The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  His eyes followed the tops of Cypress trees, lining the house’s driveway. They were considered to be holy trees. The groves had developed impressively over the centuries. They were suffering in the drought that summer. Beyond the welcoming guard (planted perhaps in the Regency period) there were gnarled old oaks, marking off the fields.

  Clive was aware of being conspicuous at this point. He was in easy observation for anybody watching from the house. He felt that it was very unlikely that there was an observer at the window. No doubt the interior was an even lonelier place. But he was a field day for the stewards, like a naïve poacher.

  “I need to get some cover,” he warned himself. “How many hounds does he need to catch this bloody fox!”

  Soon the manicured lawns came to a dignified halt. Horticultural civilisation ended at a wild tangle. There was a bigger pond, stagnant and drained, where land led away from the house in graded steps. His every footfall disturbed crowds of pheasants that were hiding and scratching around the earth among burnt corn stalks. The startled creatures scuttled away in blind panic, uttering alarm cries like hordes of panicked Orks. Their sudden noise and movement set Pitt’s pulse jumping. In a normal year the pheasants were nurtured for shooting. It was unlikely that Septimus and his cronies would aim any barrels at the birds this year. Clive would do his best to prevent those guys turning their guns on him instead. He might persuade those managers in Geneva to break cover. They were betting on his demise, but they should place some hedges against his escape.

  Beyond the pond was a face of woodland. Pitt stood about for a while, considering the situation, with the searing sun beating the top of his head. The trees formed a dark and imposing wall ahead. The dreadful scenes that Pixie had described, involving the party, assumed some edges of reality in his mind. This was the scene of the crime, whatever the truth of the allegations. However he still didn’t recall any facet of that terrible day, other than a restored portrait of Emmy’s face, which he must have noticed in the boss’ office.

  He walked through tough vegetation, ignoring hooked teeth of nettles and thistles. He was already showing the effects of those sauna-like conditions. The hair on the top of his head was scorched, as the skin of his face was taut and tender. The undergrowth was so dry he was afraid a fire could start up with every step. Yet he plunged through the tangled area, and reached the edge of a copse. Clive dived ahead. He staggered through this tangle of trees, with thorny limbs clutching and panicking. He continually snagged, as thorny trees gouged at flesh and tore a strip from his Bond Street shirt.

  It would be difficult to drag someone into these trees, against their will, he calculated. The tree canopy was complete and undamaged in this area, sheltered from direct sun. Shafts of light broke through, looking as solid as steel lances to the eye, but the atmosphere was of woody blackness and decay.

  Either these woods were a place of refuge, or they were a trap. Now he was putting himself back into the trap that someone had set for the girl - not to mention himself. A place from where nobody was likely to locate your struggle, even if they heard any cries for help. Pitt felt the sweat on his face turn cold, as he recreated the assault that had taken place; according to Pixie’s account.

  Pixie would have been too far away and too distracted, to have heard any screams. She would have lingered anxiously on the terrace, looking out over the gardens. Meanwhile all other guests had been ushered away and hurried back into the house, as if from a violent downpour. Clive wondered how Emmy had been crazy enough to go off with him. Clive had been completely unknown to her, except as a business enemy of her father’s. What had he been thinking of himself? Some evil spell of sexual attraction had come upon them. Didn’t she have any idea of appropriate risk? Then again he couldn’t judge her character, any more than he could turn back the clock.

  Emmy’s portrait photograph - as he recalled - depicted a very sexy nubile girl; with streaks and panels of blonde hair in her otherwise dark mop. He remembered her facial features and style quite vividly. She painted a lovely portrait all right, with those large honey-brown eyes and a made-for-sex mouth.

  On a fantasy level he liked the idea of having sex in the woods. Emmy was gorgeous and, if she was up for it, they may have disappeared together. But many guys would have had such libidinous thoughts, he realised. Particularly if they were spiked up on a bull market or a hectic trade. They could be awash with testosterone. To be exact it was the rape that was not acceptable. At the office this was the necessary hormonal cocktail, he suspected, in the struggle to keep ahead. Not to mention those steamy nights with a definite lack of sexual encounters. He hadn’t made love to any woman since losing everything. But while in immediate physical danger you didn’t think about making love, not even with Pixie: survival was the priority.

  Noreen and he enjoyed sex in a variety of positions and flavours. They had a licence from the vicar, but they tried to ignore that calming factor. They liked to make love in different locations and places, including romantic situations, such as in the back of their car above the beach at Cannes. How could he ever forget that? Yet they were limited by the constraints of caring for a young child. Of course even unconventional or risky sexual adventures have to be consensual, don’t they? When you are experimenting with your boss’ teenage daughter, for sure.

  He was plunged into complete darkness. He felt his face scratched, as if by long clawing fingernails. Now and again, in contrast, he picked out perfect shafts of clear light. He put his foot into a foxhole, or whatever animal had dug these tunnels, and stumbled to his knees, as if he’d fallen down before a church altar.

  In front of him, a vision of light remained pristinely untouched. Clive tore himself free; he stumbled out into a clear area at the centre. The place was illuminated by a column of sunshine, he noticed. Hot natural shafts cut through a gap in the tree canopy, smouldering in the dusty air, striking against a dark and crowded backdrop. As he scrambled back up and picked around, there was evidence of fires. He saw that old fallen tree trunks were used as seats. People could gather to socialise at this spot, or even to have a smoke. He got a mental picture of Emmy and her group of student guests. The estate gardeners were probably the most regular visitors to this hidden communal area.

  If he had gone anywhere with Emmy that evening, then this would have been the spot. Or more likely she would have taken him? How could he have known his way around the area? She knew the estate; it was her playground; so she also knew the route to a secluded meeting place among the trees. Did she invite him with the idea to take things a few steps further? After they had been seen kissing at the garden party? Did their sexual encounter get out of hand, or were there other factors involved? Other men?

  Pitt sat where the girl and her friends must have regularly gathered; on a fallen tree trunk; and he thought back. But he only had the general outline and suppositions to go on, as if confined to wandering the perimeter. His mind couldn’t reach for a full reconstruction. There was Pixie’s, other peoples’ account of what had taken place, and then there was a cognitive gap.

  His whole situation felt as enigmatical as the darkness. Clues? What clues? Pitt gazed helplessly ahead into the imperceptible shifts and changes of the columnar sunshine. His current situation was a parody of his job, as he stayed late into the night, into the morning. Going over the general outlines, examining the small print, trying to rack his brains to make any sense of the BIP flotation and understand how ZNT could meet the acceptable standards of probity and governance.

  30

  Pitt considered the credit and debit sides of retracing his steps to the house. Those black shirted stewards patrolled the gardens with determined menace. He didn’t plan to try those weighty yokels with a friendly hand shake. ‘Rent a Mob’ could have been tipped off about his drive into the countryside. They were conducting a search and had become extra vigilant. As soon as his route was tracked it was even simpler to receive
updated, find-and-destroy instructions from London.

  Instead of wandering back up the garden path, Pitt pressed on through the back of the estate, beyond the copse, to discover what may lie beyond. And he was wiser to exit altogether that way; to reach the car by doubling back around the perimeter. He suspected there was a simpler path, known only to the gardeners, or perhaps to Emmy and her family, but hidden to him. On the day of the garden party, that previous summer, Clive had followed a similar route. On that occasion he was trying to break in to the estate. He must have circled the outer brick wall, searching for any hole, created by vandals or crashes, or even a remote gate by which to enter. Did he know that there was no wall at this point, but a secret path? He speculated if he had really trespassed alone that afternoon, or been accompanied, or led, by others; by whom?

  Clive emerged at the top of another meadow, which was also filled with a dancing riot of flowers; a beautiful side effect of those arid summer months. The hot sun cut into his vision like a molten sword. Like fire running along a fuse this cascade singed his optical nerve for some minutes. The icy mask of his face, formed in the cool of the woods, evaporated in a moment, with a tautening of his burnt skin. As the black smoke cleared from his vision, gradually, Clive started to pick out features of the landscape. These notably included, at the foot of the fields, another road. This was more than just a country lane, most likely branched back to the major road, significant enough to feature on a map.

  This discovery was interesting to him. He assumed the estate would be inaccessible from the rear, other than by specialised vehicles. You could make an escape this way, he realised, as he hiked down the meadow to investigate. You could arrive at the back of the estate, and find your way inside through the trees, if you knew the way and had it properly planned. Of course on this occasion he’d stumbled on this strategy by accident. There it was, a significant road, allowing a getaway, if it was required, assuming a car was parked nearby, engine ticking over, ready to drive off again. Was he really capable of plotting the whole crazy stunt by himself and carrying out a cruel attack on Emmy and her family? They claimed that he was so embittered, so angry and vengeful, as to behave in that extreme way, to act without any constraint, but Pitt refused to believe it - their propaganda and dark arts.

  He poked around at the bottom of the field, thinking if he was going astray. But when he ducked through a gap in the hedge, this immediately gave access to a sandy layby. A few cars swished by even as he stood about, considering the implications. He didn’t even notice the astonished looks of passing motorists, or respond to the occasional ironic hoot or juvenile gesture. Just as long as a Humber or limo didn’t arrive, to disgorge a bunch of thugs, then he wouldn’t take any notice.

  Close Copse House was not fortified from the outside world. He, or whoever might have been around on that evening, could make their entrance; and their getaway. He, they or whoever, could arrange for a car to be waiting in the layby, while you ran back down here... and then the car could speed off, and then it could join the motorway back to London, as there was a junction just a few miles away. You could complete your malign deeds at Close Copse House and depart in haste, Pitt considered, like a gang of petty burglars.

  Hadn’t this been his approach that day? He forced his way into Sep’s celebratory garden party; he must have alighted here and made his way through woods and gardens, until joining guests on the patio. Alone? Pixie reported that he had showed up there alone, a written-down debt somehow bouncing back.

  The house was like an ancestral home for the Winchurch family, so why not make the property more secure? Sir Septimus obviously didn’t expect intruders or that anyone could discover the hidden path. He knew the lay of his own land. The woods formed a natural barrier at this position. He wouldn’t want to cut them down to extend a wall.

  He didn’t believe that Sep would offer his own daughter as bait. Winchurch clearly had nothing to gain from that outrage. But could he make the same argument about members of the ZNT group? They were capable of destroying the life of a young girl to protect themselves, and their investments and reputation. They would arrange this to erase the whistle-blower and dissuade the boss from taking his call.

  Clive picked up a track on the other side of the road. This went through dusty trees and, with pieces of machinery and discarded objects on both sides, suggested a nearby settlement. Before long an ancient piebald dog picked up his scent, toddled towards him and began to bark; this in turn provoked a kerfuffle of chickens and geese.

  Rounding the next corner Clive discerned the brick work of a cottage, but not picturesque, with its slate roof, rotten carpentry and tumbled down garage or workshop. Maybe the proximity of a dwelling so near to the road, and to Close Copse House, wasn’t important, yet this discovery required further investigation.

  A short distance further, as Pitt sought a closer view, he stumbled across an elderly man. The old chap was short and very solidly set, with craggy red features, in dusty old clothing.

  Clive must have been intimidating for the man. However the other continued walking towards him, as if he was too old and humble to harm anyone. Yet he was quite a strong guy, with big working hands, for all that.

  “All right, mate?”

  “Where are you heading?” the old chap asked, in a friendly fashion.

  “Nowhere in particular,” replied Clive. “This is your place, mate?”

  “Certainly. I live there,” he confirmed, gesturing behind.

  “Then I’d like to have a chat with you, if that’s okay?

  “All you got here is a dead end,” he declared.

  “Just a few minutes of your time? I’d appreciate it.”

  “You want to chat with me, do you?” Suspicion came into his reddened and cheerful face. “What about?”

  Despite the temperature he was wearing a thick sweater, rubber boots, although topped off with a floppy hat.

  “I want to speak to you about some events at the house...the Winchurch estate...”

  “Oh yes, do you? About Sir Septimus?”

  “In regard to his daughter Emmy, some months ago, I think...”

  “Doesn’t have much to do with me,” he replied bluntly.

  “Hi, my name’s Clive Pitt!” He offered his hand.

  “Fred Chippendon.” The old chap brightened gratefully and proffered his own bulky hand.

  “Hi’ya Fred. What do you work at around here? Are you retired?”

  “No, I’m not retired. I’m still working; fit and active!”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’m one of the gardeners on Sir Septimus’ grounds. I use my hands.”

  “Do you remember Septimus holding a garden party?”

  “Do I? We did extra work. Preparation. On very little pay.”

  “You know that his daughter was attacked that day?” Clive risked.

  “The squire kept it pretty much hushed up. They didn’t want her to be dragged through the mud any more. They said she was molested, but goodness knows what really happened. What’s your interest then? Are you a policeman?”

  “No, not a policeman, but an investigator... I was hired by the man who was accused of raping her,” Clive stated boldly.

  “Is that right?” considered the old man.

  “If I can’t get enough evidence to show he is wrongly accused, then this guy could be banged up in the slammer forever!”

  “If he’s innocent then I oughta speak up,” said Chippendon, rubbing his big sore nose. “Such mistakes can happen. I’ve read about that. Why do they accuse him of attacking her?”

  “He was seen walking away with the girl. But he doesn’t remember anything about the incident. Now they say this is amnesia for a guilty conscience!”

  “They got all sorts of cures for ailments. Then why don’t you come inside for a while, to talk this over
?”

  “Thanks Mr Chippendon, that would be great!”

  “There’s not much to tell,” said the old chap. “Not much better ‘n nothing.”

  “I should hear what you have to say,” Clive replied, wiping his face again.

  “Might be significant to you, who can tell? I would tell my story to Sir Septimus, but he never comes down here these days. Maybe he’s got too much on his plate... and with his fancy business in London.”

  Fred showed the way towards his home, with a bow-legged gait. In the yard of the house they were greeted by another large, aged dog; a wall-eyed cross breed, mostly collie. It sniffed around Clive’s scuffed shoes and trousers with a guarded growling - although its tail kept wagging. Chickens flurried in numbers about the dust and gravel, and there was a huge black goat tethered to a fence post. Clive flinched as he was caught in the detached black slots of its lemon-coloured eyes.

  There were heaps of broken pots, bundles of canes and vital accessories to the old man’s work, cluttering up the yard but making it characterful.

  “Do you live alone?” Clive asked.

  “Quite alone,” Fred answered. “My dearly beloved wife has been dead for these past twelve years.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Do you not heal after all that time?” Clive wondered.

  “Not really. You just put it to the back of your head.”

  “Is that so? Yes, I know where you’re coming from,” Pitt replied, thinking of his own family. “You lose somebody into the shadows.”