Taffin on Balance Page 11

  ‘Alright, state your business or I’m going to call the police.’

  ‘I don’t think you want to do that, Mister Glennan – not unless you want one of your employees charged with assault.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You have people working at the Tollgate Bookshop.’

  ‘There’s work being done there, yes – necessary work.’

  ‘One of them used physical force on my partner this morning. I don’t appreciate that, Mister Glennan.’

  ‘I’m sure there was no malice involved.’

  ‘We’re talking serious assault.’

  ‘No – you’ve got this all wrong. I don’t hire people in that capacity.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mister Glennan?’

  ‘As sure as I can be – anyone working on my property is sub-contracted to do a job. I don’t interview them all personally – my schedule wouldn’t allow for it. I have to trust whoever hires them.’

  ‘They work for you anyway.’ Taffin rises slowly from the chair and ambles, hands behind his back, to the side of the desk. ‘I hold you responsible.’

  ‘I don’t accept that, and who do you think you’re dictating to?’ Glennan makes to rise from his seat but sinks back, obeying a downward hand gesture.

  ‘Be calm, Mister Glennan. Don’t get heated, it doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘I’m quite calm. I have no knowledge of the incident you’re talking about, so what exactly do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘I expect you to stop all work on the bookshop until we find out which of your employees smacks women around.’

  ‘Now wait a minute –’ Glennan starts up again but pauses in response to the same gesture – ‘If you think I can be intimidated by an unsubstantiated report, you can think again. Who is the woman who’s supposed to have been smacked around, as you put it?’

  ‘That would be my partner. When the time comes, she’ll be able to identify the man who assaulted her.’

  Silence settles. Glennan, seated in a guest chair in his own study, casts around for something to say and decides to try a change of tone.

  ‘That being the case, I can understand why you’re upset, Mister...’

  ‘Taffin.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, I can look into it, but that’s the best I can do at the moment.’

  ‘My partner won’t be happy with that. She’s a strong lady, not one to complain – but no one gives her a split lip and walks away from it. She and I think alike. You can understand that, Mister Glennan.’

  ‘Let me be very clear – I’m not admitting liability for anything. I have business to attend to. You should leave now.’

  ‘We’re nearly done. You’ve got your finger in a lot of pies. We’ll talk about StarTrack next time we meet.’

  ‘Now look, Mister Taffin, I can sympathize with your coming to me with a private grievance, but StarTrack is work in progress and has no place in any conversation between you and me. I don’t anticipate us meeting again.’

  Taffin stops beside Glennan’s chair, looking down, hands in pockets. ‘We will, Mister Glennan. Believe it.’

  ‘Is Mister Taffin giving you trouble, darling?’ Janice Glennan stands in the doorway, dressed to impress. ‘He’s quite daunting when you first meet him but he’s a pussycat really, aren’t you, Mister Taffin?’

  ‘He’s just leaving.’ Gordon Glennan seizes the moment to get up and appear to take charge.

  ‘And he won’t be back, will he?’ Janice gives them both a glacial smile. ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him – and his good lady.’

  ‘Nice room.’ Taffin casts a critical glance around the study and ambles past her, pausing in the hall to address Gordon Glennan. ‘You’ll do what we discussed, Mister Glennan. And tell your wife that threats need to be handled with care. Get the balance wrong and they’ll come back to bite you.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘IT’S JUST A BOX OF OLD CRAP.’ Rick Bishop hauls a soggy cardboard shape from under his bunk.

  ‘Good crap, though.’ Ed Pentecost takes a limp magazine from the depths. ‘”Motorcycle Mechanics”, June 1955 – this is gold dust, Rick, you dozy git. What else have you got in there?’

  ‘There’s a few more motor mags. The rest looks like old worksheets, bills and stuff.’

  Ed takes the box, sets it on the table and starts digging through the contents.

  ‘You’re a genius, Rick.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m too modest to admit it.’

  ‘Look at this –’ Ed holds up a clutch of thin card and wrinkled papers – ‘logbooks, bills of sale, one for the Hudson with a letter to... Austin Oliver Sherman – that’s got to be a relative of old Bob Sherman, so that one belongs to him for sure. This is magic.’

  ‘Whatever turns you on.’

  ‘Yeah...’ Ed flips through the tattered papers in his hand. ‘More logbooks, service records for an SS Jaguar, a load of stuff on a Chrysler Imperial... it’s all here, Rick. This is what they call provenance.’

  Rick is shuffling through another handful of papers. ‘Here’s an envelope of stuff on the Facel Vega – belonged to Mel Kinnear at one time. He’s an old rock star – Kath knows all about him.’

  The door opens and Kath and Julia climb into the caravan, bringing a waft of fresh air with them.

  Julia peels off her jacket. ‘It reeks in here. You don’t really notice until you get outside. What have you got there?’

  Ed goes to the window and looks out along the track.

  ‘Is anyone around outside?’

  ‘Not a soul. You can walk for miles here and not see anyone. You’ve been going through old magazines, I can smell them from here.’

  ‘Not a word to McDermott.’ Ed indicates the box on the table. ‘I’m not sure what we’ve got yet, but we keep this out of sight and don’t say a word about it to anyone.’

  Rick picks the box up, weighing it in his hands.

  ‘It ain’t too much bulk. I can fit the lot in my rucksack.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Ed peers out of the window again. ‘Time to talk to The Boss.’

  NO ONE WOULD CALL Charlotte a worrier. For her, life with Taffin has always been a cocktail of risk and stability. The motor trade offers plenty of variety – and the risks, as she puts it, ‘paint the colours a bit brighter’.

  Until today she has never doubted her life partner’s judgement, but watching him now – yes, she is worried.

  ‘You haven’t said much.’ She prowls the freshly laid parquet floor of Ashley Gunn’s barn conversion.

  Taffin broods quietly, a dark shape against the window. Charlotte moves closer.

  ‘You saw Glennan. What did he have to say?’

  Taffin stirs. ‘What can I tell you? He’s a weak man. His wife’s the one to watch. I’m still trying to work her out.’

  ‘What did she say then?’

  ‘Not a lot. She looks like a posh slapper but talks like a gangmaster. I’d say she’s used to rougher company than her husband. She knows about what happened to you.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. The geezer who took a pop at you works for her husband. Tell me again, what did he look like?’

  ‘Your average gorilla. Dark, intimidating, gets off on it. You know the sort as well as anyone.’

  To Charlotte’s relief, the ghost of a smile touches Taffin’s face for a moment. Then: ‘You hear anything?’

  They listen for a moment, picking up the sharp rip of a motorcycle engine rising to a bellow. Tyres scrunch outside and the engine cuts out.

  Rick Bishop parks his hot Honda Fireblade, stretches aching limbs and is grateful to find the front door open.

  Charlotte looks him over. ‘What have you bro
ught us, young Rick?’

  ‘A raging thirst, for a start. I could murder a cuppa tea, unless you’ve got a beer handy.’ He eases the rucksack off his shoulders and looks around the room. ‘Nice place.’

  He puts his rucksack on the trestle table, opens it up and pulls out the contents.

  Taffin shuffles through the wad of documents, pauses to scrutinize the first few and nods appreciation.

  ‘Give the man a beer.’

  Charlotte rips the top off a bottle of Spitfire and hands it to Rick, who downs half of it in one go.

  ‘I got here as quick as I could. Ed thought you’d want to see these.’

  ‘He’s not wrong. D’you know what it is?’

  ‘Provenance, Ed said.’

  ‘Ooh-er...’ Charlotte clowns a learned look ‘You swallowed a dictionary?’

  ‘I swallowed a Spitfire – that’s better. All I know about provenance is, if you haven’t got it, all those motors we’re working on ain’t worth a light because there’s nothing to say who they belong to.’

  Taffin spreads the papers out on the table.

  ‘You never did a better day’s work, Rick. Tell Ed I said so.’

  Rick tries a modest face, unable to handle a compliment. ‘I’ll tell him. I’d best be getting back before the Gestapo miss me.’

  ‘Take your time, son. I’ve an idea your job’s nearly done. You can tell Ed that, too.’ Taffin is still going through the paperwork when Charlotte’s mobile bleeps.

  ‘Well, what have we got here?’ She peers at the screen. ‘That sneaky little sod.’

  Taffin raises his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Little Pierre, the bookshop voice – what a smart little bugger. I saw him stop the van for a minute before I drove out of that field – never thought he’d have the brains or the bottle to get a picture. Here you are, that’s the fella. Not a bad likeness, too.’

  She shows Taffin the photo. Part of the jeep is clear. So is the figure of Michael Wyatt, standing back with a mocking matador pose, ushering it through.

  Taffin studies the photo, shifts his gaze to some distant point, then turns to Charlotte.

  ‘Tell Pierre he’s done a good job.’

  ‘He’ll be so happy, poor little mite.’

  Taffin shows Rick the mobile. ‘See anyone you know?’

  ‘He’s got a fucking heavy boot. Yeah, I know him.’

  ‘Easy with the language, son – ladies present.’

  Charlotte strikes an imperious pose. ‘Who are you calling a fucking lady?’

  Taffin hands the mobile back to her, ambles to the window, looks out across the valley where Muscle Motors lies hidden beyond the trees and turns to Rick.

  ‘It’s all coming together, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?’ Eric McDermott leans against the caravan, watching as Rick dismounts and sets his helmet on the saddle. The Fireblade ticks softly as it cools.

  ‘Taking a ride.’

  ‘You don’t take rides – not when there’s work to be done.’

  ‘So sack me.’ Rick works his shoulders.

  The caravan door swings open and Ed Pentecost steps out. Kath follows him and goes to Rick.

  McDermott speaks quietly. ‘I’ll ask you again, where have you been?’

  ‘And I told you.’ Rick is in no mood for this. He has been riding hard all afternoon and the adrenalin charge has yet to give way to fatigue.

  ‘Get this straight –’ McDermott moves to face the three of them – ‘you don’t take time out unless I say you can, and that’s not going to happen.’ He strolls among them, hands in pockets. ‘That’s valuable machinery you’re dealing with and – be very clear on this – if the smallest, most insignificant part goes missing I’ll tear this place apart until its found. What’s in the pack?

  Instead of answering, Rick unslings his rucksack, gives it a shake and holds it upside down.

  ‘That’s it.’ Julia appears in the caravan doorway and steps down behind McDermott. ‘We’ve taken enough of your shit. I won’t be called a thief by you and I reckon that goes for the rest of us. You think we’re going to nick nuts and bolts from your precious collection? Or perhaps you think we’re dealing in contraband windscreen-wipers and antique headlamps. Stuff you – piss off and learn some manners.’

  McDermott’s face sets hard. ‘I warned you all about security from the start. You don’t have to like it, you don’t have to understand it – the money you’re being paid says you’ll do it without question. No one leaves here until the job’s done, clear?’

  ‘Very clear.’ Ed moves in, puts an arm round McDermott’s shoulders and addresses the group. ‘You heard what the nice man said. No one goes anywhere without his permission. Eric –’ he stares full into McDermott’s face – ‘you don’t mind if I call you Eric? We’ll do anything we like and go anywhere we want.’

  ‘Don’t put your hand on me, boy.’

  ‘Just being friendly, Eric.’ Ed makes a hands up gesture. ‘I never trust people who don’t like being touched – makes me wonder what they’re hiding.’

  McDermott turns to Rick. ‘You always go riding with an empty backpack?’

  ‘You got a problem with that?’

  ‘I’ll say it one more time. If anything goes missing, I won’t answer for what happens. Your employers aren’t all as understanding as me. I’m the nice guy – remember that. You wouldn’t like some of my colleagues.’

  McDermott makes eye contact with each of them in turn and walks away.

  Stillness settles. Julia manages to radiate spent fury without a word. Kath, who has said nothing during the whole exchange, links arms with Rick.

  Ed watches McDermott walk into the barn before breaking the silence. ‘He’s desperate.’

  ‘I’d say so.’ Julia controls her voice. ‘He needs that paperwork but he can’t risk letting us know there is any in case we start looking for it.’

  Ed turns to her. ‘That’s about right. He’s got half an idea we’ve found it, and no way of checking it out – his worst nightmare. He’s desperate.’

  Kath finds her voice. ‘That was a threat – probably about seven on the Richter Scale. I don’t think he was bluffing.’

  ‘He’s full of it.’ Rick puts an arm round her.

  ‘He sure is –’ Ed speaks softly – ‘but he ain’t bluffing.’

  Inside the caravan, by unspoken agreement, they start packing up their kit.

  Ed glances out of the window from time to time, measuring the distance with his eye from the barn to McDermott’s white Range Rover, from the caravan to the barn, from the bikes to the gate of the enclosure that leads onto the lane.

  Instinct tells him they should be ready for sudden departure. McDermott has let the mask slip and shown teeth. Employers who started out as a board of directors – a load of boring accountants, have become colleagues you wouldn’t like. And given McDermott’s present dilemma, his unlovable colleagues could already be on their way.

  Risk assessment. Ed can almost hear Taffin using the phrase, along with the word balance. If they decide to leave, it would make sense to take off during the night and be well clear of the place before they’re missed. That won’t be an option if McDermott’s colleagues arrive in the meantime. No time for indecision if that happens. A fine balance of nerve and reactions...

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Rick is at his shoulder. ‘The girls would be happier if we left now. So would I, but don’t tell anyone I said so.’

  Ed stares out at the bikes, parked ten paces away – his Triumph Sprint and Rick’s Fireblade. In emergency, the four of them could mount up and be away, with all their kit, in less than a minute.

  ‘We have to stick around. If we leave for no reason, that’s as good as admitting we’ve got what Eric’s l
ooking for. We stay here unless someone turns up and if they do, that gives us a reason take off. It’ll look like we just got scared and ran.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’ Rick stares longingly at his Fireblade. ‘I was hoping you’d talk me out of it.’

  SIXTEEN

  AS A CHILD IN THIS VERY HOUSE, Bob Sherman used to play with toy soldiers. He would set them out in orderly ranks on papier mache landscapes with their tin cannons and move them around, conduct their battles, send them off to skirmish, charge and retreat.

  In those far off, comfortable days, any soldier would fit between his forefinger and thumb, much like the small figures moving around in the yard below right now.

  Bob watches from his high window. There seems to be an unusual amount of activity down there. This is normally the quiet time, when the young people who work in the barn have gone back to the caravan to eat, drink and whatever they do.

  Not tonight. Lights appeared in the lane a few minutes ago, then two large cars swung into the yard and the ground was alive with moving figures.

  Hard to make out what’s going on from up here, but some kind of discussion is taking place by the barn door and now a group of figures moves quickly towards the caravan.

  Best open the window to hear what’s going on.

  Some kind of confrontation happening now. Voices raised. Shouts from the direction of the caravan. Two loud engines coming to life at almost the same moment.

  Bellow of engines and two shapes burst through the milling figures and head for the gate, lights on, one behind the other as they swing out onto the lane.

  Figures running back towards the cars, climbing in while they’re moving, racing across the yard, sideways, straightening, demolishing a gatepost on the way out in pursuit of the motorcycles that can still be heard tearing away over the hills. A figure that was running slows down by the gate, stumbles and falls, lies still.

  Was that real? Bob Sherman takes a deep breath of the night air, closes the window and the shutters and makes his way back to his chair.