The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  “Yes, yes. You’ve certainly got a point there, young man.”

  31

  Chippendon yanked at a weather beaten oak door, virtually hanging off its hinges, and clumped inside. He groaned and gestured for Clive to enter the tiny room; his kitchen. He fumbled for an electric switch, but it was still almost dark. There was one small window over a crowded draining-board, but natural light was masked by grime and hanging branches. There was the twitchy noise of an intrepid chicken, stalking about somewhere in the homely gloom.

  “It’s quite cosy in here,” Clive remarked. “Good to get away from the madness of this world...the speed and stress of contemporary life.”

  “Feels like a bit of a refuge does it? Tho’ I need to see a bit of life, I like to see a movie up in town, from time to time. Then there’s m’football,” he added enthusiastically. “Do you enjoy football?”

  “Not for a while,” Pitt replied.

  Gradually Clive’s eyes adjusted to the surroundings. He sat at a heavy oak table, showing rings of centuries. In fact the kitchen was rudimentary; with its squashed stove, various dented pots and pans and an arrangement of tin cans and jars: the place of a solitary old man; with dangling bulbs and stains of winter damp. The only freshness and savour came from boxes of fruit and vegetables. Yet to Clive’s eyes the place was endearing, peaceful, even safe. He could almost live his own life in this style, but knew that was an illusion.

  Mr Chippendon boiled a kettle, whistled and began to prepare tea. The brew was served up exceedingly hot and sweet. Then Fred took a gasping intake of breath, pulled up the waist of his trousers and slumped happily on the cushioned seat. He revealed a glistening vermillion pate when he scrunched up his floppy hat in a solid brown fist. He was squeezing his own teabag in the mug and sitting across from his visitor.

  “Oh, I expect he’ll settle up when he’s ready,” the man insisted cheerfully.

  “Winchurch, do you mean? He owes you some wages?” Clive replied.

  Chippendon drew on the rim of his tea mug; supping noisily; sighing heavily. “Know the squire, do you?”

  “Professionally.”

  “You’re a City gent too?”

  “Used to be,” Clive replied. “Seen Winchurch about the estate recently?”

  “What’re you after ‘im for?” the gardener asked.

  Pitt considered. “Got one or two matters to sort with him.”

  “Oh? Not seen the squire... not after what happened to his daughter.”

  “So he’s more or less stayed in London?”

  “Just once I saw him with some fellas... came down from London...maybe with his partners. Some security people and business men, I’d say.”

  “They didn’t come to visit you?” Clive wondered.

  “You must be joking,” he guffawed. “No, they was walking about the estate, and then they was down in the trees here.”

  “I noticed there’s a clearing in the copse. Do you go there often?”

  “I go in there sometimes. Tidying up the loose wood and looking after the place. The young lady used to go in there a great deal. It was about her favourite spot, I’d say.”

  “They would kind of hang out there?” Pitt assumed.

  “I don’t rightly know. But in the summer she was on holidays,” he explained. “I would be bending doing something, and there she would be. I can tell you she was sometimes with boyfriends. I don’t know what they got up to in there,” Fred said, “but I’ve got a good idea. I’m old, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Did you notice her on the afternoon of Winchurch’s garden party?”

  “When he had all those important people visiting, do you mean?”

  “On the day she was molested, to use your words.”

  The man struggled to search back. “No I didn’t actually set eyes on Emmy that particular afternoon. Poor creature. I kept to this side of the house and gardens on that day...once my work had been done.”

  Pitt tried to keep the exhaustion and anguish out of his face.

  “Sir Septimus required me to do a bit of watering... to smarten up the gardens before his guests arrived. Then he gave me the rest of the day off. He wasn’t going to invite a scruffy article like me, when he had all those diplomats and politicians there!”

  “He definitely wouldn’t!” Clive agreed. He was enjoying the tea, which was strong enough to cure many animal diseases. “Not that I had an official invitation myself,” he said.

  It was comfortable to be with Mr Chippendon, who was an advert for the sanctuary of old age perhaps. Cheery Fred with his faithful collie, a quaint old cottage and a bit of a garden; as if the subtle methods of the professional killers of ZNT could not reach them.

  “Except some evenings I take a walk up to the village. I have a couple of pints in the ‘Grenadier’... before I come back home again. They always have the match showing there. I always catch up with my football. I keeps myself to myself in there. But I’ve got a few friends up there. A couple of ancient fellas like myself,” Fred explained, in his dry low voice. “Among the lager drinkin’ youngsters.”

  “So did you notice anything different that evening?” Clive wondered.

  “Help yourself to one of those oatie biscuits. That’s right,” he offered. “Well, poor old Snow here, my collie dog, wouldn’t stop snarling and snapping.” The canine in question had insinuated itself around the old man’s chair, and now cast up a baleful expression.

  “Your dog was upset by something?” Clive asked.

  “He wouldn’t quieten down! Even gave him a tap on the nose, and I haven’t done that since he was a puppy... small enough to put in my coat pocket... there was something eerie about it, out of the ordinary. Not long after there was a tapping at the door. Yes that’s what happened. Very soft, hardly hearable,” Fred recalled.

  “That’s useful. Will you continue?” Clive urged.

  “I was sitting in my armchair by the fireplace, when there was this gentle knocking sound. I was startled and Snow began to shrink and whine again. When I finally got to the front door to see, well I found some fella asking me for directions, who wanted to find Close Copse House.”

  “Did you recognise him? Do you?”

  “Some fella looking for Winchurch’s garden party, that’s who.”

  “Did this man look anything like me?” Pitt wondered.

  “You? Why would I say that?” Fred replied, looking bewildered.

  Clive felt his limbs instantly unthaw; his heart retracted. “That’s good, that’s... a relief.”

  “Is it? Well, I said that he would need to drive back towards the village...find the front entrance. He couldn’t rightly get access to the back of the estate...not by car!”

  “I see. So was this bloke a guest at the party? This guy had lost his way?”

  “Easy to lose your way around here!”

  “What did this bloke look like? Can’t you remember?”

  “Didn’t see him too clearly... my eyes aren’t too good. But I did get a glimpse. Yes, I got a look at him all right.”

  “Can you describe him to me?” Clive persisted, spreading his big aching legs.

  “Tall fella. Very tall. Unhealthy.”

  “Unhealthy? Can you be more precise?”

  “Is it important then?” Fred complained.

  “It could be,” Pitt confirmed. “Sorry to push you like this.”

  Mr Chippendon reinforced his recollection with another swig of tea, as sludgy as wood water. “In a beautiful silk suit, he was. High heeled boots. Fashionable. A rich looking fella, with a pony tail. Must have been an associate of Sir Septimus.” The old chap took another slug of tea as if fully satisfied.

  “Can you tell me anything more about him?”

  “Those shiny type of sunglasses. But he’d got a nic
ely trimmed beard, just on the point of his chin it was,” Fred remembered. “Very striking.”

  “Anything else?” Pitt asked.

  “Well, he also had a bit of an accent,” he added. “So he must have been foreign.”

  “Right, so he wasn’t British. Were you able to locate his accent? Any ideas?”

  “Sorry, I can’t say what country he came from.”

  Pitt scraped at the bottom of his jaw. “How old was this guy?”

  “Middle aged. A bit eccentric. Creepy. I would certainly say he knew the squire, because he called him Sep and said he was a long-time admirer.”

  “Did he?” said Pitt. “This bloke wanted to know how to reach the house?”

  “That’s right. Then later in the afternoon I decided to walk up to the village to see the football... and afterwards to visit my sister in law.”

  “You’re implying that you bumped into this character again?”

  “At dusk I left Joan’s, my sister in law’s place, to return home. It’s not safe to walk down the road after dark... after a few glasses. Not so many cars go along there, but it only takes one to knock you over, doesn’t it?”

  Pitt nodded and sank the remainder of his warm ditch water.

  “It was a clear humid evening, as it’s been most of this summer. Difficult to walk far in that heat. Then, when I got to the bottom of the hill... I was about to turn up into my lane for a night cap... when I noticed a car parked in the lay-by. An enormous long black motor,” he remarked, spreading his thick arms.

  “Really, a black limo. You saw this car then, did you?” Clive returned.

  “Never seen a car like that before in my life. A beautiful and frightening machine,” Fred judged.

  “The limousine,” Clive breathed to himself.

  “Yes, a limousine, that’s what you’d call it... so long ‘n’ sleek you’d think your eyes are deceiving you. Not even Sir Sep’imus has a motor car quite like that one,” he grinned.

  “Was there anybody in the car? Waiting outside? A chauffeur?”

  “A fella in a uniform was standing about,” he said, thrashing the old rug of his memory. “A large fella, smoking a cigarette, leaning his elbows on the roof and waiting.”

  Not often was Fred required to summon up a recent experience as a significant memory.

  “Did you approach him? Any idea what he was waiting for?”

  “Something warned me off. This chauffeur fella was waiting for something...for somebody. He didn’t look as if he wanted to be interrupted... or asked any questions.”

  “You were a bit alarmed?” Clive said.

  “Yes, I was,” Fred admitted. “You hardly get anybody stopping here, unless they’ve got mechanical problems.”

  “Did the limo have a mechanical problem?” Pitt wondered.

  “No, the motor was running!”

  “As if they were waiting for something, or somebody?” Clive pressed.

  “He was very alert this fella... Resting his elbow, dragging on his ciggie... staring up over the meadow towards Close Copse at the top. Where you came from today,” Fred recalled.

  “Obviously this wasn’t the same guy who knocked at your door.”

  “No, not the big creepy one, it wasn’t. Not the one with the funny beard and accent.”

  “I met the guy once, but not face to face,” Clive said. “What happened after that?”

  “I remained hidden at the top of the lane. There was a flaming sunset, a real shepherd’s delight. I had a good view where I was... and I was interested to know what that fella was waiting for. Then all of a sudden,” Fred exclaimed, mimicking his astonished reaction of the time, “I see’d some shapes running down the meadow. After a while I realised it was that eccentric fella who’d called on me earlier. That’s it. Running he was; running like the devil down that field, towards the limousine. That was obviously his car. The chauffeur was waiting for him with the motor turning over.”

  “You’re implying the strange looking guy was not alone,” Pitt suggested.

  “No, there was another fella with him. It was growing dark by then. I couldn’t see their faces clearly... wouldn’t in the best of light, at that distance... just their outlines against the sky.”

  “Was the other guy about my height and build?”

  “Couldn’t rightly say!” the gardener told him.

  “You couldn’t identify him?” Pitt declared.

  “But I know it was the same eccentric fella.”

  “Right, the one who knocked at your door... the tall guy, with a pony tail hair style and a bit of a beard on his chin,” Pitt summarised.

  “It wasn’t possible to forget him,” Fred remarked, casting a menaced look.

  “But you certainly didn’t know his companion?”

  “Except he kept stumbling and falling to the ground. Looked at the end of his tether and couldn’t run much further. Then the creepy fella would go back and drag him up by the arm, and they’d start running again. Must have been running away from something!”

  “They both jumped into the car?” Clive persisted.

  “Then the chauffeur ran around and they drove away. I fell back into the hedge to hide myself. Lord knows what they would have said or done with me. I just sensed danger,” Fred told him.

  “Yes, it must have been terrifying.”

  Mr Chippendon studied his visitor’s look, impressed with the impact his story had made, even while shivers still ran down his own aching spine.

  “When I see’d those fellas scarpering like that,” Fred continued, “I knew that something dreadful or criminal must’ve happened. Fortunately they drove away too quick to notice me. Then I picked myself out of the hedge... and walked back home again.”

  “It’s the third man who interests me,” Clive said. “The one who was being dragged behind.”

  “I wish I could be more ‘elpful to you in your inves’igations,” Fred offered.

  “That’s a pity,” Clive said, “but you’ve been really helpful.”

  “Do you think that strange fella had anything to do with the attack on Miss Winchurch?” Fred asked.

  “Probably,” Clive admitted. “Did you speak to anyone about this? The police? Not even Septimus Winchurch?”

  “Nobody’s been down here. Sir Septimus doesn’t have much to do with me anymore,” the old man complained.

  “You should have told the police,” Clive said.

  “Just so long as I keep his borders trimmed! Do you think any of ‘em listens to me in this village?”

  “They had to escape as they entered, at the rear. Where they had their car turning over, ready and waiting. In the limousine, the limousine,” he repeated. “With the same chauffeur who stopped me in the City.”

  A chill passed into his blood and seemed to circulate. His feet, his hands and even his mouth went numb. Why should he suddenly feel so cold on such a hot day? This frightened and perturbed him. He adjusted and shook the sensation away.

  “You’re a clever detective,” Mr Chippendon said.

  “Not really,” Clive told him. “I don’t even have any powers of arrest.”

  “High powered gentleman is he?” Mr Chippendon wondered.

  “Your visitor? Our fella with the winning smile? Most likely,” Clive replied.

  “I wonder how he makes a living?”

  “He makes more than a living,” Clive informed him, expelling a long breath.

  “One of those types, is he?”

  “Are you still employed as a gardener?” Clive asked.

  “Haven’t been paid in ages... but I keep an eye on it. A married couple from the village is keeping the house clean and tidy.”

  “The house seems to be closed up today,” Clive said.

  “Yester
day they were scrubbing the kitchen and shaking off dust sheets. I was by the small pond and they told me to cut some flowers. Sir Septimus is visiting later this evening.”

  Pitt surprised. “Is he?”

  “That’s right sir. He’s coming to the area again. I believe he’s visiting his daughter in hospital today.”

  “Where’s the hospital?” Clive replied.

  “The hospital’s named after him. Sir Septimus does marvellous things for charity. Paid for that hospital all by himself... so they say. Very generous and warm hearted gentleman, when he’s in the right mood, sir.”

  “He’s one charity I would avoid in the street,” Clive remarked.

  “Wishing you the best of, sir, in your inves’igations.”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  “You’re welcome, m’friend!”

  32

  Pitt emerged from Fred’s buckling cottage. He followed back along the dry tree-lined path to the road. He experienced a new bloom of cold sweat, while considering Mr Chippendon’s account; that evening following the party, after the attack on Emmy Winchurch; with the flaming sunset and a sky striped with hot reds and oranges.

  Pitt thought of that sinister guy, running from the scene, dragging along an accomplice. He could be a hedge fund manager, or attached to the deal in some capacity. Pitt couldn’t remember such a bearded figure, during the negotiations over the flotation. While he’d been meeting with members of ZNT the most senior figures stayed away, restricting their face to face meetings to Sep.

  Clive doubted that Sep could harm Emmy, his own daughter. After all he was his only child and heir. She may have been a bad egg, a ‘wild child’ to the media, but she was precious to him. One day she would become more like Pixie. Sep doted on Emmy and that was half the problem. Clive knew Emmy had slipped away into the trees with him, Pitt. Something bad had got into them that day, to stir passions. Perhaps the blood test would prove vital, in unmasking some chemical agent or influence on his thoughts and actions.

  This foreign accented guy was obviously as mysterious and obscure as wealth and power can be. His actions, and his influence, were as obscure as corporate and non-dom taxing registration loopholes; as tricky as stolen wealth bouncing around in off-shore accounts. He could be as mysterious and out of contact as any private ocean going yacht, when he chose.