like old times.’

  ‘I’m guessing Charlotte ain’t happy then.’

  ‘Your guesswork is accurate, Ed, as always.’

  ‘And you’re considering it – or we wouldn’t be here. At six in the A.M.’

  ‘I turned them down flat.’

  ‘But you’re thinking about it.’ Ed addresses the remark to his coffee cup, aware of Taffin’s stillness. ‘Tell me it’s not the big one.’

  ‘What would the big one be, Ed?’

  ‘StarTrack – that’s all anyone talks about.’

  Taffin nods thoughtfully. StarTrack is the company running a proposed high-speed rail link in a Westward loop from London. The favoured route cuts through the landscape brushing up against ancient towns and villages, uprooting households and slashing property values. The name is a dirty word locally.

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Ed meets the blank stare. ‘There’s always going to be some clown who thinks you can wave a wand. I’ve been waiting for someone to come to you about StarTrack.’

  ‘Not my business.’ A hint of amusement touches Taffin’s face. ‘No Ed, that ain’t it. There’s a second-hand bookshop that might have to close, and a few people feel a word in the right ear might get a speculator to think twice.’

  Ed nods, relieved. ‘And you’re thinking about it.’

  ‘I set a high value on this bookshop. I’m tempted.’

  ‘Like old times?’ Ed frowns with the realization that his long time mentor and boss is asking for an opinion. ‘Those days are over. You don’t want to go back there.’

  ‘That’s what Charlotte says.’

  ‘Well –’ Ed turns over a job sheet ready for the morning’s work – ‘she’s right – and I’m in. But you knew that.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to hear.’

  ‘Reckon the same goes for Rick. You want me to mention it to him?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Rick.’

  ‘And the three fellas in the Mercedes – what kind of favour d’you reckon they want?’

  ‘We can only guess, Ed.’

  TWO

  RICK BISHOP brings the flatbed truck to a halt outside the workshop at Muscle Motors. An early start today. There’s a 1966 Ford Mustang quietly decomposing in a lock-up somewhere near Derby, waiting to be collected. Taffin has done the deal with the owner, Ed has directions to the place and Rick is ready to go but there’s no light in the office yet, so he has to wait.

  On the other hand, three men he doesn’t know are leaning against a gunmetal grey Mercedes outside the office. The Mercedes is this year’s model and the windows are dark – a feature Rick has always found irritating: nonentities pretending you might recognize them.

  Something not right here. Rick steps out of his cab and approaches, limbs hanging loose, no hurry.

  ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ – a phrase he learnt from Taffin way back when he and Ed were learning the art of persuasion.

  One of the three eases himself away from the car to face him.

  ‘Mister Taffin?’

  ‘And you are?’

 
The other two amble forward to flank the first.

  ‘You don’t look like Taffin. They say he’s a big fella. Where would Mister Taffin be, do you think?’

  ‘Who wants him?’ Rick Bishop stands very still, inwardly alert. Never show what you’re thinking; never answer a question.

  The first speaker moves closer, the other two keeping pace on either side.

  ‘I asked you a question. I haven’t heard an answer.’

  ‘I’ll answer yours when you answer mine.’

  It took years of patient training to get Rick’s aggressive nature under control. Even now, every instinct is telling him to lash out to left and right – get the first blow in while they’re still thinking about it.

  He turns away from the speaker to size up the opposition on his right. In the same instant a fist smashes into his midriff, a kick sweeps his legs from under him and he hits the ground face first, tasting the diesel-soaked soil.

  Should’ve swung first. Roll away fast but it doesn’t help. A well swung foot takes him in the ribs knocking the breath out of him.

  Pain feeds fury and Rick drags himself upright as a heavy boot takes him on the shoulder and bowls him over, clawing at the earth.

  Hands hauling him to his feet. The first speaker looks him over, reaches out to wipe the mud from his face: a concerned onlooker.

  ‘That was a nasty fall. You have to watch where you put your feet on this rough surface.’

  Rick says nothing.

  The speaker’s eyeline shifts. A beam of headlight flashes along the trees, a track bike weaves among the parked cars, grumbles towards them and comes to a halt beside the Mercedes.

  Ed Pentecost dismounts slowly, removes his helmet, places it carefully on the saddle and wanders across to the group where Rick stands, propped up between his attackers. The speaker turns to watch him – a bystander, expressing idle curiosity.

  Ed looks Rick over. ‘You alright, mate?’

  ‘He had a fall.’ The speaker brushes damp earth from the front of Rick’s jacket. ‘Took a swing at my colleague and tripped.’