by Mike Ripley
‘You get deliveries here?’ I said, looking round at an endless vista of green.
‘Just my wife’s little joke. First one up in the morning goes over to the local farm for fresh. He looks after all our deliveries. ‘
‘Nice farmers you have round here.’
He opened the van door but turned to me to speak. ‘They don’t all hate us. This one is fine, he works for me. See them?’
I strained my eyes to where he was pointing. Two fields away there were what looked like horses.
‘The horses?’ I said almost confidently.
‘Ponies, actually. The local man is my trainer.’
‘Ponies? What do you train ponies for?’
“Racing, of course.’ He looked at me as if he was considering regretting the offer to invite me in.
‘Pony racing? In Lincolnshire?’ Had I missed something after wasting all those Saturday afternoons down the bookmakers?
‘No, of course not. In Ireland, Dublin. I’m a big exporter of stock to the Irish. They like quality.’
I had certainly heard of the unofficial and probably illegal (as much as anything involving a bet is illegal in Ireland) street races in Dublin, but I had no idea they were importing professional bloodlines. It didn’t really surprise me.
‘And you’re not in Lincolnshire,’ he added. ‘I reckon you’re actually in Cambridgeshire, but over there is Northamptonshire and over there is Leicestershire, or what used to be Rutland. Lincolnshire is probably two fields north. We call this place Four Counties. It’s handy because that means you have four different sets of social services all passing the buck about what to do about us. By the time they’ve sorted out which local council site we should be on, the season’s over and we’re travelling.’
I was impressed. Here was a man who was really fieldwise.
Inside, the van sparkled with bright chrome fillings. The kitchen section, opposite the door, had a work surface no more than 18 inches square. On it were coffee pot and filter, a small electric coffee grinder and an electric kettle gently puffing steam. It had switched itself off, but who had switched it on? There was no sign of anyone else in the van or around the other two vans either.
Mr Lee was a mind reader as well.
‘My wife’s with the kids and my mother in her van. I thought it best if we spoke alone. Have a seat.’
I squeezed by him and headed for the leather bench seat around the bay window at the back – or was it the front? – of the van. I trod carefully, as either side of me were fitted glass-fronted cabinets containing Spode, Royal Worcester, Waterford glass and odd bits of lead crystal ware. Where there were no cabinets, there were shelves at eye level, and they were tightly packed with small, portable antiques such as carriage clocks, small bronze statues, even a boxed hydrometer/thermometer set from a 19th Century brewery.
‘Very homely,’ I said, cringing at how patronising I sounded.
He wizzed the coffee grinder into life.
‘What did you expect? Gypsy Rose Lee, fortunes told and lucky white heather?’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’ve come a long way. What did Bobby tell you?’ He poured hot water into the filter cone.
‘Just that you wanted to see me; that you might fill in some gaps. He sad it would be worth my while.’
‘You think there’s some gypsy gold lying around, perhaps? Lot of people do.’
‘Is there?’ I asked keenly, as if expecting him to tell me more. ‘I’d be glad to relieve you of some. I know what a drag it is having to take it out and count it by moonlight then trudge out into the field and bury it on the spot marked X, ten paces to the left of hangman’s oak.’
He poured coffee into cups.
‘Bobby said you were a bit strange, but I thought that was just him. He’s very young and a bit out of his depth in the big city.’
I tried to keep my face straight at that.
‘Why were you looking for Carrick Junior?’
‘You’re Carrick as well?’ He nodded, and then so did I as if it was significant. ‘Actually, I wasn’t, and I told Bobby that. I was helping somebody find Stella Rudgard, Sir Drummond’s daughter. She and Carrick had a bit of a fling together and she was looking for him. She says it wasn’t like him just to up sticks and move on.’
I looked around me at the caravan.
‘Not that I’m saying anything about people who just up sticks and move on. Anyway, she had a ding-dong with her father about whether or not he’d got rid of Carrick while she was away.’
‘What do you mean got rid of?’
‘Sacked him, kicked him out of whatever job he was doing.’
‘He couldn’t. Carrick worked for Buck, the solicitor. He just used to help out at that car museum place when things were slack. Buck was the one who paid his wages.’
‘For doing what?’
He sipped coffee to delay his answer, and then decided not to give me one.
‘What made the girl think he’d gone to London?’ he asked instead.
‘He’d mentioned doing business with the Church of the Shining Doorway in Islington. She didn’t know what he meant, but she found the church, only it had moved, and no-one there is talking about Carrick. We found her hanging out with the Doorway and went to tell Sir Drummond. Your Bobby picked us up there. He thought we were tracking Carrick too.’
‘But no trace?’
‘Not a word.’
‘And you’ve found the girl you were looking for.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘We know where she is, and she’s promised to keep in touch.’
‘So what’s your interest in this now?’
‘Good question,’ I said. It was. ‘Stella has been sort of adopted by some friends of mine, and I guess I feel slightly responsible for looking after them when things turn bad.’
‘You think things are going to turn bad?’
‘In my experience, when you mess in other people’s business, they usually do.’
He drained his coffee cup and I watched him, or rather I watched the van next to us over his shoulder where a net curtain had twitched twice.
‘I want to hire you to find my son,’ he said. ‘I can pay.’
I put my cup and saucer down on a shelf, wincing as it rattled in my shaking hand.
‘Mr Lee, do I look like a detective?’
‘Not like the ones I’ve met,’ he admitted, ‘but they’ve always been in police stations.’
‘You’ve already got Bobby looking,’ I said.
‘And plenty of others you don’t know about, all over the country. There’s been no sign, no sign at all. And no word. That’s not like our Carrick. He missed his grandmother’s birthday. He would never do that. Never.’
He was glassy-eyed, staring not at me but at a point somewhere behind my head.
‘You don’t hold with Carrick joining this Church of the Shining Doorway? It’s a strange outfit by all accounts, sort of religious squatters, a cult. They can put a hold on the most unlikely people sometimes.’
‘Absolutely no way, not Carrick. Did you say squatters?’
‘Sort of. They seem to set up shop in empty houses, or places for sale. At least, that’s what they’ve done recently. They used to be in Islington; that’s where Carrick said he was going. Said it was to do with “bizyness”.’
His face twitched as I pronounced it the way Bobby did and Stella had told us that Carrick did as well.
‘What sort of business was Carrick in, Mr Lee?’ I asked when he remained silent.
‘The same business we’ve all been in at one time or another, but of course he had to think up a fancy name for it. ADP, he called it. Advancing Property Depreciation. Got some property you want to buy but can’t afford the asking price? Put a family of Romanys on the site, then make them an offer. Or if you’ve got property you can�
��t develop – can’t get planning permission – let us set up a camp there and run the place down for you.’
‘Advancing the depreciation,’ I said. ‘Sorry, no offence.’
‘None taken. Sometimes we do it for a fee, sometimes for what’s on site. We did an old brewery once for the lead and the copper. The place flooded and the local council couldn’t move us on fast enough. The place is now a complex of executive flats.’
‘Haven’t the planners rumbled you?’
‘Not if you keep moving. The more liberal councils get all upset because they haven’t provided permanent sites for us. The right-wing ones just want to see the back of us. There’s rarely any trouble, it’s almost as if everybody accepts it as part of the game. Where there’s property and money involved, the rules can be bent.’
‘All you need is a bent property developer,’ I said.
‘Or a bent solicitor.’
He was walking with me over to Armstrong when his telephone trilled.
‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered as he pulled a small mobile phone from his trouser pocket and flipped it open. ‘Yes?’
I moved away to give him some privacy but he held out a hand in a ‘Stop’ gesture.
‘Yeah, he’s here now,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, we’ve talked.’
To me, he mouthed: ‘It’s Bobby.’
He said ‘yeah, yeah’ and ‘a-huh’ a couple of times and then ‘Hang on’, and turned to me.
‘Bobby’s been watching Buck this morning. He thinks something is going down. Buck went to the office as per usual then left about 9.30 and went home, where he sounds as if he’s having a bit of a bust-up with his old lady. He wants to know what he should do.’
How the hell would I know?
‘Tell him not to get involved in a domestic; stay clear.’
That was safe enough, it was standard police instruction. ‘But try and see where Buck goes if he leaves.’ And that sounded as if I knew what I was doing.
Lee relayed this, then said to me: ‘You could call in at Great Pardoe on your way back to London.’
‘Tell Bobby I’ll call in and see him on my way back to London,’ I said decisively.
He did so and snapped the phone shut.
‘I’d better give you Bobby’s number,’ he said, handing over a white visiting card.
The card was blank except for three 0831 mobile phone numbers running in sequence.
‘The top one’s me, the bottom one is Bobby. We got the three phones job lot.’
‘Is the middle number Carrick Junior’s?’
‘Yes, and before you ask, I’ve tried it every day for two weeks.’
I looked at my feet and wished I were somewhere else, anywhere else, but preferably somewhere with concrete and buildings and people and lots of distractions. Anything except fields and sky, sky and fields.
‘Mr Lee, do you really think I can find Carrick Junior?’
He put his hands in his pockets and stared at where the main road was, the road we could hear but not see.
‘Not alive,’ he said quietly. ‘His grandmother knows. She’s eighty now, but since her seventy-seventh birthday she’s known when someone close has died days before we’ve been told. She knows this time it’s Carrick.’
‘Hey, come on, you’re …’
‘Being irrational?’
I was going to say ‘scaring me’ but it hardly went with the gumshoe image.
‘Exactly. You’re not thinking of doing anything irrational, are you?’
‘What, a blood feud? Get the old lady to put a curse on whoever did it? Come on, we’re almost in the 21st Century.’
Yes, I thought, and you’re living in a field and breeding ponies for illegal street races. What’s your point?
‘Look, Mr Lee, I’m in this only until Stella Rudgard is sorted out one way or another. If that involves finding out what happened to your son, I’ll pass it on. I can’t say any fairer than that, okay?’
‘Do you need a sub – cash upfront?’ His hands remained in his pockets.
‘No. I’m not sure I can deliver, Mr Lee. If I do, we’ll settle up afterwards.’
‘Gentleman’s agreement, is it?’
‘Please – no-one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman.’
‘Me neither. I won’t shake hands. Grandmother’ll be watching, and if she sees a handshake, that means a bargain, and if you can’t cover your end of the bargain, she’ll curse you.’
I wasn’t worried. He didn’t know the women I knew. I’ve been cursed by professionals.
Halfway to London, I pulled off the A1 and found a pub that served me a jumbo sausage in French bread and a pint of Adnams bitter in excellent condition. And I got change from a fiver. Maybe the country does have some advantages.
If the theory was that I would think better on a full stomach, then it didn’t work. I rang Stuart Street from the pub’s pay phone and got no answer, so no ideas there. I rang Bobby Lee’s mobile number, remembering to put extra coins in the pay phone. (It costs about twice as much as normal to call a mobile from a land line, but they don’t tell you until you’ve tried.)
‘Hello?’ he answered after two or three rings.
‘Bobby? It’s Angel. Where are you?’
‘At Buck’s place. Hey, man, this is better than soap opera. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on here today. Where are you?’
‘On my way. Be with you in about an hour. Is Buck there?’
‘He was, he is. He’s coming and going, in and out in the car, then back. Man, these two have had a fight and a half this morning.’
‘Fight? With his wife?’
‘Yeah, the Bitch Queen. She’s really pissed off about something. You can hear her in the street.’
‘Where exactly are you?’
‘Just hanging about, man. Waiting for a bus, out for a walk. You can get right up to their windows if you sneak through the back garden.’
‘Don’t get caught. How do I find you?’
‘It’s called Old Mill Cottage. White place, thatched roof, on the left about one mile down the road from Sandpit Lodge, set back in a field. Access is easy.’
‘I thought you told me it was a fortress?’
‘Oh yeah, the house is. Alarms everywhere, double locks, chains. But you can approach it easy enough. No cameras, no dogs.’
And his father was worried about him being out of his depth?
‘Stay down, I’ll be with you after I’ve called in at the Lodge.’
‘What’re you going to see the old man for?’
‘I’m not sure, Bobby. Stay lucky.’
I pressed the Follow On button and dialled my own number again. Still no answer from Stuart Street. Typical. Here I was doing all the work and they were out enjoying themselves.
There were six or seven cars in the car park at Sandpit Lodge. The retired schoolmistress, Miss Rocket, as Bobby had called her, was taking the money.
‘Oh, hello again,’ she said from her sentry box. ‘I didn’t know Sir Drummond was expecting anyone else this afternoon.’
‘Is he around?’ I smiled at her.
‘He’s in the museum doing a guided tour for the local Tourist Board. Is there something wrong with your mouth, young man?’
‘No, it’s fine, but thanks for asking. So many don’t these days, you know.’
‘I don’t think he can …’ she started, but she was saying it to my back.
Sir Drummond was halfway down the right-hand side of exhibits, extolling the virtues of a 30-year-old Austin A40, his ball of a head nodding enthusiastically. There were two women and three men in a group listening to him. One of the men looked vaguely interested, the two women were, I think, awake.
I stood in the doorway of the hangar until he caught sight of me. It didn’t seem to interru
pt his flow, but after a minute he waved his arms as if to say carry on without me and then strode towards me saying ‘Won’t be a tick. Don’t be frightened to touch the paintwork while I’m gone,’ over his shoulder.
As he got near to me, his expression changed. The genial host disappeared and was replaced by not an angry face, but a blank.
‘Are you trying to see me?’ he growled. ‘Because I don’t believe we had an appointment. I don’t actually know that we have anything to discuss, do we?’
‘I’m glad you remembered me, Sir Drummond.’
‘Of course I did. Maclean, isn’t it? Came with that detective woman.’
I was grateful that one of us had remembered which name I’d used.
‘That’s right.’
‘Well?’
He was impatient but not that keen to get back to his guests.
‘I’ve seen Estelle, talked to her. Yesterday in London,’ I said.
‘And?’ he said, his face a wall.
‘And I thought you might be interested, that’s all.’
The first twinge of red appeared in his cheeks.
‘Interested enough to pay you money? Is that it? I was warned you might show up. Well, forewarned is forearmed. I won’t pay you a penny. My daughter is perfectly all right and will be coming home. Just how many times do you have to be told that your services are no longer required?’
‘Have you spoken to Estelle?’
‘No and ... Look here, whether I have or I haven’t, it is simply no business of yours. I would be grateful if you would leave now. Leave my property.’
I was tempted to say ‘Or what?’ but there’s no point going looking for trouble. It’s usually around when you need it.
Chapter Fifteen
I found Old Mill Cottage easily enough, at the other end of the village, but I was damned if I could find Bobby Lee. I was on my third drive-by and feeling highly conspicuous, when he just materialised out of the hedge surrounding Buck’s house and held up a hand in the universal ‘Taxi’ gesture.