Taffin on Balance Page 3

  ‘So long as you acknowledge it.’

  ‘I acknowledge without apology. Now – no one who knows Our Hero could possibly credit him with the poise, agility and good-looks of the excellent man who played him in the movie. It’s fiction – far removed from real life – romantic stuff for people who believe in Robin Hood.’

  ‘I choose to believe in Robin Hood.’

  ‘Describe to us the object of your belief, Mostyn: an athletic fellow, I suppose, in Lincoln Green tights – a master of unarmed combat, never so happy as when he’s championing the poor and needy.’

  ‘A romantic hero, yes.’

  ‘Indeed. My own version, I’m bound to say, is a more realistic figure, with all the fashion-sense of a compost heap, who lurks in the forest, being careful not to stray downwind of habitation because in those romantic days you could smell a settlement a mile away. Which is it, Mostyn?’

  ‘A mixture of the two.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter much which. You choose to believe the movie is based on the real live gentleman who occasionally drinks in this very pub.’

  ‘Most people do. The similarities are inescapable.’

  ‘Of course most people do, MOSTYN.’ The old journalist sends one eyebrow soaring. ‘Everybody needs heroes. And invariably those heroes are exemplary in every way – the embodiment of physical perfection, endowed with flawless integrity, endearing roguishness, stunning good looks – and that most elusive quality, PRESENCE.’ Butt pauses to reflect before adding, as if to himself: ‘This last does indeed square with our Mister Taffin.’

  ‘So you agree, the film was about him?’

  ‘In that respect. Whether by design or happenstance is open to debate.’

  ‘Of course it’s about him, Perry.’ Ivy Lewis, standing by, waiting for her chance to slip into the argument, won’t stand for criticism of her hero.

  Harry Hawkins, next to her, nods agreement and Ivy continues: ‘The problem is he seems to have retired – doesn’t want to know anymore. Harry and I went to ask a small favour and he turned us down, didn’t he Harry?’

  ‘Turned us down. Didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you –’ Perry Butt gives his empty glass a nudge – ‘that none of us are as young as we used to be?’

  ‘He doesn’t change. He’s got ways...’ Ivy’s adoring eyes settle on some far distant place for a moment. ‘Just a quiet word in the right ear – that’s all it used to take.’

  Harry Hawkins turns away, snorting. Ivy rounds on him. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It took a bit more than that sometimes.’ Harry’s face splits in a huge smile. ‘Remember the bloke who tried to get you into that pyramid selling scam? You wouldn’t want a quiet word like what he got.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ Ivy’s face becomes solemn. ‘But that bloke had it coming. Nasty bit of work.’

  ‘What did you want with Taffin this time?’ Mostyn gets his question in before anyone else can speak.

  ‘Should I talk about it?’ Ivy glances at Harry Hawkins, who is still chuckling over what happened to the nasty bit of work.

  ‘About the bookshop? Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Gordon Glennan’s got control of it now. His uncle used to have it but from what I hear Glennan’s got Enduring Power of Attorney and the rumour is he’s negotiating with a developer. There’s ten acres of land with that property, to say nothing of the house, which must be worth a tidy sum by itself.’

  ‘That’s if they leave it standing,’ Harry Hawkins remarks.

  Perry Butt does something with his eyebrows and Meg, behind the bar, pours him a double shot of gin adding a splash of Angostura Bitters without a thought.

  ‘D’you mean that odious politician?’ Butt’s eyebrows resume full battle formation. ‘What kind of perverse fate puts a sub-literate gobshite like Gordon Glennan in control of a bookshop – especially that bookshop? If true, this is appalling. Can you vouch for it?’

  ‘Debi Royce told me. She runs the business side of it and she’s right pissed off because she’s going to be out of a job if the sale happens. That’s why I had a word with Taffin – or tried to.’

  ‘And Robin Hood turned you down...’ Perry Butt holds his pink gin up to the light, savours the first sip and purses his lips. ‘The Folk Lore Police should be notified at once. Established heroes have a mystic obligation to us all, especially where revered bookshops are concerned. This matter must be addressed with all speed.’

  ‘If you’re going to address it, you’d better work out what you’re going to say... with all speed.’ Harry Hawkins has noticed an elderly Chevrolet Corvette edging its way into the White Lion’s car park with a noise like a giant gargling. ‘He’s here.’

  GORDON GLENNAN is confused. The two police officers who arrived at his door this morning failed, in his view, to show the respect due to a member of Parliament. Their manner was casually intrusive and, he felt, judgmental of the opulence they saw around them as they walked in.

  He has no idea who owns the Jaguar XE now parked in the barn behind his house, or how it got there. The officers are skeptical. The Jaguar was reported stolen and here it is, on his property, tucked away out of sight. Would Mister Glennan like to comment on that? No? Perhaps he would come to the station and help them by answering some questions. Yes, they know he is an MP, which is every reason why he should set an example by cooperating with the police. Like any good citizen with nothing to hide.

  Glancing in a wall mirror a moment ago, Glennan witnessed the officers’ murmured conversation and thought he lip-read the word wanker.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Janice Glennan has taken a few minutes to fix her hair and make up and now sweeps down the stairs to confront the officers.

  ‘God knows.’ Her husband shrugs. ‘They say we’ve got a stolen car in the barn.’

  ‘A stolen car? How did it get there?’

  ‘That’s the question.’ The taller of the two officers – PC Bailey – answers without looking at her. ‘It’s here, so this is where we start.’

  ‘Yes, of course – our property is full to the brim with stolen goods. Anyone can see we’re major criminals.’ As a politician’s wife, Janice has found sarcasm more effective and accessible than reasoned argument and uses it with practiced ease.

  ‘You’d be well advised to take this seriously, Mrs Glennan.’ Bailey turns a disappointed stare on her.

  Janice is having none of it. ‘I’ll treat this as I see fit. And anyway, how is it our problem?’

  ‘We have to investigate, Madam. That’s our job.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be out looking for whoever stole it?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to do. The first step is to find out how the car comes to be on your property.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting we’re involved...’

  ‘Leave it, Janice.’ Glennan decides to take control. ‘I’ll go with them and get this over with.’ Then, to the officers: ‘I suppose forensics will be all over the car.’

  ‘They’ll be here any time now.’ Bailey lets his gaze sweep the room, settling on Janice. ‘Quite a little crime scene you’ve got here, Mrs Glennan.’

  MEG MOPS IMAGINARY BEER from the bar noting, with mild amusement, that none of the group around Perry Butt said anything to Taffin when he walked in through the door marked Gents.

  He is not alone today. Mo, his larger, elder brother, is with him. This is a welcome rarity: Mo is a mountain of goodwill; soft benevolence rests in his pumpkin features and his presence always lightens the atmosphere that prevails when Taffin is by himself.

  The brothers have settled down with their beer at the corner table by the window and no one – not even Ivy Lewis – cares to disturb them.

  The door swings again and Ashley Gunn finds a place at the bar. He, too, is
glad to see Mo and acknowledges the brothers with a casually raised forefinger. Apart from being friends since their teens, he and Mo share the bond of countrymen and regularly shoot together.

  Taffin respects Ashley as his brother’s best mate; by the same token, Ashley is immune to the unease some locals feel when Taffin is around.

  Now is the moment to make eye contact. Ashley directs his gaze towards Taffin and receives in response the briefest inclination of dark glasses: a question asked; confirmation given.

  He has every confidence that the temporary loss of his car was in a good cause.

  FOUR

  ERICA LYLE Knows where all the local dignitaries live: it’s her job.

  As a journalist, she wouldn’t think of revealing her sources, but a great many of hers are local and not hard to trace. They include Dave Walls, currently a sergeant at Stoleworth Central, who is also her brother-in-law.

  No one would challenge Dave’s discretion but he’s fond of Erica, sometimes forgets what she does for a living and has yet to grasp the breadth of her ambition. She’s done three years on the Stoleworth Observer and is ready to move on to a national daily at the first opportunity. She is not inclined to waste any story involving a Member of Parliament.

  Janice Glennan doesn’t recognize the stylish young woman on her doorstep but assumes she is collecting for some charity or other.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mrs Glennan?’ Erica knows better than to ask this woman if her husband is at home; a question like that, from a youthful blond, can put a wife on the defensive. ‘Have you got a moment? I hear you had a surprise this morning and I’d like to hear what you think happened...’

  ‘Who are you, exactly?’

  ‘Erica Lyle –’ Erica offers a smile laced with a touch of apology – ‘Stoleworth Observer. We like to give maximum coverage to car crime...’

  ‘You’re a reporter. You people think my husband is a target for any local tittle-tattle and let me tell you that doesn’t make a politician’s life any easier.’

  ‘I was hoping – is your husband available?’

  ‘No he isn’t. And neither am I.’

  The heavy door judders in its frame and Erica is left staring at the brass lion’s head knocker.

  In the absence of anything else to share the thought with, she murmurs: ‘Unavailable for comment – never reads well.’

  PIERRE – formerly Allan – Van Hagen doesn’t enjoy sleeping in the woods but he does it occasionally to acclimatize himself in case it becomes necessary. Come that day, there will be a point to be made and he is determined to be the one to make it.

  Some time ago, when StarTrack announced the route for its proposed western loop, Pierre built himself a shelter in Chalkpit Wood, right in the path of it. This structure of corrugated iron and tarpaulin, with a hammock slung underneath, represents his opposition to the hurtling, superfast trains that will pass over this very spot if the project goes ahead as planned.

  The novelty has worn off but the resolve is as strong as ever. Rather than ruin his health for the final confrontation, Pierre spends his nights in a camper van and either goes for a bacon sandwich at the station or to his sister’s place for breakfast.

  This morning he has read all the national and local papers and lets himself into his sister’s treatment room without pausing to think there might already be a client on the massage table.

  ‘Have a look at this, Tess...’ he brandishes the paper, quoting the front page headline... ‘STOLEN CAR HIDDEN ON MP’S PROPERTY. That’s Gordon Glennan, Emm Pee – the Right Honourable. Don’t know what he’s been up to but it looks like he’s in deep doo-doo. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.’

  ‘Not now, Allan.’ Tessa waves him out but Pierre is on a roll:

  ‘The guy’s a Cabinet Minister or some such thing. These people think they’re above it all – bent as corkscrews, the lot of them.’

  A low growl reaches him from the massage table and Tessa turns anxiously to her client, whose face is buried in the hole.

  ‘Excuse my brother,’ she remarks.

  ‘This is important...’ Pierre is bubbling over... ‘Glennan is one of the bastards who proposed the StarTrack abomination in the first place – and get this – apparently he tried to sell his house when he thought the track might run too close to his gracious property. Now they’re saying the route’s going to change again, and guess who’s behind that. One rule for them and another rule for us underlings.’

  ‘OUT.’ Tessa gives him her hard-eyed look.

  ‘Junior Minister,’ a muffled remark from the couch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Junior.’ Taffin raises his head to stare at Pierre. ‘Get your facts right, son. And here’s a tip – if you don’t want to catch pneumonia – that hammock of yours needs hanging up to dry, or burning. The tyres are bald on that camper van by the way.’

  Tessa pauses to blink at her client then rounds on her brother again.

  ‘Now perhaps you’ll have some consideration for my client and let me get on with my work. OUT.’

  Pierre leaves the room closing the door behind him. It takes a moment for him to register what Tessa’s client said and a longer moment to wonder who the fuck this bloke is who knows about his woodland shelter and the camper van.

  He would like to go back and ask, but instinct tells him the conversation is over.

  JANICE GLENNAN doesn’t care for the slur on her husband in the Stoleworth Observer. She is even less impressed by insinuations in the Mail and the Mirror, both of which have picked up on the story.

  ‘You can’t let this go, Gordon. They’re twisting things as usual, nibbling away at your reputation.’

  ‘Let them nibble. There’s nothing in it, and they know that very well.’

  ‘And you’ve got to say so.’

  ‘Which is exactly what they want.’ Glennan lowers his paper wearily. ‘You know the press. They’ll goad you into a denial and then ask why you felt it necessary. It all makes column inches. Dignified silence is the trick.’

  ‘So you come out as aloof and disconnected – the classic voters’ definition of successful people in government. That bitch reporter will be back for sure, then what are you going to say?’

  ‘I might ask her to shift focus – concentrate on who might have stolen the car in the first place.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Janice speaks slowly and clearly, as if to a child. ‘You’ve been framed, Gordon – and next time anyone mentions it, that’s exactly what I’m going to say.’

  Gordon Glennan eases himself out of his chair and looks his wife in the eye. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Janice. Until the alteration to the StarTrack route is finalised, you and I will be keeping as low a profile as possible. My name is linked with the StarTrack project and I won’t have it said that I manipulated the findings of the Parliamentary Select Committee, which I chair, incidentally, to suit my personal interests.’ He pauses, gauging his wife’s reaction before continuing. ‘There are other, more complex reasons why this is a bad time for me to attract attention but I’m not going into that now – it would mean a breach of confidence among other things, so... no discussion. I hope you can grasp that.’

  Janice Glennan understands. Her husband, so willing to take centre stage in public life, is always evasive when it comes to private business. She tells herself he likes to surprise her with success rather than disappoint her with failure.

  Fine – let him enjoy his fantasies.

  PIERRE IS UNDECIDED. Should he burn his hammock, as the large man on his sister’s massage table advised? Should he worry about bald tyres on the camper van? It’s not his anyway – he has it on permanent loan from a mate who’s gone abroad – so probably not.

  The sky is lightly overcast, the way he likes it: warm grey with a gentle wind t
hat laps at your hair as you walk. Good for wandering and getting your brain in tune. He skirts Chalkpit Wood, trying to imagine the mentality that could contemplate ripping it up to give the world another high-speed rail route. Where’s everybody going? How important can it be... to get us all from A to B? That had a pleasant meter.

  His shelter is in there among the trees, not visible unless you’re looking for it. No more nights in there, though. The large man was right; the hammock is crap and to be truthful there is something unnerving about woodland when darkness falls. The camper van is comfortable but cold. Time to swallow pride and go back to his mother’s semi in Rookwood.

  Mesmerized by his own footsteps he reaches the fork where the path leads up to Rookwood or down through the woods towards Lasherham. He heads downhill without conscious decision plod plod.

  Having no ties is one thing; having no money is something else. In reflective moments Pierre puts his lack of clear purpose down to a profound sense of social responsibility, plod plod; someone’s got to make a stand, carry a spotless banner in a corrupt world. But what’s the point if no one’s taking any notice?

  All you can do is improve your mind plod plod and keep yourself as well-informed as possible. Pierre takes education seriously and has vague thoughts of teaching some day. Politics should be the answer plod plod but that’s where the rot begins. So teaching it must be – which means getting qualified.

  ‘Talking to yourself, son – you want to watch that.’

  The voice close to his ear shocks Pierre into the present, wide-eyed and spluttering.

  A deep breath to cover his sense of outrage, then he turns to see who spoke. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark glasses – no readable expression.

  ‘What...?

  ‘Pierre, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes...’ realization: the voice, last heard in his sister’s treatment room.

  ‘Settle down, son. You look like you just stuck your finger in the light socket.’

  ‘You gave me a shock.’

  ‘Here’s another – I need to borrow your van.’