“That’s terrible,” said Liz.
“I hope he gets sent down for ten years for assaulting an officer of the law,” said Marge.
“I told you, I’m the only person to blame. He was just a teenager, and he was terrified of me. He was no problem at all.”
Liz and Marge tutted sceptically but appeared to have understood everything she had said.
“Er … a twocker?” asked Alfie.
Emma looked at him directly for the first time, a cool, considering look. “Sorry, Alfie. I forgot to mind my language in front of you. Aunt Liz and Marge are used to it.”
“Oh, don’t tease the poor boy,” said Liz. “Bless him, you’ll make him think it’s a rude word.”
That was exactly what Alfie thought.
“Taking Without Owner’s Consent, twocking,” explained Marge knowledgeably. “A twocker is someone who breaks into a car and steals it.”
Alfie wondered whether Emma was being entirely truthful about the terrified teenager, or whether her fractured wrist was the result of being attacked. He had thought that policing Bunburry would largely consist of telling people the right time, or finding lost pets, but it seemed to be more demanding than that.
Liz was still concerned about Emma. “Can you eat? Are you managing to feed yourself?”
“I’ve still got one good arm, I’m fine,” she said cheerfully. “Although if you’re about to present me with a T-bone steak, I’d be grateful if you’d cut it up for me.”
“It’s steak, but in the form of steak and kidney pudding.”
“Perfect,” Emma said. “I can demolish that with no difficulty at all.”
Liz ushered them all into the tiny dining room and plunged the serving spoon into the suet pastry, releasing a rich aroma of beefsteak and onions.
“How long will you be off work?” she asked once she had served them all.
“I was only off for a few hours while they sorted me out at the hospital,” said Emma. “I’m on office duties only.” She put on a gruff baritone, which Alfie now recognised was an excellent impression of Sergeant Wilson: “Nothing stopping you typing one-handed, Hollis. Can’t be any worse than your usual typing. And I’ll have a coffee, white, two sugars.”
“That man is the limit,” said Liz in irritation. “You should be on sick leave.”
“Honestly, I’m much happier working,” said Emma. “I’d just be bored at home. And if the sarge is in a bad mood, it’s nothing to do with me. What did you want to go upsetting him for, Alfie?”
Marge and Liz turned their gaze on him.
“What’s all this?” demanded Marge.
Alfie took a mouthful of steak and kidney to avoid replying immediately and chewed for a while. “Oh, nothing really,” he said.
Emma surveyed him from under her eyelids. “Come on, Alfie, tell us what happened. According to the sarge, you’re a cross between the Kray Twins and Al Capone.”
Alfie was inclined to say he’d been stopped because of a broken tail light, but he didn’t know how much Emma knew. “The good sergeant stopped me because I wasn’t speeding.”
“What?” demanded Marge again.
“He thought I was going a bit too slowly.”
“According to the sarge, the Cheltenham road was backed up all the way to the bypass because Alfie had decided to admire the hedgerows, leaf by leaf.”
“Perhaps I hadn’t quite reached top speed,” said Alfie lightly. “But a one-hundred-pound fine will ensure I never admire a leaf again.”
“A one-hundred-pound fine!” Marge was incandescent. “That’s police harassment! This would never have happened if Emma had been on patrol, would it, Emma?”
“I can’t say. I wasn’t present at the incident.”
“Incident! Ridiculous. Alfie, I think you should make a complaint. And you must on no account pay the fine.”
“I was caught bang to rights,” said Alfie. “I’ll certainly pay the fine, and hope it goes towards the Bunburry police station’s Christmas night out rather than Sergeant Wilson’s back pocket.”
“That’s really not how it works,” said Emma acidly. “Everything’s recorded electronically these days.”
Liz appeared preoccupied as she ate the steak and kidney pudding and didn’t join in the conversation between Marge and Emma. During a lull, she said: “It must be a while since you had your car serviced, Marge – and didn’t you say you thought it might have a slow puncture?”
Marge looked surprised and then said: “Yes, absolutely, well remembered.”
“I can easily change the wheel for you,” said Alfie. “And I can have a look at the car, see if there’s anything obvious that needs sorting.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“Whenever you like. Just let me know what suits you.”
“Obviously we wouldn’t want to take away business from our local companies,” said Liz. “But it would really help if you could follow Marge to the garage and then drive her home.”
“Yes, thanks, Alfie,” said Marge. “Otherwise I’ll have to wait for a bus and you know yourself what a misery that is.”
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He had planned to phone Bunburry Motors to retrieve the car as soon as they liked. But he couldn’t explain how he felt about driving to Liz and Marge, especially not in front of Emma.
Liz was calmly eating her supper. Alfie looked at her suspiciously: had she grasped that he had some problem with driving and was forcing him into it? She looked up and met his gaze with an expression of such serenity and innocence that he felt ashamed of himself for thinking she could ever be devious.
5. An Arrest
“A service?” said Beth. “It seems only the other day that you were in. You can’t possibly have done ten thousand miles since then.”
Alfie should never have given Liz the benefit of the doubt. And Marge was just as bad. “It’s such an old car,” she said. “Better safe than sorry. It’s not been very reliable. And I think I might have a slow puncture.”
Alfie had approached the hire car with trepidation, worried that Marge would race off in the direction of the garage and he wouldn’t be able to keep up. He was relieved when she kept a slow, steady pace which he had attributed to her concern about the state of the car.
But from Beth’s reaction, he now knew that both Liz and Marge were lying through their teeth in order to force him to drive.
“You should have rung first,” grumbled Richard. “We’ve got quite a lot on and I can’t guarantee when we’ll be able to take a look at it.”
“Heavens, Richard, I’m in no rush. Take all the time you want. I’ve got Alfie here to run me around.”
This was a definite stitch-up. Marge had quite deliberately not made a booking so that she could jettison her car and force Alfie to be her chauffeur. He might very well have to succumb to a sudden bout of flu.
“We’ll get on to it as soon as we can, and ring you when it’s ready or if we find anything that’s going to be expensive to fix,” said Beth.
“Marvellous,” said Marge. “Come on, Alfie. Let’s go to Cheltenham.”
“You don’t really want to go to Cheltenham, do you?” he asked when they were in the car.
“Of course. You said you wanted to find your way round our country roads, and this is the perfect opportunity.”
“It’s just – I’m sorry, but I’m a bit pressed for time.”
“Yesterday you said you were free today.”
“I know, but when I got back, I found an email …”
“Ah, an email,” she said, nodding. “Yes, I can see how that would change things. All right then, home to Bunburry and you can get back to your email.”
She could be as sarcastic as she liked if it meant he only had to drive the few miles back to the village rather than having the strain of a return trip to
Cheltenham.
He could feel himself tensing up as they set off, crunching the gears.
“Take the first right,” said Marge calmly, and he made a clumsy turn as directed. She kept up a constant flow of conversation, interspersed with telling him which road to take, which took up his attention so much that it was a while before he realised she was taking him along the quiet back roads he had managed to miss the previous day.
“These roads aren’t the best – better take it slow,” she said. He was half-grateful, half-irritated by her consideration, wondering whether she and Liz simply thought he was a terrible driver.
“I’ve driven all over the world,” he wanted to tell her. “I’ve driven along Route 66. I’ve driven through the Gotthard Road Tunnel. I’ve driven in Seoul, where nobody follows any sort of highway code. And I’ve never even had a bump.”
Eventually, they reached Jasmine Cottage. He would have preferred to leave the car there and not have the extra distance to his own cottage, but having the car on her doorstep would tempt Marge to summon him for other unnecessary trips. Better to have the car on his own territory where he could find some reason not to drive it.
Mike had taken charge of the Jaguar and dropped the garage keys through the letterbox, so Alfie parked the hire car in its place, telling himself that he must sort out all the junk that was lying around. But not today. Right now, he wanted nothing more to do with cars or garages.
He managed to dodge Marge’s subsequent requests for lifts with a series of excuses that he hoped she believed. But then Wednesday came, the day he was supposed to see how Mike was getting on with the Jaguar. Since Mike had sent him to Bunburry Motors to hire a car, he could scarcely turn up in a taxi.
He steeled himself to make the journey, but it wasn’t getting any easier. He had planned to go in the morning, but it was after lunch before he eventually headed out to the garage. Even opening the garage door gave him a presentiment of disaster, worse because he told himself it was completely irrational. He couldn’t rid himself of Oscar’s words: You weren’t even in the damned car.
Gingerly, he eased the car out of the garage and down the narrow lane, then drove slowly out of the village to Mike’s garage where he parked alongside a sleek Mercedes.
He went into the garage to find Mike working under the Jaguar, a half-full mug of coffee on the floor beside him, and Radio 1 blaring out pop music. Alfie was amused to see it was an Oxford United mug – he would have expected the mechanic to follow a more prestigious team.
“Dobriy dyen,” he called, but Mike didn’t hear over the music.
Alfie decided against going up to him and shouting in case he startled him. He would take a seat and wait until Mike was finished. He wandered into the office area. A sheaf of papers and an opened packet of chocolate digestives lay beside the laptop.
The only decoration was a calendar featuring classic cars. Alfie went over to examine it. A smooth Ford Thunderbird. A glossy Porsche Carrera. A tiny Isetta bubblecar. All appealing in their way, but there wasn’t one he liked better than Aunt Augusta’s Jaguar.
He turned to take a seat and caught sight of the laptop screen saver. A family sitting on the beach smiled out at him: father, mother and small son. The boy’s cheeky grin was unmistakable – this must be Mike and his parents. Mike’s father looked like Mike now, but a more serious, responsible version. Alfie wondered what he thought of his son. Marina Melnikov, slim, long-legged in a swimsuit, had one arm round her husband’s waist, and the other hand on her son’s shoulder. Her smile was utterly unrestrained – as though there could be nothing better in life than to be with her husband and son. And Mike, who might appear the brash self-made man running his own high-end business, still had so much affection for his parents that he made them his screensaver.
Alfie felt the momentary pang of jealousy he always experienced when he saw a happy family. He moved away from the table, and his jacket caught the edge of the papers, sending them to the floor. He picked them up, stacking them neatly, before glancing out of the office area to see if there was any sign of Mike finishing.
The mechanic was still lying under the car, the mug of tea exactly where it had been. Something looked wrong – the hydraulic lift seemed too low.
“Mike!” Alfie quickly crossed the floor towards him. As he got close, he felt his shoe stick to the garage floor – chewing gum, he guessed. He looked down to check, and found he had stepped in a sticky dark-red substance that was seeping out from under the hydraulic lift. Mike must have spilled a juice bottle. But why would he have been drinking juice at the same time as tea? Alfie stared at the ground in the horrified realisation that what he was seeing was blood. Mike was trapped under the Cotswold Blue Jaguar.
“It’s all right, Mike, you’re going to be all right,” he shouted as he ran to free the injured mechanic. But he couldn’t immediately see how to operate the lift. His hands were shaking as he ran them fruitlessly over the metal cylinders on the upright columns. And then he found a release lever.
His words of encouragement ended in a gasp of horror. Mike’s injuries were beyond treatment. Alfie’s stomach heaved. He needed to get outside, away from this mangled shape no longer recognisable as the young mechanic.
He stumbled out into the forecourt, retching, his shoes leaving bloody footprints across the garage floor. He leaned against the outside wall, taking in huge gulps of air. He had never seen anything like this, and he never wanted to see anything like it again.
He had to tell someone – no point in an ambulance – the police – Emma, he had Emma’s number on his phone. Clumsily, still nauseous, he dialled.
“Alfie, I’m at work. What is it?” she said curtly.
He swallowed. “Mike – Mike Melnikov – the garage owner just outside Bunburry. He’s had an accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
He could scarcely get the words out. “With the hydraulic lift. He was working on Aunt Augusta’s car.”
“Have you called an ambulance?”
“Emma, he’s dead. I’ve just found him.”
“Stay there.” Emma’s voice was cool and unruffled. “Someone will be with you soon.”
He ended the call. His legs were about to give way. He was going to be sick. The image in his mind was no longer Mike, it was Vivian. Nobody had allowed him to see her after the accident. Now he could picture all too clearly what could have happened to her.
Emma had said soon, but it seemed an eternity before the patrol car arrived and Harold Wilson emerged.
“You again,” he said to Alfie, and Alfie noticed he was no longer being addressed as sir.
“Mike – Mr Melnikov’s in there,” he managed. “There’s been an accident with the hydraulic lift.”
“So you said to Constable Hollis.” Was that scepticism in his voice? “Can you show me what’s happened?”
Alfie shook his head. “I don’t want to go back in there.”
“In that case, I’ll check by myself. Don’t go anywhere.”
When the sergeant returned, he was paler than when he had gone in. But he was no less belligerent. “Are those your footprints?” he said, indicating the bloodstained tracks.
“Yes,” said Alfie. “I …”
Sergeant Wilson ignored him and went over to the patrol car. He came back with two see-through plastic bags.
“We’ll need your shoes for evidence.”
“But – this is nothing to do with me – I just found him and -”
“I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Michael Melnikov. You -”
“Murder!” exclaimed Alfie. “There hasn’t been a murder – something’s gone wrong with the hydraulic lift. It’s an accident.”
“I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Michael Melnikov,” came the implacable reply. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do
not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Disbelievingly, Alfie followed Sergeant Wilson to the patrol car, and allowed himself to be guided into the rear seat and driven to the police station. Under other circumstances, he might have thought the building was quaint, even attractive, with its golden limestone façade and grey-tiled portico. But now it seemed ominous and threatening.
“Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.
“That’s a question only you can answer,” said Sergeant Wilson curtly. “You have the right to request free legal advice.”
The only legal experts Alfie knew were corporate lawyers who dealt with issues such as venture capital and intellectual property for his business. He wondered what the quality of free legal advice would be, and whether he should be trying to hire a leading defence barrister. But surely that would look as though he was guilty. He had nothing to hide – he didn’t need a lawyer. All he had to do was tell the truth.
But the little confidence he had soon evaporated. Sergeant Wilson took his shoes, then searched him and took his belt, watch, phone, wallet, car keys and house keys, assuring him with heavy punctiliousness that these would be documented and kept safe.
“Is there anyone you wish to be informed of your detention?” Sergeant Wilson asked.
“Liz,” said Alfie. “Or Marge.”
“You’ve requested that Clarissa Hopkins or Margaret Redwood be informed. Constable Hollis will see to that.”
And Alfie found himself led into a small malodorous cell containing a bench and plastic-covered mattress. Reluctant to sit down on it, he stood, and found that if he stretched out both arms, he could touch the walls on either side of him. It was just as well he didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. The door had shut with an emphatic clang, and it would be impossible to get through the small window high up on the wall.
Alfie wondered whether Emma had managed to contact the ladies yet, and whether they would storm the police station, demanding his immediate release.
Bunburry--A Murderous Ride Page 5