Taffin on Balance Read online

  Too much excitement for one evening.

  JULIA SAW THE LIGHTS FIRST and immediately grabbed her backpack.

  ‘We’ve got company.’

  The caravan erupts as four pairs of boots make for the door.

  Out in the night air, they pause as two cars swing into the enclosure and head for the barn where McDermott is clearly visible, framed in the glare.

  ‘Walk slow.’ Ed moves towards the bikes, mounts up and waits for Julia to settle in behind him. Rick and Kath follow suit silently.

  By the barn, McDermott is faced with three men from the lead car. Snatches of the conversation just audible. Voices rising. McDermott pointing at the caravan. More figures joining from the second car, turning to follow McDermott’s pointing finger, starting to run.

  ‘That’s our cue to leave.’ Ed punches the starter button and the Triumph bursts into life. Rick’s Fireblade starts up next to him. A handful of throttle, blast of air in the face, kick out for balance and the gates are rushing to meet them as they lean into the tight turn and burn off down the lane.

  Eric McDermott breaks into a run in the direction of his Range Rover. He expected support from his backers but didn’t imagine a word from him would get a trip-wire response like this.

  This afternoon he told the man he knows as Doctor Morley that his employees might be nicking spare parts for rare automobiles; this seemed to touch a nerve. Doctor Morley flashed that chilling white smile and immediately made a call.

  ‘They can steal all the cogs and trim and badges they want,’ he remarked, through dazzling barred teeth. ‘That’s all replaceable. The paperwork isn’t. You should pray it’s still here somewhere – pray you’re the one who finds it.’

  Now McDermott is watching two motorcycles blaring off into the night, and it hits him with heart-stopping force that he has made a mistake for which he will be held responsible by people who don’t forgive anything.

  This thought has hardly formed when the swinging tail of an accelerating 4x4 pickup slams into his right side, gathers him up and hurls him away, staggering, a deep gong booming in his head until his knees melt from under him and all is quiet.

  Nearly a mile away now, Rick Bishop’s attention is divided between the Triumph’s tail-light and his own rear view mirrors. He saw the headlamp beams swing out through the gate behind them, opened the Fireblade up to match Ed’s pace and watched the pursuing lights dwindle in the distance.

  Out on the main road, heading roughly south at 120 mph, he begins to relax and senses Kath, behind him, doing the same.

  Ed in the lead throttling back, making a thumbs up gesture. No chance of being caught now.

  A drift of cloud revealing a full moon. The song of the engines merging with the headwind rush.

  This is what it’s all about.

  MO AND SHIRLEY are surprised to hear activity in the house next door, especially at 2.45 in the morning.

  Shirley sits up in bed. ‘Someone’s moving about in your brother’s place.’

  The bed creaks like a galleon on a heavy swell and Mo rises to his feet to listen. At dead of night, Mitres Well Lane is usually the quietest spot on earth.

  ‘You’re right, Shirl’, I’d best take a look – can’t be too careful.’

  Shirley, who everyone says would fit in one of Mo’s pockets, helps him on with his coat and hands him a shotgun, which he instinctively carries open across his forearm.

  Outside, he clicks the gun closed quietly and moves round to his brother’s side of the house. Two motorcycles stand outside, still radiating heat.

  Voices inside. Mo has always carried a key to his brother’s house along with his own, and now lets himself in, light of foot.

  Kath is in the kitchen, working her shoulders after a long, fast ride with a pack on her back, feeling secure for the first time in weeks.

  The black figure 8 of a double-barreled shotgun facing her brings an inaudible scream from her throat and a whiplash contraction inside her.

  ‘Jesus...’ she sags, panting, holding onto the kitchen table. Focus. The figure 8 lowers and Mo’s pumpkin face leans over her with concern.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Kath straightens up. ‘You nearly made me wet myself, Mo.’

  The kitchen is suddenly full. Kath flops in a chair. Ed, Rick and Julia gather round. Kettle on. Mugs of tea circulate: order restored.

  A window pane vibrates in response to a rumble – a V8 engine muttering outside. A moment later, Taffin and Charlotte are with them.

  ‘You’ve done a fine job, all of you.’ Taffin looks over the faces turned towards him. ‘You’ve had your hands on some tasty machinery in the last few weeks. How does that feel?’

  Ed snuffs a laugh. ‘Made it worth living in a caravan.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And guess what –’ Charlotte drops two fat brown envelopes on the table – ‘now we know who all that tasty machinery belongs to. The name Sherman keeps appearing. One of the letters is to a Mister Robert Sherman, so it looks like he owns the lot.’

  ‘The old gent in the attic.’ Taffin puts a hand on each envelope. ‘It’s all his, whether he wants it or not. Mister Sherman don’t seem interested in material things, but that’s the way it is, and here’s the paperwork to prove it. Good work, Rick, by the way.’

  Julia says, ‘Mister Sherman’s a nice old geezer – real old fashioned manners. What makes me sick is they’re robbing him.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘There never was a Cord.’ Ed turns to the others for confirmation.

  ‘Someone with a Mac created that.’ Kath has recovered from the sight of Mo’s gun. ‘There must be a real one somewhere.’

  ‘Changing the subject –’ Ed gives Taffin a long look – ‘I hope you don’t ever feel like giving us the chop for real. You had us all believing we was out of a job for good.’

  A hint of amusement touches Taffin’s face. ‘Your friend Eric had to buy it so I had to mean it. I suppose you want your jobs back.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, that’s handy – you’re hired. How did you leave it with your friend Eric McDermott?

  Julia’s face hardens in recollection. ‘He turned nasty when Rick got back, threatened us with his – what did he call them? – his colleagues, and he wasn’t joking.’

  Ed says, ‘He reckoned we’d nicked something but he didn’t know what, so he called for help. We rode out through a whole bunch of them.’

  ‘We lost them.’ Rick folds his arms, contented.

  ‘Alright.’ Taffin ambles among them. ‘I still don’t know who’s targeting us or why. I aim to find out, which means we open up shop and let them come and find us. It’s a risk and if any of you want to keep your distance, Charlotte and me won’t think any the less of you.’

  An eloquent silence follows. Ed and Julia confer without words. Rick and Kath do the same.

  After a while, Julia meets Taffin’s eye.

  ‘No one talks to me the way that man did. He started getting snotty with us as soon as we got settled in. He tried bullying us, but he wasn’t up to the job. He accused us all of stealing from him.’

  ‘We did,’ says Rick. ‘I’d do it again.’

  Ed looks across the table at Taffin. ‘You don’t have to ask – we’re in.’

  Taffin nods once. ‘Good enough. We open up at nine tomorrow morning, clean up and have the workshop in action by midday. That alright with everyone?’

  Charlotte says, ‘I’ll be on the phone to let the specialist press know. You should all get some sleep. Think of this as the end of a bad dream.’

  SEVENTEEN

  THE FIRST TIME DEAN ELTON heard the word misanthrope he thought it was a girl’s name and wondered who she was.

  When he
found it featured in a psychiatric report on himself, he assumed it was a compliment and didn’t bother to probe any deeper. Words don’t matter much to Dean. He has found his way in life, working unconditionally for someone for whom he has genuine respect.

  ‘Where to, Mister Morton?’ – his first words at the start of any day, before the soundproof window goes up, isolating him from the occupants of the rear seats.

  Today he has driven his employer to a remote stretch of high ground overlooking the vast panorama on the edge of the Chilterns escarpment. Daniel Frey-Morton is sitting alone behind him in the shadows.

  A gunmetal grey Mercedes was waiting when they arrived and now the rear doors open and two men in suits step out. One waits by the Mercedes. The other smiles; a bright, white smile. Dean has seen this man often and each time his lip has curled unbidden. Cocky, slimy jerk, is Dean’s assessment. Those teeth are asking to be knocked down the guy’s fucking throat, and he prays that some day his employer will give him the order.

  No sign of that happening any time soon. The teeth have privileged access to the back seat today, behind the soundproof window. Mister Morton has a use for this man and it’s not for Dean Elton to question that.

  In the back, Silver settles in beside Frey-Morton, avoiding eye-contact, ready for the question.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘McDermott blew it.’ Silver makes the statement without emphasis. ‘The guys he hired were working fine, then he lost control. Something spooked them and they made a run for it.’

  ‘You didn’t find the paperwork.’

  ‘I’ll swear it’s not in the main building. There’s only the old man in there and he doesn’t know what day it is.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s not the only one. Where’s McDermott now?’

  ‘Last seen in the yard. One of my drivers reckons he might have hit him with a pickup.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘You called for me, Mister Adams.’

  The temperature seems to drop while Silver considers the wisdom of his remark.

  ‘You don’t ever come to me without answers.’

  ‘My mistake, Mister Adams. I’ll find out today.’

  ‘That would be a good idea. Go.’

  From the cocoon of his driving seat, Dean Elton watches Silver sprint towards the Mercedes, chalky teeth clenched.

  Some day, he feels, he’s going to get his wish. Some day soon.

  FROM HIS LOFTY WINDOW, Bob Sherman gazes down at the yard. He has enjoyed a peaceful interlude; no activity all day until he heard a car arrive and decided to take a look.

  People beetling around down there, two of them lifting a man from the ground, carrying him to a car that stands with all doors open. Doors slam. The car zig-zags, straightens, accelerates towards the gateway of the enclosure and hurtles into the distance along the lane.

  Peace again. Bob Sherman makes his way back to his chair to immerse himself in the Arthurian legend that has fascinated him since childhood. Arthur, The King in the West: a book he hasn’t looked at in a while. His world begins to make sense again.

  MUSCLE MOTORS WOKE UP early this morning and is beginning to look businesslike. The office is clear of cobwebs, desk tidy, ledgers out, worksheets prioritized ready for the day ahead. Charlotte has spent the last hour on the phone renewing contact with her list of specialist publications, ticking them off one by one after each conversation.

  The workshop door is open releasing a waft of oil, grease and hot metal. Ed Pentecost and Rick Bishop have wheeled the aging Dodge Charger inside for a complete refit and overhaul. There’s a spirit of relief and optimism in the air.

  Thirty miles to the north, the red Ford Mustang purrs a contented tune on a long, straight stretch of road. Taffin relaxes in the left hand driving seat, watching the long nose rise and rise again as he puts his foot down. No trace of the emotion he feels shows behind the dark glasses, but at his core he acknowledges this as perfection.

  Private moments on such a day bring un-phrased certainties into the foreground. His ideal picture doesn’t require bright sun in a cloudless sky; the landscape he responds to is made up of muted greens moving in a warm grey wind with a pale road lancing to rolling hills on a cool horizon. A track by Sounds Orchestral called Cast your Fate to the Winds held that promise. Wistful, liberating piano: it reached him the first moment he heard it, years ago, and has never faded. He couldn’t explain that to anyone: it would never occur to him to try.

  The Mustang mutters through the village where The March Hare serves award-winning breakfasts – (bring Charlotte back here for sure) – and on towards the farm where old Bob Sherman will probably hear him arrive.

  The gunmetal grey Mercedes fills his windscreen in a split second. Jerk the wheel left grazing the hedgerow on this narrow lane. Metallic jolt and scrape on the right rear wing. The Mustang rolling to a stop as Taffin twists in his seat to look back. The Mercedes past and gone without slowing.

  Taffin walking slowly round his car, surveying the damage. Nothing Ed and Rick can’t fix in a day or two, but it all costs.

  Less at peace now, he climbs back in and fires up the engine. No mystery about that Mercedes. It stood for the best part of a day on the forecourt at Muscle Motors. Even with dark windows, there is no doubt in Taffin’s mind that one of the occupants had teeth the colour of one of June Dunphy’s white china cups.

  BOB SHERMAN would like to believe Glastonbury Tor is Mount Badon, the site of Arthur’s twelfth great battle against invading Saxon hoards, but he is not convinced.

  A single archeological find – fabrics, bracelets, armour, any kind of weaponry of the early 6th Century – would seal it for him; but as far as he knows, nothing like that has ever turned up and the enigma remains to plague him.

  No time for interruptions with that to contemplate. No visits, please: not just now.

  A floorboard creaks. He closes the book and looks up. The visitor fills the doorway; dark glasses study him quietly. Bob returns the stare.

  ‘Your face is familiar.’

  ‘We’ve met, Mister Sherman.’

  ‘And you told me your name, but I disremember it.’

  ‘Taffin.’

  ‘I remember your asking if there was anything you could do for me. Couldn’t think of anything at the time.’ Bob considers for a moment. ‘I remember being agreeably surprised. You don’t look the type who’d normally offer.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Taffin –’ Bob frowns, concentrating – ‘suggests French ancestry. Probably Norman – Norsemen, you see – so the odds are you’re a Viking. Do you know anything about your forebears?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ Taffin wanders into the room, pulls up a chair and sits down. ‘I know something about yours. Interested?’

  ‘I’m fairly well versed in my family history. Do sit down, by the way.’

  Dark glasses dip slightly, acknowledging the irony.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be interested in what I have to say, Mister Sherman, but you should hear it anyway.’

  ‘I shall, of course, hang on your every word.’

  ‘There’s a collection of motors downstairs, worth millions.’

  ‘Yes, I gather people have been repairing them.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I hope you don’t want me to sign anything, Mister Taffin. I’ve devoted much of my life to avoiding documents, signatures, the paraphernalia that goes with all things legal, including that extraneous breed known as lawyers, with their outrageous bills and the distress and mayhem they bring to the lives of ordinary, peace-loving citizens. A murrain on all their flocks.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Taffin produces a crumpled letter from an inside pocket. This is signed by a Mister Austin Sherman...’

  ‘My uncle... Uncle Austin.�
��

  ‘It says the whole collection passes to you on his death.’ Taffin fishes in his pocket again. ‘Here’s his death certificate. You’ve been wealthy a long time, Mister Sherman.’

  ‘There’s Old Money in the family, and I suppose I’m all that’s left of it.’ Bob looks around the room, taking in the details. ‘Any money there is, this old place swallows it up. Always something in need of repair.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the collection. It was an asset when your uncle died, but nothing special. Since then, values have gone through the roof. Like I say, millions.’ Taffin leans towards the old man. ‘Someone’s trying to cheat you out of it and I aim to see they don’t.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Mister Taffin. If that’s what you feel you must do, you must do it. I should make it clear that I have no interest in these motor cars but it’s comforting to know they have a value. Who do you think is trying to steal them?’

  ‘Your doctor, for one.’

  ‘Young Doctor Morley, the fellow with china teeth? Seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it?’

  ‘He ain’t a doctor.’

  ‘That’s alright, I don’t need one anyway.’

  Taffin watches the old man, reaches out and puts a slab of hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t believe you do. Have you got a phone here?’

  ‘There’s one in my bedroom. It never rings.’

  Taffin gets up and walks into the next room. There is an old style phone on the bedside table. He lifts the receiver and listens. Nothing.

  The old man is gazing into the middle distance when he gets back.

  ‘Here’s what I’m going to do for you, Mister Sherman...’

  ‘Yes, yes indeed,’ Bob turns to look at him. You asked if there was anything you could do for me... now sit down and I’ll tell you.’

  Taffin takes a seat, intrigued.

  Sherman continues: ‘There’s a place called Mount Badon, the scene of a decisive battle in post-Roman Britain. Some people think it’s Glastonbury Tor. I’d like to know if it really is. D’you think you could find out for me? You look like a capable sort of chap.’