Taffin on Balance Page 4

  ‘It’s not mine to lend.’

  ‘I know, son. The owner ain’t traceable. You’ll get it back with a new set of tyres.’

  ‘I don’t know where the keys are.’

  ‘They’re under the front seat. Listen carefully now, I’ve got a job for you. Time to make yourself useful.’

  FIVE

  ‘YOUR PROBLEM, not mine.’ Daniel Frey-Morton uses words sparingly, giving full value to every syllable. English is not his first language, or even his second, but he uses it with fluent precision.

  Gordon Glennan is never comfortable in this man’s presence; all he knows about Frey-Morton is that he was a self-made billionaire by the age of forty and conducts business from hotel suites. During their meetings he offers no hospitality other than mineral water, ignores any attempt at small talk and concludes the day’s business by simply getting up and leaving.

  ‘It’ll probably blow over –’ Glennan is anxious not to be dismissed so easily this time – ‘but I need to soft-pedal until it does. Right now, however ludicrous it may sound, I’m the subject of a police investigation. I’d rather not make any further statements about StarTrack while the spotlight is on me. Christ man, there’s too much at stake.’

  ‘You must get your priorities straight.’ Frey-Morton remains perfectly still as he speaks: no body language.

  Glennan takes his time phrasing an answer.

  He thinks: ‘Don’t you dare lecture me on priorities. You’re an obscenely wealthy man who’s lucky enough to have a Minister of the Crown in his corner. My priority, as I’m uncomfortably aware, is to manipulate the StarTrack inquiry to keep the public baffled – so the route swings north one minute, south the next, the future remains uncertain, property values decay, people move out – and finally, when you give me the nod, a grateful public hears StarTrack is cancelled... and the way is clear for you to swoop in with your crazy micro-city development.’

  He says: ‘The long-term plan is my priority, as always.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Frey-Morton’s flint eyes turn on the politician. ‘A stolen car on your property is nothing. Ignore it. And for all our sakes, my friend, don’t think out loud.’

  ED PENTECOST gives the Mustang a final polish and stands back to admire it.

  ‘Very tasty.’ Rick Bishop climbs out of the inspection pit and strolls round the car to take it in from all angles. ‘Better than the first time I saw it.’

  He and Ed have worked on the engine, drive-train, suspension and bodywork day and night for two solid weeks and the result is a spectacular example of a classic. The chrome is dazzling. The engine note is music: a burbling baritone that calls out to lovers of fine tuning.

  ‘No orange-peel then.’ Charlotte moves gracefully round the car, running a light finger over the surface.

  ‘Just a showroom shine, Charl – nothing fancy.’ Ed Pentecost flicks at the bodywork with a duster. ‘You ain’t never seen orange-peel in any paint job of mine.’

  This is true. Ed has applied five fine coats, each one rubbed down and prepared before the next, and the surface gleams like glass: no chance of the orange-peel effect of a hasty spray-over.

  ‘It’ll just have to do, then.’ Charlotte shakes her head in mock reproof.

  During this exchange, Rick Bishop stands off to one side wondering if Ed is going to mention the job offer. By agreement, neither is going to say anything unless the other does and neither of them can decide whether to take it seriously.

  The offer arrived two mornings ago in a Ferrari driven by a man who looked like a retired schoolmaster.

  This person, who introduced himself as Eric McDermott, spent half an hour admiring the craftsmanship displayed on the forecourt and asked to speak to whoever did it.

  When Ed told him the Boss wasn’t around today, Eric explained that he was only interested in the people who did the real work of restoration – the boys with the magic touch – who could bring automotive classics back to life. Forget the Management – this was all about Craftsmanship with a capital C and he, Eric McDermott, was offering top dollar for the skills he could see displayed here, on this forecourt.

  He expected to pay a high price for results like this, he said. He outlined an eye-watering financial package and wished to point out that it was a lot better than anything Ed or Rick could dream of in a backwater like this.

  Would they be interested? The money was on the table: they could let him know in a day or two.

  He left in a leisurely cloud of dust, leaving Ed and Rick to stare at each other in disbelief.

  Neither has ever worked for anyone but Taffin and Charlotte. Their lives have been intertwined for as far back as either cares to remember. But this is crazy money.

  They both have responsibilities now. Ed thinks of himself as a family man these days: he met Julia in the course of a job for Taffin, eventually set up house with her and they’re still together after ten years. At the same time, Rick moved in as lodger and caretaker with the Brewer family, whose lives had been shattered when their younger daughter was found murdered on Rookwood Hill. Kath, the elder daughter, took over the running of the household at seventeen, and Rick was there for her. He’s been there ever since.

  ‘Where is the Boss today?’ Ed is still flicking at the Mustang with his duster.

  ‘He’s probably at Tess’s place getting a massage.’ Charlotte plants a hand on her hip in mock outrage. ‘He’s addicted to it – or her – I dunno which.’

  ‘I need to have a word –’ Ed glances from Charlotte to Rick – ‘we both do.’

  ‘THAT’S A LOT OF MONEY.’ Taffin stands with his back to them, looking out over the car lot. ‘Dare say you was tempted.’

  Ed nods, aware that Taffin can see him reflected in the window.

  Rick leans against the wall beside the Pontiac GTO poster. Eric McDermott’s money, if it’s real, would set him and Kath Brewer up in their own place, or give them the option of extending the Brewer family home to give everyone more privacy.

  Ed has done the sums as well. Julia has put herself through a photography course and is now taking wedding commissions. The money McDermott was talking about would equip a studio and give her the freedom to branch out. Ed would like to be a part of that.

  He also knows – and is aware that Rick feels the same – that Eric McDermott’s offer is too good to be true. There’s got to be a catch, but curiosity is powerful. Instinct says look at the choices, even one involving the inconceivable step of leaving Taffin, Muscle Motors and all the history that goes with both.

  ‘What would you say –’ Ed searches for the words – ‘if we told you right now we was going to leave?’

  ‘Be lucky.’

  ‘You make your own luck. You always said that.’

  ‘True, Ed.’ Taffin turns from the window and ambles, hands in pockets. ‘Luck... judgement... it’s all about balance.’

  ‘You wouldn’t try to talk us out of it?’ Rick shifts slightly as Taffin moves past.

  ‘No point, Rick. What can I tell you? If you mean it, you’ll stick by it.’

  ‘That’s a compliment, by the way.’ Charlotte turns her patient look on Rick.

  Rick nods. ‘I know.’

  ‘What do you mean by balance?’ Ed watches Taffin’s profile, aware of mild amusement on Charlotte’s face at the same time.

  ‘He’s been using that word a lot,’ she remarks. ‘He keeps going mystic on me. It’s all the weird stuff he reads, Ed. I worry about him.’

  The ghost of a smile brushes Taffin’s face.

  ‘Everything you do, every decision you make, is in the balance until the split second you commit to it, then it’s irreversible – the moving finger writes.’

  Ed glances at Charlotte, mystified. Rick does the same. Taffin continues:

  ‘Chance against judgment –
come to a fork in the road, which way do you go?’ He turns to face the three of them. ‘You weigh what’s in reach against what you want, then you weigh that against what you’ve got. When they balance out, it means you’re doing something right.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Charlotte goggles at him.

  ‘Russell Chambers Gates – a wise man who writes stuff you should read. Start with ‘Dynamics of Balance’ – you can all borrow it. Read, absorb, enjoy.’

  Charlotte murmurs, ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

  Rick shrugs: ‘I don’t read a lot.’

  Ed wags a finger at Taffin. ‘I knew you was brewing something. There’s stuff you’re not telling us.’

  ‘True enough. What’s happened recently? I’ve had a decoy project dangled under my nose – a mystery man wants a rare Yank motor from the Thirties – something he could probably find without help from me. At the same time, you and Rick have been offered a lot of money to go elsewhere.’

  ‘We’re all being tempted.’ Ed leans to flip open a file on the desk, revealing a stack of black and white prints of classic cars in various stages of disrepair. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Taffin spreads the prints out and studies them.

  ‘These are what your man McDermott left?’

  ‘That’s right. He wants some classy motors restored – or whoever he works for does. He left these pictures to give us a taste.’

  ‘And you don’t know who’s pulling his strings.’

  ‘He didn’t say. Maybe he’s independent.’

  ‘The Tooth Fairy don’t want to say who he works for either. What does that tell you?’

  ‘Got to be a connection.’

  ‘Looks likely.’ Taffin nods slowly and thumbs through the pictures again. ‘Do you see what I see?’

  ‘A lot of tasty machinery.’ Rick turns one of the prints for a better look. ‘There’s Jag corner – an XK120 and an SS100. That there’s a De Tomaso Pantera, I’ll swear that’s a Chrysler Imperial under them cobwebs, there’s a Hudson Super Six – and what’s that behind them?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Ed hunches over the print. ‘Half hidden... don’t recognize it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you.’ Taffin strolls to the door and pauses. ‘It’s a Cord from the late nineteen-thirties – an 812 if it’s supercharged – just what the Tooth Fairy wanted me to find.’

  ‘There it is again from another angle but still half hidden.’ Charlotte fans the pictures out on the desk. ‘That’s no coincidence.’

  ‘Too right, girl. I’m being led right to it. Looks like we’re all being tempted.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Ed straightens up.

  ‘A bit of thinking, Ed. Here’s a tale to be going on with: there’s a fork in the road; one way leads to the desert, the other way leads to the town. Two brothers live in a house where the road forks. They’re identical twins, but one always lies, the other always tells the truth. Everybody knows that, but no one can tell them apart, so... A traveller comes to the door asking which way he should take to get to the town. He doesn’t know which brother he’s talking to. What question should he ask to get the right direction?’

  ‘He’s stuffed, isn’t he?’ Rick looks to Ed for guidance and gets a blank frown in return. Charlotte folds her arms and looks skywards.

  Taffin continues: ‘Someone’s trying to break up the business. I want to know who and why. The question is, who should I ask?’

  He steps outside and wanders among the extravagant machinery on the forecourt, pausing to appreciate the red Mustang.

  Charlotte watches him through the open door and turns to Ed and Rick. ‘Get the picture? You’ll let him know what you decide, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ve decided.’ Ed takes a quick step to the open door and calls out to Taffin’s retreating figure. ‘Here’s the question – which way would your brother tell me to go?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The liar would say his brother would point him to the desert. The truthful one would say the same.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Whatever answer he gets, he goes the other way.’

  ‘There you go, Ed.’

  THE TOLLGATE BOOKSHOP dreams in the afternoon. The Mustang barks a greeting and falls silent. Taffin steps out of the left hand driving seat and strolls to inspect the books displayed in the window through a reflected image of the Mustang and screen of trees in the background.

  Sandwiched between a collection of Sempé cartoons and a book of mediaeval maps is a plain grey volume with the title set in bold white capitals: WALKING DISTANCE – from the author of STILL LIFE – Russell Chambers Gates.

  Lorna Moorecroft looks up as the doorbell Dings. Debi Royce is with her today, helping her sort through the latest pile of books to be bought for pennies or pulped, depending on rarity or second-hand worth. She straightens up and steps aside as her space darkens, noting Lorna’s fleeting alarm.

  Dark glasses turn to her for a moment, then to Lorna.

  ‘There’s a book in the window – Walking Distance.’

  Lorna says ‘Yes’, but nothing comes out and she clears her throat. ‘Yes... you’re the man who reads Warren Palmer, I remember.’

  ‘I’ll get it out for you.’ Debi Royce picks her way through stacks of reading matter to the back of the window.

  Lorna decides this customer needs drawing out. ‘You certainly have specialized tastes. Russell...?’

  ‘Russell Chambers Gates.’

  ‘I don’t know him. What’s his subject?’

  Before her question is answered, Debi Royce is back, dusting the grey cover with her sleeve. ‘Russell Chambers Gates. I nearly let it go but we don’t see many of his. What’s this about?’

  ‘Ideas.’

  ‘Big subject.’ Debi Royce turns the book over in her hand, then looks up. ‘I know you. You’re Mister Taffin. My friend Ivy Lewis talks about you a lot.’ Then, to Lorna, ‘They made a film about him, you know.’

  Lorna’s face lights up.

  Dark glasses betray a hint of amusement.

  Debi tries to engage Taffin’s eyeline as she continues: ‘You’re Ivy’s hero. She says you help people.’

  ‘How much?’ Barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Well, not so much now – she says you’ve retired.’

  ‘How much for the book?’

  ‘This one’s seven pounds.’

  Taffin digs in his pocket for cash and hands it to Lorna, who is determined not to let this man off the hook a second time.

  ‘We need some help here. There’s talk of shutting us down. Where will you find Warren Palmer or Russell Chambers Gates then?’

  She hands the book over to Taffin. He takes his time leafing through it, then: ‘This fella says no one with a brain ever retires.’

  SIX

  ‘YOU HAVE NO IDEA what a gun like this can do.’ Daniel Frey-Morton weighs the Colt Python in his hand, runs a finger over its bright nickel finish and holds it out by the barrel. ‘Feel the way it fits in your palm.’

  Gordon Glennan was beginning to relax until the revolver appeared. Now he feels a sharp contraction of the scalp and shifts uneasily in his seat. Frey-Morton watches without looking directly at him.

  ‘What you need to understand about this gun, Gordon, is that I myself will never be connected with it in any way. I never have to touch it or be anywhere near it in order to direct its fire. No bullet from it will be traceable because the gun that fired it doesn’t exist. Quite a remarkable weapon. Take hold of it.’

  Glennan would like to say: ‘You’re a fucking maniac. You think you’re above the law. You probably are. Is this how you people do it? What have I got myself into?’

  He says: ‘I’d rather not.’

  The revolver hangs briefly in the air and G
lennan catches it by instinct. Heavier than expected.

  ‘Does it repel you?’

  ‘I’m not really a gun enthusiast. It’s not loaded, is it?’

  ‘Open it and find out.’

  ‘These things are illegal in this country. I can’t imagine it’s licensed.’

  ‘How could it be? It doesn’t exist.’

  Glennan nods, humouring the game. ‘What has this to do with the matter in hand?’

  ‘I want you to understand that business is not always what it seems. And you are most definitely in business.’

  Glennan affects a light laugh and lays the gun aside. ‘To use your own words – I, too, will never be connected with this in any way.’

  ‘If it makes you comfortable to think so. Tell me, how is the property market looking in your part of the world?’

  ‘Slow at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s be sure to keep it that way. Time for another change of route for StarTrack.’

  Glennan thinks: ‘Who are you to give me orders, you freak? I have the upper hand here. The property I control may be a dot on the map but it happens to be central to your lunatic scheme. I’m the one who has to steer the StarTrack Inquiry and manage the land sale – and I have to achieve that without attracting attention if I want to stay in politics.’

  He phrases a careful answer, aware of the flint eyes watching him and the industrial bluntness of the gun on the table beside him.

  ‘I need time. Another revision to the route has been proposed. As for the land, I have Enduring Power of Attorney over the estate, so releasing it for development won’t be a problem if it’s done discreetly, a piece at a time – but it’s going to take tact and patience.’ He pauses, reaching for his glass of mineral water, finds it empty and continues. ‘One of the buildings is occupied by a business – a bookshop – nothing in itself, but local support is strong and I am known to be connected. You see the need for subtlety.’

  ‘Subtlety never achieved anything. Forget your reputation, stop prevaricating and arrange for the business to close. If necessary get someone to condemn the building on safety grounds. Try to remember what you’re being paid for.’