Taffin on Balance Page 13

  Taffin sits back, blank features touched by a hint of amusement. ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’ Bob Sherman shakes his head in wonder at the enormity of the task. ‘Now, what was it you were going to suggest?’

  ‘I’m going to bring a young lady here to fit you up with a phone that works. She will make sure you can get in touch with me any time, day or night. How does that sound?’

  ‘That’s most generous.’

  ‘It’s most necessary, Mister Sherman, believe me.’

  ERIC McDERMOTT lies in a bright corner of the Intensive Care wing of a small, private hospital. He has a broken right arm, a fractured pelvis and head injuries that appear to be minor. He has not yet regained consciousness.

  The Resident Medical Officer who admitted him asked searching questions of the men who brought him in and is still not happy about the tone of that conversation. He wanted to know the patient’s name, the name of his GP, details of the accident that brought him here and his relationship, if any, to the people with him. No answers were forthcoming.

  The man who seemed to be in charge gave him a number to ring, which he did. The RMO was no wiser when the call was over, but he was clear on one thing: whoever he was talking to expected the situation to be dealt with, promptly, regardless of expense, and with a minimum of superfluous questions.

  GORDON GLENNAN is not easy in his mind. In recent months he has felt increasingly unsure of the support he used to take for granted; the balance of his life seems to have been thrown out of true and each new development adds an unwelcome spin.

  If he enjoyed any local goodwill, he has lost it now. Personal attacks from middle-aged women might be dismissed as spontaneous flare-ups but full-scale demonstrations and damning articles in the press and online are not so easy to shrug off.

  As a politician, he should expect periods of unpopularity, but bastard fate has seen to it that this one coincides with a change in his wife’s manner. She has always had the capacity to wound, but lately her eye for the exposed nerve is sharper. Something has changed radically and the suddenness of it has hurt him more than he would have expected.

  Business, his usual refuge in times of stress, is no longer the catalogue of clear objectives it used to be. He has tamed his ego enough to accept the occasional summons to one of Frey-Morton’s anonymous hotel suites, but the car park of one such hotel is a step beyond. He is not comfortable with the way the day is developing.

  On arrival, he was met in the hotel lobby by a man he has never seen before – a broad man with a distant look in his eye and a battering-ram for a chin – who guided him, without conversation, to this stretch of bleak concrete where a midnight blue Rolls Royce Phantom is waiting.

  ‘This is most unusual,’ Glennan remarks, stepping into the back, trying to ignore his escort who now shuts him in with Frey-Norton and retires. ‘I feel I’m being abducted.’

  ‘You need to get a grip.’ The flint eyes study him. ‘How long do you expect to chair a select committee if you can’t keep your home territory in order?’

  Glennan frowns, surprised. ‘There’s nothing coming up I can’t handle. People are suspicious of politicians – it goes with the badge.’

  ‘You’re getting bad press. Also, you’re attracting the wrong kind of attention from local people. You had a visit, I hear.’

  ‘People try to pressure me sometimes. It’s just hot air.’

  ‘Really? What exactly did Taffin want from you?’

  ‘You heard about that?’

  Frey-Morton makes a concessionary gesture.

  ‘Well –’ Glennan’s brow darkens at the memory – ‘he was carrying a torch for the bookshop. He enjoys some sort of celebrity status, if you can call it that. The bookshop is exactly the kind of local cause he would get involved in. He wanted to talk about StarTrack as well, but I didn’t let him get that far. How did you hear about the visit?’

  ‘How do you plan to react next time?’

  ‘I’m hoping there won’t be a next time but if there is, I shall ignore him, of course. How did you...?’

  ‘And if he sues one of your employees for assault?’

  ‘He’s a cheap thug. He’s not going to sue anyone.’

  ‘You know something, Gordon,’ the cold eyes settle on him for a moment, ‘I’m beginning to have my doubts about you.’

  Glennan takes a moment phrasing a reply, finds he has nothing to say and tries again. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, Gordon, that you need to listen when you’re spoken to. I’ve made it clear you can afford to ignore any threat from Taffin or anyone associated with him.’

  ‘I understand.’ Glennan dismisses a disturbing image of the gun that doesn’t exist.

  Frey-Morton seems to be staring straight through him. ‘A man like that has no authority to meddle in your business, and StarTrack is out of his league. Why haven’t you taken that in?’

  ‘I have – it’s clear.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear he’s been in your house. Next time, throw him out.’

  ‘That’s not so easy. He stayed for a while, then left without accomplishing anything.’

  ‘He accomplished more than you’re admitting. He shook your nerve.’

  ‘He took me by surprise, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with my nerves. I can deal with his sort.’

  ‘You need to satisfy me of that.’ Frey-Morton gazes out of the window.

  Glennan takes a deep breath, feeling something inside him dissolve. ‘You don’t need to worry about me – everything’s moving forward. I’m overcoming setbacks as I encounter them. What more can I do?’

  ‘Show some commitment. Take control. Let the press into your life and calm them down. They want to hear from you about StarTrack, so give them something to chew on. I’m disappointed your instincts haven’t led you there already.’

  ‘I have to juggle with conflicting interests. It’s not a game for beginners. I know what I’m doing and I have every intention of staying the course and drawing my pension at the end of it.’

  ‘It’s called politics – and by the way, pensions are poison, they encourage the illusion of security.’

  ‘That’s an extreme point-of-view, but...’

  ‘Get that bookshop demolished, take control of the land my long-term plan requires and bring me a positive progress report within a week.’

  The door opens as if by magic. Dean Elton picked up the signal from his boss and now ushers Glennan out of the car.

  Walking away, pausing to look back, Glennan takes the conversation apart in his mind, wonders why he didn’t ask the key question and shakes his head as the truth strikes him. How could Frey-Morton possibly have detailed knowledge of his encounter with Taffin?

  No point asking that; there is only one possible source.

  From his driving seat, Dean Elton watches the politician walk away. The soundproof screen lowers and he half turns in his seat.

  ‘Do you know that man, Dean?’

  ‘I’ve seen his face, Mister Morton. He’s on the news now and again.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. Where to, Mister Morton?’

  ‘Drive. I’ll let you know.’

  The soundproof screen goes up.

  KATH BREWER is only now beginning to realize what it is to work for Taffin – even by association. She was up at five this morning and now, late in the afternoon, she’s ready for a break.

  ‘Your first mistake was letting him know you could do computers and stuff,’ Charlotte told her. ‘You’re on the unofficial staff for keeps now.’

  Kath said, ‘I don’t even really know him.’

  ‘You’ll be fine with that, love.’

  And so it turned out. Kath found h
erself in the passenger seat of the Mustang, heading north, with a man she had never seriously spoken to, and with no idea what to say. She knew what was required; all the equipment was in the back. What was there to talk about?

  On the way, Taffin told her what he knew of Bob Sherman and answered her questions when asked, but for the most part he seemed comfortable with silence, and that became the understanding between them.

  Sherman was visibly intrigued by the iPhone Kath brought him, listened patiently while she explained it several times and eventually succeeded in calling the numbers she put in the Contacts list.

  He didn’t ask questions while she was installing a webcam facing his chair and the door, but worked out that the phone would need to be kept charged and asked her how to do it.

  When Kath felt the old man knew enough to stay in touch, she looked at Taffin, who gave her a nod and they left without ceremony.

  The next job was to transfer the equipment she installed in Ashley Gunn’s barn conversion to the house in Mitres Well Lane. That’s done now.

  ‘There you go.’ Charlotte produces tea in mugs and they sit at the kitchen table. ‘You’re done for the day. Rick can have you back and you’ve done something for us the Boss couldn’t manage in a thousand years, for all his strange talents.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to go back to that place again,’ Kath tells her. ‘The caravan was alright for a while but I felt threatened all the time we were there.’

  ‘We can all put that time behind us, love. You’re back home, the business is up and running. Think of this as a new beginning. It’s like we never left.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ERICA LYLE is pleased with the way her nose is developing.

  The re-launch of a classic motor dealership wouldn’t normally attract her, but this one smells like a story. The Stoleworth Observer has a business section, which would certainly find room for it – and there’s a motoring section as a fall-back position – but the enigmatic owner of Muscle Motors is ripe for an in-depth interview and that’s where Erica’s nose is leading her. He’s a local celebrity with a dark past and she’s never met him; that needs to be put right.

  She arrives at the Muscle Motors office without prior warning and immediately walks into The Man Himself, on his way out.

  ‘Just the man I came to see.’ Erica’s brightest smile reflects double in his dark glasses. ‘Could you spare me some of your time?’

  Charlotte looks up from her desk, ready to fend off a possible ambush. Taffin pauses in the doorway to study the woman in his path.

  Erica plunges in, offers her hand, introduces herself rapidly and decides on the business angle as the most promising opener.

  ‘I’d like to do a feature on the classic car market in general and Muscle Motors in particular. Is there somewhere we could talk?’

  Taffin glances back at Charlotte with the hint of a shrug and leads Erica to the patch of forecourt recently vacated by the Dodge. The stump of a once massive oak presents itself and they sit down.

  Erica produces her notebook, pretending indifference to the rough surface of the tree stump and the affect it’s probably having on her white Gerard Darel skirt.

  ‘So, where shall I start?’ Her instinctive body language says you can be open with me. ‘When people talk about you, it’s always Taffin – no Mister, no first name or anything. Is it alright if I do that?’

  A brief inclination of the dark glasses. Erica takes that as a yes.

  ‘Thank you. Muscle Motors has been trading for some years now. Can you remember the exact date you opened?’

  Taffin looks towards the office. ‘Ask Charlotte. She keeps the records.’

  ‘I will –’ Erica makes a note – ‘and you closed for a while recently. Why was that?’

  ‘Improvements.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re upgrading the service – aiming higher?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Tell me about the company. What were your ambitions for it when you started out?’

  ‘Make a living.’

  ‘But I suspect there’s more to it than that.’ Erica searches his face. ‘Looking around, these are not just any old cars. Every one I can see from here is a show-stopper.’

  ‘We always have tasty wheels here.’

  ‘Would you say your core market is classic car enthusiasts – collectors?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Especially Americana?’

  ‘That’s the way it’s worked out.’

  ‘So, would these beefy American beasts be your personal preference?’

  ‘That’s my preference.’ Taffin indicates the red Mustang.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a ding on the rear wing.’

  ‘No problem. The lads can fix that.’

  Erica pauses. Time for a change of pace.

  ‘You don’t strike me as someone who talks about himself a lot. I’d like a little background on the man behind Muscle Motors. Is that alright?’

  The suggestion of a shrug. Erica continues.

  ‘You have quite a reputation locally. You know what I’m going to ask next, don’t you?’

  Dark glasses turn to her. The double reflection again.

  ‘That film –’ she returns the stare – ‘fact or fantasy? Is it about you and if so, is it a true story?’

  ‘Some people think so.’

  ‘But what do you think? – you’re in a unique position to comment and, after all, you’re the one all the controversy’s about.’

  ‘I don’t think about it.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ Erica makes a note, flips to a new page and pushes her hair back for thinking time. ‘Let’s turn the clock back a bit. What did Taffin do in his youth, before Muscle Motors? Where you always in the classic motor business?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘What were you doing before?’

  ‘Freelancing.’

  ‘Well, that covers a lot of possibilities. What was your speciality?’

  ‘Keeping the balance.’

  ‘That sounds suspiciously like book-keeping – and you don’t look the type at all. Were you a loss adjuster?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me – I don’t know what the balance means in this context.’

  ‘Balancing what’s owed with what’s paid.’

  ‘That’s a phrase I haven’t heard before. What exactly does it involve?’

  ‘I’ll make it simple for you.’ Taffin studies her for a moment. ‘There’s always someone looking for more than they want to pay for. That’s alright, it’s part of the game. The motor trade’s a good example – it’s full of chancers so you expect it.’

  ‘You mean everybody wants a deal.’

  ‘Sure. But you get the odd one who don’t want to pay at all, even after they’ve got the goods. That’s when the balance needs restoring.’

  ‘That sounds like debt collecting to me. Who did you work for?’

  ‘Strictly freelance.’

  ‘Putting the balance right?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I understand.’ Erica applies herself to her notebook, dismissing a mild wave of insecurity. ‘I can see how people wouldn’t argue with you.’

  The dark glasses incline slightly. Erica meets the gaze again.

  ‘Everything about your operation suggests size and strength. Do you enjoy power?’

  ‘I don’t like what it does to people.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I asked. I mean, do you like the idea of wielding power?’

  ‘Same answer.’

  Taffin sits very still and Erica notes that he never moves unnecessarily, creating an impression of unassailable calm. Even so, there must be thresholds that shouldn’t be
crossed. She decides to push it.

  ‘Would you take on StarTrack?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘It’s what some people expect of you.’ Erica flips back through old notes. ‘I covered the demo in Lasherham. Feelings were running high that day and there were hints that Gordon Glennan might be up against stiffer opposition than he knows. Have you met our Mister Glennan?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Is he someone you could do business with?’

  ‘Not out of choice.’

  ‘Let me quote you what a Mrs Ivy Lewis said...’

  ‘I know what she said.’

  ‘You read my article?’

  ‘I heard a first hand account.’

  ‘She think there’s someone around here who’d make a better job of looking after public interests. Who would that be, d’you think?’

  She tries to meet the gaze of two dark lenses.

  There is a lot of silence in a whole minute, then:

  ‘Do you read at all?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Erica holds his eye-line.

  ‘Read Russell Chambers Gates – anything you can get hold of. He writes about human behaviour – says most of our energy is wasted worrying about things we can’t influence.’

  ‘I get it.’ Erica opens a clean page, makes a note and looks up again. ‘StarTrack is a step too far. You’re a victim of your own reputation. What else does Russell Chambers Gates talk about?’

  ‘Balance.’

  ‘So do you. What’s he got to say about it?’

  ‘If at all possible, make sure nobody’s dead because you’re alive.’

  ‘That’s an interesting thought.’ Another note goes in the book. ‘I can believe many things about you, Taffin, but I don’t see you as a pacifist.’

  Erica waits for a response, aware of an expressionless face turned towards her. After a while Taffin gets up and strolls away towards the workshop, leaving her wondering where to start.

  NIGHT. All switches are off in the workshop. Ed Pentecost turns the main lights out in the stores and closes the steel door.