Taffin on Balance Read online

  ‘Yeah?’ Ed speaks quietly. ‘Not like him to trip.’

  ‘These things happen.’

  Ed Pentecost looks over the three unfamiliar faces and nods, agreeably. ‘Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. Tell your pal not to stand behind me.’

  ‘That’s not very friendly. We’re waiting for Mister Taffin. You don’t mind if we wait inside.’

  ‘You can tell me who wants him.’

  Take them to the point where they have to act now or back off. Watch their faces.

  The speaker shows disappointment with a shake of the head. A glance, and the other two release Rick, who lurches but remains standing.

  The moment has passed but Ed doesn’t relax yet. Push a bit further to see what these people are made of.

  ‘I’ll need a name from one of you.’

  ‘Seems reasonable.’ The speaker makes a slow turn, inspecting the forecourt, then: ‘This is a business. We could be customers. You can call me Sir.’

  Rick Bishop shakes off the hands restraining him and takes a step towards the speaker.

  ‘Leave it, Rick – not worth it.’ Ed takes his arm and leads him to the huddle of buildings.

  In the washroom behind the office Rick splashes water on his face, wipes the grime off with a sheet of kitchen towel and examines his ribs for damage.

  ‘I’m glad you pitched up when you did. One of those bastards had a heavy boot on ’im.’

  ‘You did well, Rick. I thought you were about to give them some back.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get a chance later. Are they still there?’

  ‘Sitting in their car.’ Ed leans for a view through the window. ‘They can sit there all day if they like. I’m here. You better get off to Derby if you’re fit.’

  ‘I’ll do.’ Rick flexes his shoulders and winces. ‘You don’t want me to stick around? There’s three of them.’

  ‘They won’t give me any trouble. I’ll be in the workshop minding my own business.’

  ‘Give me the directions and I’ll be on my way.’

  Five minutes later, Rick Bishop swings the flatbed truck through an elegant U-turn missing the Mercedes by inches and heads out along the main road.

  ‘LET ME EXPLAIN, MISTER TAFFIN.’ The speaker props himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I represent the interests of a serious collector. He likes cars. You’re known to share his enthusiasm for high capacity engines. He believes you can help him.’

  The sharp stutter of an air wrench lets him know the workshop is active. Dust drifts in the partial light. The speaker pauses, watching the silhouette framed in rays from the sunlit window.

  In the absence of any reaction, he continues: ‘My client wants a late ’thirties Cord – the 812 supercharged model, with a Lycoming V8 engine, pop-up headlights, front wheel drive, state of the art in its day – an immaculate example, of course. He thinks you’re a man who would know where to find one.’

  Taffin stands by the window, looking out, partially obscuring the only source of light.

  The speaker continues. ‘My client knows you by reputation. He regards you as a man of influence – a celebrity. I should add that he knows what he wants and can smell a fake without even having to look at it.’

  ‘What does your client call himself?’

  ‘I address him as Mister Adams.’

  ‘And you are...?’

  ‘I’m just the messenger.’

  The sky brightens beyond the window, creating an aura around Taffin’s silhouette. Rays of light shift as he turns.

  ‘We like to know names around here. My colleague asked yours. He got a kicking instead.’

  ‘We got off on the wrong foot.’

  ‘So I hear. Your pals were lucky to catch him in a good mood.’

  ‘He misread the situation. I’m sure there won’t be any hard feelings.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. You’re on my premises. You know who I am. I’ll ask once more – who are you?’

  ‘My friends call me Silver. That won’t mean anything to you.’

  ‘And Mister Adams – what’s his real name?’

  Silver folds his arms and shows a row of china-white teeth. ‘They said you were smart. Let’s talk business.’

  Taffin moves from the window, shedding light on Silver, forcing him to recoil in the glare. ‘I’ll talk. You listen.’ The voice is just above a whisper. ‘First, whatever Mister Adams wants, he can ask me himself.’

  ‘I’m authorized to speak for him.’

  ‘Not by me. Next, the two gentlemen with you can get themselves in here now.’

  ‘Mister Rott and Mister Weiler we call them. They’re high-spirited lads, I warn you.’

  Taffin lets the stillness settle. Silver shrugs: ‘By all means, call them in.’

  ‘You call them.’

  Silver allows himself an insolent pause, crosses to the door, opens it with a flourish and summons the two men with a jerk of the head.

  Greg Dupree and Michael Wyatt don’t expect to explain themselves: their work doesn’t call for it. They enter the office in the easy way of speculators looking over a new acquisition. Wyatt closes the door and leans against it, arms folded. Dupree becomes absorbed in a wall poster featuring a 1971 Pontiac GTO. Silver perches against a desk, radiating benevolent calm.

  Taffin stands at the window with his back to them. Metallic sounds from the workshop; the air wrench stutters again.

  ‘You gentlemen owe my colleague an apology.’

  By the door, Wyatt unfolds his arms.

  Dupree turns from the poster, face beefy with triumphant scorn. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  On the instant the room is full of light and Dupree finds himself staring into an expressionless face.

  ‘We ain’t got many rules here, son.’ Taffin looks past him as if he, too, were studying the GTO poster. ‘Just one – we insist on good manners.’

  ‘You cute old-fashioned thing.’ Dupree hesitates for a moment and his face hardens to compensate. Taffin’s dark stare settles on him.

  Wyatt takes a step forward. Silver signals him to stay still.

  ‘It’s all about balance.’ Taffin addresses Dupree earnestly like a lecturer outlining a vital principle. ‘We have here a delicate situation, so the balance needs to be precise. Treat people right, they’ll treat you right. Mister Silver has understood he needs to keep still. Your pal hasn’t grasped that yet.’

  Wyatt has edged closer. Taffin raises his head. A fractional flexing of the shoulders and Wyatt folds up behind him like a roll of old carpet.

  Dupree freezes, eyes fixed on the impassive face in front of him.

  ‘Balance...’ Taffin remarks, as if summing up after his demonstration.

  Wyatt is working his way up from a kneeling position. Silver remains calm. Taffin turns to face him.

  ‘Upset the balance and people become unreasonable. That’s why it’s important. Now we have a gentleman on the floor, and the one behind me wants to make the same mistake. Set him straight.’

  Silver nods, showing an icy spread of teeth. ‘They said you were smart, Taffin. Let’s move on – I’ve still got business to attend to.’

  ‘Not with me.’ Taffin ambles to the window, darkening the room. ‘Not until we discuss the small matter of an apology. You gentlemen will need to show me you’re in earnest before we get to business. Listen carefully – here’s how it’s going to be.’

  Wyatt is on his feet now, jaw slack with fury. He glances at Silver for direction. Silver makes a slow arc with his hand as if wiping the slate clean. Three faces turn to the silhouette at the window.

  RICK BISHOP has been watching the broad grille in his mirror all the way from Derby. He manhandled the old F
ord Mustang onto the flatbed truck with the aid of chains and pulleys, slightly impeded by the previous owner, whose idea of helping was to stand in the way and offer advice. Rick got away eventually with the car firmly strapped down behind him, the running Mustang badge inches from the rear window of his cab.

  His day started with unexpected violence, he has been on the road for nearly six hours and now he could do with a rest – which he’s not going to get until he’s unloaded the Mustang. He hopes Ed Pentecost is still around to give him a hand.

  As he swings the truck into the lane that leads to Muscle Motors, he has a glimpse through the trees of the gunmetal grey Mercedes on the forecourt. From Rick’s point of view this is a good thing and a bad thing. On the plus side, he would relish a moment with the man who gave him bruised ribs; on the other hand, all he really wants is Kath, a beer and somewhere to put his feet up.

  He parks the truck beside the workshop and is relieved to see Ed Pentecost in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. A bit of help never comes amiss when the odds are out of balance. And the odds are not looking good. The three from the Mercedes are walking towards him and there is purpose in their stride.

  The man with unnaturally bright teeth is in the middle, the one with the heavy boot to his right, the third hanging back to watch their rear. Professional, but something in their collective posture tells Rick there is no threat for the moment. As they come closer he tries to read their faces but can’t see beyond those teeth.

  He climbs down from the cab and at the same moment the office door opens and Taffin is standing there, hands behind his back. Rick knows that posture well: stay still – do nothing.

  He watches with mounting surprise as the two men who would have been happy to make a stretcher-case of him this morning set themselves to unstrapping the Mustang and carefully easing it off the flatbed truck, the man with the teeth supervising. Weird but welcome, Rick thinks. He wasn’t looking forward to this job, so he is happy to stand back and watch someone else do it. Ed Pentecost, framed in the entrance to the workshop, makes no effort to help. Taffin watches from a peaceful distance.

  When the Mustang is on the ground, Taffin strolls out and inspects the bodywork.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ He addresses Silver, including Dupree and Wyatt with a glance. ‘You’ve restored the balance. You can go now.’

  As the gunmetal grey Mercedes disappears down the track towards the main road, Ed and Rick follow Taffin into the office. Over the years, they have trained themselves not to show surprise at anything that happens when Taffin’s face, never expressive, assumes that disturbing stillness.

  At this moment, both are wondering how he transformed their visitors – men with an aptitude for casual violence – into silent, obliging automatons.

  ‘What did I miss?’ Rick turns a questioning stare on Ed.

  ‘You tell me. They’ve been here since you left. I’ve been in the workshop minding my own business.’

  ‘They decided to be polite.’ Taffin turns to them, hands in pockets. ‘The geezer with the teeth was the messenger – the other clowns were a sideshow. Their employer wants something he thinks I can arrange, I explained he ain’t going to get it by upsetting us, so they unloaded the truck for you as a goodwill gesture. The tooth fairy had the wit to understand that.’ He wanders out to the forecourt. ‘Let’s have a look at this Mustang.’

  THREE

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK this morning, Ashley Gunn phoned the police to report his car stolen. It’s a brand new Jaguar XE in Odyssey Red with black leather interior. He parked it in front of his house in Rookwood a few minutes after midnight and it was gone by six forty-five. All he knows is it was there when he went to bed and it’s not there now. He didn’t hear a thing.

  Ashley is quite relaxed about it. His insurance covers theft, he has a Landrover as well so he’s not stuck for transport and he reported the Jaguar missing in good time. There’s not much more he can do.

  The desk sergeant at Stoleworth Central (Dave Walls – they were at school together) took his mobile number and promised to get back to him with any developments. Ashley has every reason to think his car will be returned to him before long.

  Time to think of the day’s schedule. His company’s current project is a barn conversion on the hill above Little Lasherham. Pleasant work: an opportunity for fine craftsmanship and considerable job satisfaction in an idyllic location. He will be on site by eight and drive down to Lasherham for lunch in the White Lion at about twelve-thirty. Life is good.

  ‘STICK YOUR FACE IN THE HOLE and get comfortable.’ Tessa Van Hagen, slim and crisp in clinical white, moves round the massage table rubbing her hands to warm them up. The waft of good oils.

  Taffin settles down, face in the hole as instructed. The hands on his back are cool, perfect, understanding. Tessa is the only other woman Charlotte allows to touch him: the trust between friends.

  ‘Sorry if they’re cold.’ Tessa always says that.

  Taffin makes an approving sound that might be a grunt or just a way of giving in to the magic hands.

  Sometimes they talk. Sometimes he just lets what will be will be. This morning he is picking up on something in her touch.

  ‘What’s on your mind, girl?’

  The hands pause for a moment. ‘How do you do that?’

  A non-committal grunt answers her and she resumes a swirling hand movement, wondering, at the same time, whether he really wants to know.

  ‘Is it telepathy? Are you a mind-reader? Or am I that transparent?’

  ‘Nothing transparent about you, girl.’

  ‘Alright –’ she frowns, thumbs on vertebrae, one by one – ‘I was thinking about my brother.’

  Another grunt. Taffin knows a bit about Tessa’s family through Charlotte. The brother is a wistful, drifting figure, occasionally seen around in a long coat. Charlotte describes him as ‘alternative’ because he lives outdoors a lot and rejects anything he regards as commercial. He has changed his name from Allan to Pierre for reasons no one has been able to fathom.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He wants to take the railway on single-handed. Did I tell you he’s an old Trekkie. Star Trek is still his world. He regards StarTrack as an insult to the name.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘He says future generations are going to look at the scarred up landscape and wonder what the – pardon my French – we thought we were doing. Why don’t we just enjoy the world as it is, he says, and stop buzzing about like blue-arsed flies.’

  Another grunt from the buried face. Tessa lets her hands swim on Taffin’s back.

  ‘You could lose a bit of weight.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought. What’s Pierre done to upset you?’

  ‘He’s built himself a makeshift camp up in Chalkpit Woods. Says he’ll go and live in it when the construction starts, right where the track’s going. Silly boy.’ Tessa concentrates on a knotted muscle in Taffin’s shoulder.

  ‘They’ll move him on.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about. He’ll get hurt.’

  Taffin watches Tessa’s feet – all he can see of her in this position. She isn’t asking him to get involved – he knows her better than that – but there is anxiety in her fingertips.

  Later, fully clothed, limbs and muscles freshly loose, he pauses in the doorway.

  ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘About my brother? He’s got no sense. Who wouldn’t worry?’

  ‘No need –’ surprisingly light touch of a huge hand on her shoulder – ‘some have got principles, some have got sense. The trick is getting the balance right.’

  Taffin leaves her to wonder what that meant and walks down the steps, raising a hand in farewell. The Jeep sinks slightly under his weight as he climbs in. The V8 mutters to itself as he reverses out of th
e drive – and the phrase, ‘Like old times’ runs through his mind again. Charlotte used it, with a resigned look on her face. Ed Pentecost used it several times, trying not to let his enthusiasm show.

  Old times don’t seem so remote today.

  ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOVIE?’ Perry Butt swivels on his stool to challenge the person who spoke.

  Heads turn in the bar at the White Lion. Butt, the veteran journalist, is always good value when he decides to join battle. Mostyn, ever the middle-aged schoolboy, is the protagonist, always open to humiliation at Butt’s hands.

  ‘I have not seen the movie, as you call it –’ Mostyn sips his half of bitter and locks horns without fear – ‘I don’t need to. From what I’ve heard, it’s the story of an honourable man, who may or may not live locally – perhaps drawn from real life, perhaps not – showing him up in a favourable light. If it does indeed draw on events that took place here – I emphasise if – the man in question is justly lionized for services rendered to the community, not least because it caused him to be alienated at the time, which must have been galling.’

  ‘Galling?’ Butt snorts the word with weary scorn. ‘Our man was lucky to survive – and having done so it’s remarkable he didn’t emigrate.’

  ‘He did indeed leave the country for a while –’ Mostyn takes another sip – ‘you know that as well as I do, Perry – we were all here at the time, all guilty in a sense. Taffin’s celebrity status is fully merited, whether the movie is about him or not.’

  ‘Once again you’ve missed the point with unerring inaccuracy.’ The old fighting cock’s plume of white hair rises like a battle standard. ‘No one’s disputing our man’s sterling qualities. My quibble is with those who seek to glamourize the tragic truth that violence inevitably breeds more violence.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that heroism should be presented as a virtue.’

  ‘You astound me, Mostyn. By your own admission you haven’t bothered to watch the movie and yet you shamelessly peddle an opinion – and don’t even think of complaining about that split infinitive.’