Taffin on Balance Read online

  ‘You’d be surprised what I can imagine.’

  ‘I’m also human, with all the frailty that implies. You can intimidate me – you’re doing a fine job of that – but I can’t react in any way that would make sense to you.’

  ‘Well –’ Taffin rests a heavy arm along the back of the bench – ‘let’s think about that for a moment. Where’s your pressure coming from?’

  ‘Where do you think? I serve the government.’

  ‘You should be used to that. Where else?’

  ‘That’s enough, isn’t it?’

  Taffin lets the silence settle. Glennan would like to get up and head for the house but lacks the resolve and is sure the effort would be wasted. Better to try steering this bizarre conversation himself.

  ‘Alright, Taffin – I’m sure you keep up to date on current affairs locally. I’ve upset a few people around here and I regret that. I’m aware that your lady friend was hurt by someone you think was working for me. If that is indeed the case I am very sorry – I hope she’s feeling better now – but my influence extends only so far. Being held to account is the price one pays for being in politics.’

  ‘You know what bothers me?’ Taffin muses at the distant trees. ‘You’ve got some people working for you who definitely aren’t civil servants. I wonder where they’re coming from.’

  ‘You’re probably talking about manual help for various projects I deal with. As I told you last time we spoke, I don’t know who hires everybody. It’s not what I’m here for and, frankly, not my concern.’

  ‘You don’t know who’s working for you.’

  ‘That’s the way of it.’

  ‘Or who hires them.’

  ‘I can’t honestly say I know who hires them.’

  ‘You see, that’s not what people want to hear from a man in a responsible position. You don’t know who works for you or who hires them.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Your wife does.’

  Glennan draws breath to respond and checks himself. Finally: ‘My wife has no place in any conversation between you and me. I’d be grateful if you’d leave her out of it.’

  ‘You’re not kidding either of us, Mister Glennan. Where is she tonight?’

  ‘I don’t ask her where she is every minute of the day.’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell you anyway. Let’s be frank, you play by her rules. I can see her thumb print on the top of your head from here.’

  ‘You can think what you like.’ Glennan feels the bile rising in his throat: the truth, thrown in his face by a cheap thug.

  Taffin watches a pair of rooks making for the treetops. ‘Let me tell you what I’m thinking. If you could see where your wife is tonight, you wouldn’t have to ask where the pressure’s coming from.’

  ‘That’s a very offensive suggestion. My wife has commitments...’

  ‘Your wife’s taking you for all you’ve got – and I don’t just mean money. Your career, social status, contacts in high places – it’s all hers to play with.’

  ‘You don’t know her at all.’

  ‘I know heavyweight backing when I smell it, Mister Glennan. She felt safe enough to threaten me. That don’t happen a lot.’

  Glennan huffs a bitter laugh. ‘I can understand why.’

  Taffin lets his gaze stray over their surroundings.

  ‘You have substantial property – a lot more than we’re looking at here. Your wife’s a fortunate lady, with or without you.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re well insured on top of everything else.’

  ‘I’m not discussing my private life with you.’

  ‘You should discuss it with someone, Mister Glennan. You’re not safe, the way things are – too exposed.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. You seem to be saying I need some kind of bodyguard.’

  ‘You should think about it.’

  ‘I don’t move in those circles.’

  ‘You’re right in the middle of them.’

  A cacophony of rooks in the treetops, high overhead.

  Taffin watches the big birds flapping, subsiding, flapping again.

  ‘Let’s be straight with one another. We’re enjoying a pleasant evening. We’re not strangers any more, so no need to be formal. I’ll call you Gordon.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with first name terms.’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Alright, if that’s what you want. I’d like to go in now. I think we’ve said all there is to say.’

  ‘You’re in too much of a hurry. Let’s talk about StarTrack.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, as you very well know...’

  ‘Why does the route keep changing?’

  ‘For very good reasons which I’ve explained many times. We’re exploring possibilities to make sure the final route is the best option.’

  Taffin’s attention drifts upwards as more rooks circle to land.

  ‘Have you ever seen the three card trick, Gordon – Find the Lady?’

  ‘I’m familiar with it, yes. It’s a well-known con.’

  ‘That’s what it is, Gordon. It don’t matter how many times you watch it, or how carefully you watch, you’re never going to get it right because someone wants you to keep guessing.’

  ‘What point are you making?’

  ‘What happens every time the route changes?’

  ‘There’s an outcry in the affected area – that’s bound to happen...’

  ‘What else happens?’

  ‘Each new proposal sets off a cycle of activity. The Select Committee researches the new route, weighs up the implications, hears objections, takes advice...’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Then I have to keep everyone concerned apprised of the situation...’

  ‘Prices drop.’

  Taffin studies the afterglow on the mackerel sky while Glennan searches for a reaction.

  ‘Oh, there are many factors that influence property prices, Mister Taffin.’

  ‘But nothing like not knowing if your house is going to stay standing.’

  ‘There are generous compensation schemes for anyone who’s likely to be affected. You should read up on the proposals and stop scaremongering – because that’s all this kind of talk amounts to.’

  ‘Meanwhile you keep people guessing. Property prices don’t recover because everyone’s waiting for a decision, and each time there’s a new route, the area of uncertainty gets bigger. How am I doing, Gordon?’

  ‘Where are you getting this from?’

  ‘I watch, listen, put pieces together.’ Taffin turns his head to study Glennan’s profile. ‘And I ain’t heard you say I’m wrong.’

  Glennan huffs his half laugh again. ‘You think it’s all a big plot to undermine the property market?’

  ‘That’s what it does.’ Taffin lets the rooks take over for a while, then: ‘Do you read, Gordon?’

  ‘When I get the time.’

  ‘You should read Warren Palmer.’

  ‘What does he write – thrillers?’

  ‘Economics. He reckons all economic theory is guesswork. You have to look at who’s pulling the strings to make sense of it.’

  ‘That sounds – rather cynical and strangely academic.’ Glennan struggles to connect what he’s just heard with the man who said it. ‘What else?’

  ‘He’s got this idea he calls Economic Truth, but says it can’t work because banks, bombs and billionaires manipulate the economy.’

  ‘You’re surprising me, Taffin. Why do you read this stuff?’

  ‘Why not? All you can do is improve your mind.’

  ‘Who are you quoting now?’

  ‘Russell Chambers Gates. He wri
tes about how people behave. Reckons we stay primitive because half of us waste time trying to get rich and the other half waste time trying to stop them. He calls it Miseconomics – a study of social cramp. You’d enjoy it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of either of those people.’

  ‘Hard to come by. I get old copies through the Tollgate Bookshop. I believe you know it.’

  Glennan is working on a reply to this when headlights slash across the hedgerows; tyres chew the gravel on the drive and a Volvo pulls up.

  Janice Glennan gets out and heads for the front door.

  Taffin sets a hand on Glennan’s arm. ‘I believe your wife is home. Why don’t you call her over?’

  Glennan is torn between getting up, pretending he was out strolling the grounds, which he never does, and staying where he is in the shadows. He holds his breath, willing his wife to let herself in before she senses his eyes upon her.

  ‘Good evening Mrs Glennan.’ The soft voice carries, without effort.

  Janice Glennan pauses in the act of letting herself into the house.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Come and join us. It’s a pleasant evening, we’re having a chat.’

  Janice takes two steps towards the lawn and sees the two seated silhouettes. ‘Who is WE?’

  ‘Me and your husband. We’ve been getting along famously.

  Janice pauses. ‘Is that Mister Taffin? I’m surprised to see you here, I must say.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, Mrs Glennan.’

  ‘I heard you had an accident.’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘I hope you’re fully recovered.’

  ‘I’ll do. My colleague isn’t so good.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be looking after him, then?’ Janice has come to the edge of the gravel drive and now stops rather than trust her heels to the soft grass.

  ‘I’ll be on my way presently.’ Taffin shows no sign of stirring. ‘Don’t you want to know what we’ve been discussing?’

  ‘Nothing you have to say could interest me, or my husband.’

  Taffin rises to his feet, hands in pockets, and looks down at Glennan. ‘Why don’t you tell her what we’ve talked about, Gordon?’

  ‘Oh – Gordon, is it?’ Janice stares at her husband as he emerges from the shadows.

  Taffin ambles towards her. ‘Me and your husband have some shared interests. You don’t mind that, do you? Tell us about your evening – what’s Mrs Glennan been up to?’

  ‘That’s it – this conversation is over.’ Janice looks past him to her husband. ‘It’s time to come in, Gordon. Say goodnight to your new friend.’

  Taffin is close to her now and turns to gaze at the darkening horizon.

  ‘I don’t believe you like me, Mrs Glennan. I think you’ve been talking about me behind my back. Shall I send my colleague your best wishes when he recovers?’

  ‘You can do what you like. Gordon, I’m tired and we’ve got things to talk about. Good night, Mister Taffin. I don’t expect to see you here again.’

  Glennan moves to guide his wife to the door, glancing over his shoulder as he goes.

  ‘You should leave us alone, Taffin. There’s nothing here to interest you.’

  ‘Think about what I told you, Gordon.’

  TAFFIN SITS FOR A WHILE in the Mustang contemplating the gibbous moon before twitching the key, bringing the V8 to life and burbling away into the night.

  The lights are on in Glennan’s study now. Janice closes the curtains and turns to her husband.

  ‘Sit down, Gordon. It’s time we had a serious talk.’

  ‘I think we should.’

  ‘You don’t need to look so solemn, I’m not about to leave you. Maybe that’s what you’d like but it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be my choice, Janice. All I ever wanted was a wife, a career and a healthy pension at the end of it. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘You’re too accessible here. You should base yourself in the London flat. Knightsbridge is a more fitting place for a Minister anyway.’

  ‘I notice you didn’t say we.’

  ‘We don’t see much of each other these days, or hadn’t you noticed? And by the way, pensions are poison – they create the illusion of a secure future.’

  ‘Poison, you think. Well, that’s a point of view.’ Glennan pauses. ‘I’ve noticed you come and go as you please with no regard for me. I haven’t asked questions. Maybe I should.’

  ‘We’re grown-ups, Gordon. Grown-ups in a prominent position. You don’t want the tabloids snooping into your private life any more than they have already, do you?’

  ‘My private Life? What about our private life – yours and mine – I wonder what they’d make of that. The press loves to humiliate a minister and I’m sure there would be at least three players involved. I’d be interested to read about that.’

  Her hand is faster that his reactions and his head explodes with the force of it.

  Glennan staggers, stares at her, composes himself.

  She speaks softly, triumph and venom in her voice.

  ‘Be very careful, Gordon.’

  Glennan nurses his cheek, turns and watches her in the mirror as he speaks. ‘I don’t know where you go or what you do. The press latches onto anything, however trivial. We saw it with the ludicrous stolen car prank –’ he snorts dismissively – ‘childish practical jokes.’

  ‘But things like that attract attention, and you don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’ve got something to hide?’

  ‘Oh, not suggesting, Darling. You’re up to your neck and people sense it – especially in a place like this. You need to be out of the way in London.’

  ‘You mean I should be where people like Taffin can’t drop in on me.’

  ‘What were you thinking of, spending time with him?’

  ‘He surprised me.’

  ‘That’s what he’s good at. You shouldn’t have let him in.’

  ‘No, I mean I found him surprising.’

  ‘He’s a crude thug – a vulgar garagiste with an ego the size of one of those awful cars he peddles, inflated, no doubt, by the movie everyone says is about him.’

  ‘He’s no fool. I’d say he’s a shrewd judge of a situation. And by the way, a garagiste is a maker of wines – from Bordeaux, I think.’

  ‘So what is it he wants you to think about?’

  ‘He made some assumptions about the StarTrack project. Guesswork, I suppose, but alarmingly accurate.’

  Janice watches her husband and he meets her gaze, chilled for a moment by those drooping eyelids. She moves towards the door. ‘You need to tread carefully, Gordon – very carefully.’

  ‘How did you know he’d had an accident?’

  She pauses. ‘I overheard some of your conversation.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it to me.’

  ‘A lucky guess, then. His sort is always in and out of trouble, usually of a physical nature.’

  ‘You said, news travels fast. You must have heard it from someone.’

  ‘That’s something for you to wonder about, Darling.’ Janice stares him down. ‘Or you can ask your new friend what he thinks.’

  TWENTY

  ED PENTECOST is aware of people around him. There have been voices for some time but he hasn’t been able to raise any interest until now. He feels inclined to comment and is astonished at the excitement this causes.

  ‘What did I say?’ He feels this is a reasonable question and is surprised by the enthusiastic noises that follow.

  A woman’s face looking into his, looking away to talk to someone else and back to him. A man asking how he feels. Ed doesn’t know either of these people and says so.

&n
bsp; Footsteps coming and going and after a while Julia is there, holding his hand and asking if he can hear her, which of course he can.

  ‘He can hear me,’ Julia tells someone.

  ‘Of course I can fucking hear you,’ he remarks.

  Julia’s explosive laugh. ‘You’ll have to watch your language in here, Ed. The nurses aren’t used to it.’

  Sounds of general amusement suggest the nurses are most definitely used to it.

  Ed tries to sit up but hands restrain him. He moves his head and everything is suddenly clearer.

  ‘You look better.’ Julia is scrutinizing his face. ‘That bruising looked horrific when they first brought you in but it’s settling down now. You’re definitely the best-looking beetroot in the ward.’

  ‘Good to know.’ He looks up at her with appreciation.

  ‘You’ve got to take it easy for a bit. You took a kicking and your ribs are going to be sore.

  ‘Everything’s sore.’

  More faces he doesn’t recognize; someone telling him it’s a good sign he feels the soreness. It means his body is repairing itself.

  ‘Where do they get all this crap they tell you?’ He asks Julia the question and she squeezes his hand and nods to the unknown people.

  ‘He’ll do.’

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME, in a private hospital a hundred miles away, Eric McDermott is causing concern. He is still comatose. The medical staff monitoring his condition still have no idea who he is. Doctor Clemens, the Resident Medical Officer who admitted him, was told the patient’s name on arrival but has been unable to extract any further information.

  McDermott’s visitors have been terse and obviously impartial, their only apparent connection being business of an unspecified nature. There seems to be no personal interest in this patient at all.

  Paradoxically, his condition is clearly important to someone. The costs are considerable but the funds are there, with the proviso that no attempt should be made to pry into his background.

  No one tending him is comfortable with this but the hospital administration is in no position to argue. Intensive Care has to be paid for.

  ‘It can’t last indefinitely, of course.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, Doctor Morley.’ Clemens looks up from his notes. ‘Our instructions were that we should look after Mister McDermott for as long as necessary.’