Taffin on Balance Read online

  ‘Nothing.’ Ed shrugs.

  ‘Stuff like this needs provenance – something to show where it was before it wound up here. There’s got to be paperwork, and I’m guessing it ain’t far away.’

  ‘I’ve got my work cut out for me here, Boss, without looking for bits of paper.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you. Just keep your ears open.’

  ‘Yeah – all in the line of duty. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Like I said, not far away. Look after yourself.’

  Taffin wanders into the daylight, turns the corner and is gone.

  ‘I THOUGHT THE BOOKSHOP WAS CLOSED.’ Ivy Lewis calls through the open window of the White Lion to Debi Royce, who is perched on a stool at the bar.

  ‘That’s right, it’s closed,’ Debi calls back. ‘What d’you think I’m doing in here on a weekday?’

  ‘I’ve got news for you then...’ Ivy is in the bar in a breathless moment... ‘Harry’s just been past it and he says the place is buzzing.’

  ‘It’s probably Glennan’s architect measuring up.’

  ‘No, there’s a sign on the door saying Business as Usual.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘It’s what Harry said and he isn’t making it up.’

  ‘So who’s running it? I’ve got to see this.’ Debi Royce heads for the door, walks into Ashley Gunn as he arrives, grasps his lapels and gives him a direct command: ‘Ashley, I’ve had a drink so you’re driving.’

  There is no arguing with Debi in this mood. A few minutes later, Ashley Gunn’s Jaguar, still with its new car smell in spite of having been briefly stolen, rolls to a halt opposite the Tollgate Bookshop. The three inside sit staring at the open door listening to the sound of a reassuring male voice over a PA system from within.

  Debi Royce is first into the bookshop; Ivy Lewis and Ashley follow. The recorded voice comes to them from somewhere overhead.

  “The Tollgate Bookshop welcomes all regular customers and wishes to apologise for the absence of staff today. Please feel free to browse as usual and if you wish to make a purchase, we trust you to leave the money in the box on the counter.”

  There follows a moment of Vivaldi, then the message is repeated. And so it continues while Debi and her entourage wander among the narrow corridors in bewildered silence. In the next few minutes, more customers arrive, stroll and browse the shelves in self-absorbed silence as on any normal day.

  Ashley Gunn traces the voice to a shelf on the second floor and finds one of the speakers wedged in between The Faber Book of Aphorisms and a battered edition of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable. Another is discovered behind a pile of Asterix books. By silent agreement, both are left undisturbed.

  Debi says: ‘I feel I should stay here. I’ve been responsible for this place for years. Why should today be any different?’

  ‘You’re not in charge any more, that’s the difference.’ Ivy Lewis steers her towards the door. ‘What we ought to do now is tiptoe away and leave it to run by itself. Someone set this up and I don’t think any of us is meant to interfere.’

  Ashley Gunn backs her up and finally Debi is persuaded. They have grown used to the welcoming voice in the background, so a variation in the script as they leave goes unnoticed:

  “...thank you for your visit. Please call again soon.”

  Twenty minutes later they’re back in the White Lion broadcasting the news.

  Perry Butt swivels on his barstool to confront Ivy Lewis. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me this was orchestrated by your hero.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, but he dropped a strong hint that he doesn’t believe in retirement.’ Ivy looks into the old journalist’s face. ‘You believe in Robin Hood, don’t you Perry?’

  Butt chomps on loose dentures, peers at his pink gin and finally meets Ivy’s stare.

  ‘I’ll believe in Robin Hood the day they scrap this hell-spawned railway.’

  ANOTHER PEACEFUL DAY for Bob Sherman. He has no idea what the time is, and no interest in finding out. There have been visitors. Young Doctor Morley looked in earlier, brisk as ever, to give him the usual hurried examination. No reason has been given for this ritual but Bob accepts it stoically rather than encourage medical conversation of any kind. The doctor looked at his tongue, raised his eyelids with a thumb to peer in closely, seemed pleased with what he saw, flashed his quick, professional smile and left, leaving Bob to wonder if those unnaturally white teeth are real.

  When the doctor left there was a quiet interlude, after which it seemed to Bob that a dense growth of bamboo had taken root in the far corner of the room and a party of Gurkhas emerged, complete with bush hats and kukris. They scouted around for a while and melted away as silently as they had come.

  Some time later, Bob emerges from a doze and feels a presence. A man in a dark suit has been watching him from the doorway and now moves into the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

  ‘Come in, please.’ Bob allows himself a note of irony. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  ‘Don’t believe we have.’ An effortless voice.

  ‘Do you have business here?’ Bob sits back and studies his visitor. ‘Normally I expect people to introduce themselves. This time I’ll give you the advantage – I’m Bob Sherman.’

  ‘And you live here?’

  ‘Man and boy, Mister...?’

  ‘Taffin.’

  ‘To what do I owe your visit, Mister Taffin?’

  ‘Curiosity. Some of my people are working downstairs. You’ve met two of them.’

  ‘People work here from time to time. I don’t always know what they’re doing.’

  ‘They’re fixing up some motors for you.’

  ‘That’s good of them.’ Bob nods peacefully, his attention beginning to drift.

  The next instant his eyes are wide open.

  ‘I want you to concentrate, Mister Sherman.’ Taffin leans close to the old man. ‘I need to know who those motors belong to.’

  ‘They’ve been in my family for years. If they’re still on my property, I suppose they belong to me. What is your interest in this, exactly?’

  ‘They’re worth a lot of money, Mister Sherman. If they’re yours, someone’s busy stealing them from you.’

  ‘How bizarre. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Has anyone asked you for documents, the kind of paperwork that goes with owning cars?’

  ‘Documents, forms... not really my line of country – never have been. They’re always asking me to sign things, flourishing sheaves of paper at me, asking if I know where this or that bloody document is. I tell them, I couldn’t be less interested. You’ll have a hard time finding my signature on anything. There’s too much paperwork in the world.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Taffin straightens up and wanders to the shuttered window. ‘You get a lot of visitors?’

  ‘People are in and out all the time.’ Bob smiles to himself. ‘Some are in my head, of course, but most of them are real enough. The doctor was here today. I don’t know why he bothers – I never ask for him.’

  ‘How well do you know this doctor?’

  ‘I wouldn’t claim to know him at all.’ Bob considers for a moment. ‘We had a family doctor for years, but he seems to have faded away. So has the family for that matter; there’s only me left. This new fella’s one of the more recent faces. Quite young – awfully white teeth.’

  Taffin pauses in the act of opening the shutter, gazes out over twilight fields, watches rooks circling to roost in a scribble of trees.

  ‘Good view of the barn from here,’ he remarks. ‘You ought to leave this open.’

  ‘The doctor always shuts it. He says it lets in the draft.’

  ‘You don’t want to listen to doctors – especially ones you do
n’t know. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Kind of you to ask. I have everything I need.’ Bob glances up at his visitor. ‘If you’ll forgive my presumption, you don’t look like someone who would normally offer.’

  ‘Nice talking to you, Mister Sherman.’ Taffin wanders to the door, hands in pockets. ‘I’ll see you again.’

  TWELVE

  CHARLOTTE OPENS HER DOOR to find Mo and Shirley standing on the step. Shirley is clutching a copy of the Stoleworth Observer.

  Mo asks, ‘Any word from the boy yet?’

  ‘I’ve heard from him.’ Charlotte leads them to the kitchen. ‘He’s away doing a bit of business.’

  ‘We were worried,’ Shirley tells her. ‘It’s unusual for him to spend time away from home.’

  ‘Yeah, I miss him like crazy – but don’t tell him I said so.’

  ‘He won’t be too happy when he sees this.’ Mo takes the newspaper from his wife, spreads it on the table and stabs at it with a finger like a Cumberland sausage. ‘Them buggers have overstepped the mark this time.’

  They all lean over to read:

  NEW StarTrack ROUTE TO UNDERMINE LASHERHAM (writes Erica Lyle). StarTrack Ltd has revealed yet another alternative route for its proposed high speed rail loop. The Parliamentary Select Committee, chaired by The Rt. Hon. Gordon Glennan M.P. is considering a fourth option that includes a seven mile tunnel from the East Stoleworth turnoff to the western boundary of Lasherham. This latest development, fuelling uncertainty that continues to dog the StarTrack project, is likely to meet with strong local opposition. Tony Newton, Chair of Lasherham P.C., said: ‘Everybody’s sick of this. People’s lives are being disrupted and you can’t get any sense out of StarTrack.’ No one from StarTrack was available for comment.

  ‘You’re right, he won’t be happy.’ Charlotte reaches for the kettle. ‘No one around here’s going to like this. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Shirley says, ‘It’s all about money and power with these politicians. They spend their time lining their own pockets and have the nerve to ask for our votes.’

  ‘Don’t get yourself worked up, Shirl,’ Mo tells her.

  ‘I don’t know if they’re all bent –’ Charlotte plugs the kettle in and turns to face them, arms folded – ‘but whoever’s running StarTrack ain’t that bright. All they do is dither and keep everybody confused.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what they want to do –’ Shirley makes a helpless gesture – ‘so we’re all impressed with how much power they’ve got.’

  ‘Power to the People.’ Charlotte punches the air without conviction.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Mo’s voice. ‘I don’t even know who our MP is, but I’d like to know how often he turns up at the House of Commons. It don’t matter what he calls himself, he don’t represent me.’

  ‘His sort don’t even know we exist,’ Shirley throws at him. ‘It’s all in-fighting, fiddling expenses and ignoring voters – until they want to get elected again.’

  ‘We need to do something they can’t ignore.’ Charlotte is suddenly calm. ‘How about we get people stirred up a bit?’

  Three thoughtful faces stare at each other for a moment. Then, one by one, they start to nod.

  ‘NOT GOOD ENOUGH.’ Eric McDermott stands in the barn doorway, legs apart, hands on hips, the back of his head radiating disappointment as he stares at the five tarpaulins. ‘There’s eighteen cars here. I’m counting five and you haven’t started the cosmetic work. You’ve hardly scratched the surface.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking.’ Rick Bishop isn’t having that. ‘We’ve been working ten hour days, so I’ll take a little respect from you.’

  This time, Ed Pentecost shows no inclination to restrain his colleague and McDermott swivels to face them.

  ‘You’ll take whatever I think necessary – and spare me the attitude or I promise you life will get very uncomfortable. Clear?’

  ‘Easy, Rick.’ Ed sets a calming hand on Rick’s shoulder. ‘I’ve an idea the man wants you to take a pop at him. Not worth it.’ He takes a pace in McDermott’s direction. ‘Now, Eric, if you’re any judge of character you’ll know none of us takes kindly to threats – so why are you trying to get my mate steamed up? I’ll have an answer before we go any further.’

  ‘The answer’s staring you in the face.’ McDermott’s eyes narrow. ‘We’re talking money here – shed-fulls of money. Maybe you don’t get the big picture but that’s fine by me. All you have to do is work your arses off for as long as it takes and remind yourselves you’re getting paid well over the odds for it. You don’t ask questions, you don’t get to give me lip. If you want respect, you’ll earn it.’

  He scans the faces in front of him. Ed’s expression conveys nothing. Rick’s jaw has slackened in a way that usually spells danger.

  ‘One more thing –’ McDermott turns to walk away – ‘I’m the one keeping your paymasters sweet. Let’s not give them an excuse to get difficult.’

  ‘Did he just threaten to fire us?’ Rick watches McDermott’s retreating figure.

  ‘He threatened not to pay us.’ Ed wipes his hands on an oily rag.

  ‘He was never going to pay us –’ Rick watches McDermott climbing into the white Range Rover – ‘but I ain’t being fired by a twat like him.’

  ‘BREAKFAST WITH A SMILE.’ Mrs Dunphy brings a plate of bacon and eggs arranged as a face with a grilled tomato for the nose.

  The Dunphys weren’t sure about Taffin when he first arrived. The car caused a stir as it burbled in under the archway to the parking lot behind The March Hare. The red Ford Mustang is a larger car than the pub’s limited space allows for and the man who got out made it look compact.

  Paul Dunphy watched him approach with some apprehension. The slab of dark suit and slightly bow-legged walk suggested restrained menace, but the man was polite in a quiet way.

  Later the same evening, both the Dunphys engaged Taffin in conversation over their bar and decided he was one who listened rather than talked. There was a disconcerting stillness about him but you could get used to that.

  Since then, Taffin has come to appreciate The March Hare. Charlotte found the pub online, liked the look of it and booked him in. It’s an ideal base for the matter in hand: fifteen minutes’ drive from the farm where the motor collection is housed... and June Dunphy does a breakfast worth getting up for.

  ‘Looks about right.’ Taffin nods appreciation.

  ‘That’ll keep yer man from the door.’ June’s Irish voice is never less than comforting. ‘Will you be wanting a look at the local paper?’

  ‘No thanks, June.’

  ‘You’re happy with your own thoughts, then?’

  Taffin thanks her without a word and she withdraws to the kitchen.

  His own thoughts. Worth spending time on reflection at the moment.

  His first concerns are in home territory. The Tollgate Bookshop plan is up and running, the day’s work apparently hosted by a disembodied voice, courtesy of Tessa’s brother Pierre. Charlotte does a drive-by every so often and reports that people are in and out browsing most of the time, much as when the shop was officially open. So far, there has been no attempt to interfere.

  The end game is simple: show the owner, Gordon Glennan, that the community will have its way no matter what – and this applies even where his own property is concerned. As a strategy, it can’t last; but it shows that anyone can be caught off balance with a bit of ingenuity; pressure can be brought to bear in surprising ways – and that’s what a significant number of Lasherham locals require from Mark Twill Taffin.

  The latest change of StarTrack route is more unsettling – a far bigger issue than the fate of a second-hand bookshop. Or is it? There is a common factor here that can’t be ignored: in each case, Gordon Glennan is personally involved.

  Reluctant
ly, Taffin acknowledges he will have to spend time in that man’s company sooner or later, and he’d better come up with a result.

  It’s what’s expected.

  Like old times.

  Taffin pours coffee from the pot June Dunphy has put in front of him, and adds warm milk. Paul and June know what breakfast is all about and take pride in every detail; even the toast is wrapped for warmth in linen napkins and there seem to be three kinds of marmalade. Bring Charlotte here when this business is sorted out.

  Back to the present: Taffin takes out a notebook and a stub of pencil.

  Further questions:

  Who does Silver (real name?) work for?

  Who does McDermott work for?

  Are Silver and McDermott connected?

  Is either of them Mister Adams?

  Who is Mr Adams?

  Taffin’s pencil hovers over the page, then moves on with conviction:

  Silver and McDermott work for same employer whose aims are: To restore classic motor collection (probably Bob Sherman’s property).

  To put Muscle Motors out of business?

  Why? Personal grudge or fear of competition?

  If personal grudge, WHO?

  Bacon, eggs and coffee are the key to clear thinking and a decisive frame of mind.

  ‘You enjoyed that, then?’ June Dunphy comes to collect his clean plate.

  ‘The best.’

  ‘Oh, that’s high praise indeed, Mister Taffin. I’ve an idea you don’t give praise lightly.’

  LASHERHAM is not easily roused. You could stand in the High Street all day holding a banner announcing The End Of The World and most people would step past you with a knowing smile.

  You could shout and kick cans down the street and hardly attract a raised eyebrow. You could accost passers-by in the name of any number of worthy causes and come away with little more than loose change...