Inheritance

by Ellen Kefferty

  ‘I’m working on it,’ she whispered to herself in rebellion against her feelings, ‘that’s all that matters.’

  She found herself leant against a lamppost, her hand gripping the pole. Above her fingers a sticker, faded and torn, depicted a lone bee with the legend, ‘Stay strong our kid.’ She smiled.

  The street bent a little to the right as it became Dale Street, and even though she passed by more shops she shed all extraneous thought. Let her mind focus for five minutes on nothing but walking. It wouldn’t harm. Just walk.

  Once she reached Lever Street she crossed the road and took a left. Half a block north she stood before an open black door set low in the building. Beyond steps lead swiftly down.

  In the cavernous room below the cafe was busy but not brisk. A few tables were occupied by diners finishing their meals, others by loners sipping on a coffee and reading a book.

  The counter was unattended. She craned her neck but could see nobody in the kitchen. She turned to scan the room. The lack of uniforms and badges made it impossible to know whom to approach. Anybody could be ‘staff’, though such a concept probably didn’t apply to anarchists. Somebody would take responsibility and help you, or they wouldn’t. It was a basic belief that people were generally decent, rational, and cooperative. After all, nobody was staff because nobody was paid, yet the cafe had manage to exist on that basis for years.

  A young thin man popped out from behind a large projector in the open area to one side. He made his way to stack of chairs at the perimeter of the empty space. He grabbed one stack and began to set the seats out in rows.

  “Excuse me,” she took a few steps toward the man, “do you work here....” She stopped herself before the man looked up. When he did it was with a smile acknowledging her mistake. She tried again, “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  “Sure I can. I work here!” The man snorted good–naturedly. “What would you like? There is some stew left, I can warm it in a few minutes.”

  “No, but thanks.” She scratched her head casually, attempting to look relaxed. “Actually, I’m looking for David. You know him? Big tall guy.”

  “David? Yeah, he’s in the office. Let me get him for you.” The young man walked past her but turned half way, beginning to walk backward. “Who can I say is asking for him?”

  “Tell him it’s Edith. About Thomas Faircote.”

  “Got it!” The man pointed and winked, quite needlessly. Then he disappeared though a far door.

  She leant her elbows upon the counter, expecting a wait. The young man came out immediately. He approached and stated, in a hushed voice. “You can go straight in.”

  David was clearing his desk as she stepped into the office. Several large books and an open box of receipts had been shifted to a side table. He swiped the desk dramatically with his hand as though cleaning it of something unseen. Wordlessly he tapped on the wooden top to let her know she should take a seat. She shut the door firmly and sat down.

  “So, what now?” He rested at an odd angle, his weight on one side. His face was turned half away to some point on the far wall. His eyes glanced back and forth, examining her for a second at a time. He tousled his hair endlessly.

  “The last time I was here you were the cook. Now you’re doing the books?”

  “Yes.” He answered curtly. His manners took over and responded to her attempt at small talk, nodding a little. “I do a lot. It’s not unusual. You need to be flexible.”

  “That’s good to hear. Flexible.” She swallowed. Be blunt, he’ll appreciate it. “Look, I need your help.”

  His head shook involuntarily. Suddenly his voice livened. “With what? Sorry, but, I’ve only met you once. Why do you need my help? I thought Thomas’s cousin is paying you?”

  It was hard to read his state of mind. He was agitated, clearly. He had agreed to speak with her though it seemed as though he would rather not. There was no way but to ask directly.

  “Has something happened?”

  His hand stopped moving. He turned and fixed his gaze on her. “Somebody murdered my best friend.”

  “I know.” She weighed up whether confirming his fears would help or hurt him. Selfishly, it was better for her if his emotions rose further. She repeated herself. “I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Somebody ran him off the road. I know that. I have direct proof.” She stopped short of saying that her own experience was that proof, and mentally switched to the prepared lie. “I’ve managed to obtain the licence plate of the car which ran him off the road.”

  He lurched forward, bracing himself on his knees. His face uncomfortably near. His voice in awe. “What? How?”

  “I can’t divulge my methods.”

  “Of course, I understand. Do you know who did it?”

  “Maybe. But that’s where I need your help.”

  “What help do you need?”

  “The attacker...”

  “...the murderer...”

  “The murderer wasn’t anybody we expected.”

  “Who did you expect?”

  She thought back to the longlist of suspects she had compiled from reading the newspaper archives. None of them would suffice, even if he might sooner believe it. She leant inward. He took the cue and close the gap. Only a sliver of air between them. Now she could whisper straight into his ear. She drew out the silence. While her words were true, they had to be delivered for maximum impact if she was to win his help.

  “It was the Establishment.”

  He glanced away. And back. Gave a single nod.

  “I expected that.”

  “Okay.” She pulled back, his intensity suddenly unbearable. “That’s good.”

  “But I’m not sure I can help you. Nobody can fight the Establishment single–handedly. If you’ve got good proof you can go public, shame them, raise people’s awareness, bring the revolution one step nearer and...”

  “Wait, wait!” She held her palms facing out toward him. “I don’t yet have the proof I need. Some, but not all of it. That’s where I need your help.” She continued without a break to stop him cutting in. “It turns out the car is owned by a company, not an individual. I need access to that company’s records to find out more about the car, who was driving it, where it is now. Anything. I need you to help me get that access. I need to break in to their offices.”

  His expression was one of neutral thought. She watched for any flicker of decision. Was the request too much? Too risky? Something he couldn’t find the resources for? He hadn’t immediately refused or shake his head in doubt. He was thinking about it. A good sign.

  “Hmm.” He looked at the door behind her which led back out into the cafe. “One moment.”

  He rose from his seat and exited the room, the door left open wide. She followed his path but he soon passed out of sight. Only a few customers at their tables were visible.

  She examined the office. The shelves laden with files and the walls thick with photographs. A generation of volunteers who had passed through the cafe. Young, smiling people, all of them keen and willing. And friendly. The kind of people who naturally wanted to help. Maybe some who were helpful enough to burgle a business.

  She started at the scrape of a chair along the floor. David slipped into his office silently, bearing a chair in from the cafe. He placed it between them and sat down. A plump woman with spectacles followed into the room. Her mid–brown hair hung down far below her shoulders. The bag at her side was knitted, likely homemade. The woman took the new seat and held out her hand to Edith.

  “Hi, I’m Heather.” She shot a look at David which Edith caught.

  She was lying about her name.

  “Edith.” Edith shook Heather’s hand.

  “David tells me we have a problem?”

  ‘We.’ Edith caught the word. A wave of relief washed over her. They were allies. “I...we need access to some company documents.”

  “Yes, that should be possible.” Heather’s face, he
r tone of voice, barely changed. No sign that she registered the import of what she agreed to.

  Unsettled, Edith blunted her message to ensure that Heather knew what was being asked. “It means we need to burgle their offices to get them.”

  “Yes. And where are their offices?”

  “Erm...” Edith fetched her phone from her bag.

  “You shouldn’t keep things on your phone.” Heather shook her head in disapproval.

  “Oh. Well, here it is. The company is Phaeton Cars, and their offices are on Cobden Street in Pendleton.”

  “Right.” Heather wrote the information on a slip of paper.

  “Do you need to know the documents I’m looking for?” Edith was unsure exactly what was taking place. Was she still only proposing a break–in? Or negotiating Heather’s involvement? Were they actually planning it?

  “You don’t have to tell me yet. Though you can tell me if you want to. It’s the same ether way.” Heather directed her words at Edith, though never looked her in the eye. “Or you can just tell me once we’re in.”

  “We’re breaking in then?”

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Heather finally let her eyes settle on Edith. David smiled and leant back in his chair.

  “I mean,” Edith wasn’t sure how to phrase her question so it didn’t offend, “you’re breaking us in?”

  “Yep. Pick me up at Levenshulme Railway Station tomorrow night around midnight.” Heather smiled and left the room without even a goodbye.

  Day 17: Friday 17 November

  The white Fiat Punto slowed as it neared Levenshulme Railway Station. Edith had already collected David from Whalley Range. He instructed her to park outside a primary school on Withington Road. It was better if she didn’t know exactly where he lived. Fifteen minutes was spent admiring the perseverance of the prostitutes on a cold November night before David emerged from a side street.

  He hardly spoke on the drive to Levenshulme, and as they approached the station from the west along Albert Road he let out a muted grunt to signal their arrival. Traffic along the road was sparse, and only the occasional straggler walked the streets at one in the morning. Victorian semis lined the road, most long since converted into flats of varying size, cost, and dampness. Not far to the east was Stockport Road, Levenshulme’ high street. A few scattered shops reached as far out as the station.

  A dark and oppressive bridge bore the railway over the road ruining what little past beauty the street might have clung to. The bridge’s rotten concrete and ancient engineering brick riddled with buddleia suggested that it was beyond help. The station to the left completed the scene. Its squat brick structure fortified with a row of giant buttresses stood like a Cold War bunker occupying inner city Manchester.

  Edith signalled to turn left into the car park. At the last moment she cancelled the indicator and drove on under the bridge. She pulled up onto a small patch of tarmac on the other side.

  “What’s wrong?” David asked calmly from the passenger seat.

  “Did you see the camera above the door to the station? It was pointing straight at the car park.”

  He nodded in slight agreement.

  “Shouldn’t we be careful? I mean, I just want to avoid leaving too much of a trace.” The steering wheel stayed tight in her grip though she had turned the engine off.

  “Understandable. Though you should know, most CCTV cameras are shit. Especially in low light like now. You would have to unlucky to get caught out by one.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath.

  “You had best go look for Heather on foot.”

  “Yeah.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed the door latch. “But her name’s not Heather though, is it? Her real name?”

  “No.” He laughed. “She’s cautious, just like you. Though she has reason to be.”

  “What reasons?”

  He cradled his temple in a hand and looked away from her. “You shouldn’t ask such questions. Thomas’s death has made things far less secure for many of us. We need to find out the truth. Any of us could be next.”

  “You’re safe, trust me.” She stopped herself from saying more. She couldn’t offer them the actual truth without jeopardizing their offer of assistance.

  “How can you know? How can you say that?”

  “I think,” she gazed out of her side window. Why was it harder to lie at some times than other? “Thomas was involved in things that nobody else knew about. Not even you. I hope I can tell you one day.”

  “Maybe. It sounds like Thomas though, never letting us in to all his secrets.”

  She pulled the latch for her door. “I’d best go look for Heather.” She swung the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. Almost immediately a woman blocked her way.

  “You’ve no need. I’m right here.” Heather wore dark clothing and gripped a black rucksack.

  “Hi.” Edith hesitated, unsure what to say. An apology for not stopping exactly at the railway station, or being five minutes late seemed worthless. Instead, she simply pulled forward her seat to let Heather climb into the back.

  David greeted Heather and, just as Edith put her seat down, Heather replied. “David, you had best drive. Edith you can sit in the back with me, so we can talk.”

  “But he’s not insured for this car.”

  “I should doubt that’s the biggest law we’re breaking tonight.” Heather smirked.

  Edith climbed in the back, David into the driver’s seat, and after a tight U–turn the car was heading back toward Whalley Range.

  “I’m sorry for not coming to the station as you asked.” Edith examined the profile of Heather’s face against the streetlights outside. Her mouth was relaxed, her eyes distant and thoughtful. It was impossible to read an expression of worry or concern, that they were about to commit a crime. Her left hand loosely gripped the straps of her rucksack stowed on the floor. It seemed impossible to trust her, there was too much unknown. “It’s just that I saw the CCTV camera and didn’t want to be filmed.”

  “Reasonable enough. It’s good to be cautious.” Heather shrugged, then commanded David directly. “David, go toward Stretford and then up through Trafford Park and over the Ship Canal. We can then get into Pendleton the back way, missing out the city centre.”

  “Fewer cameras on that route?” Edith suggested.

  “Sure. If you like.” Heather stared out the window. “How much research have you done on this business?”

  “Phaeton Cars? I found their website and looked up their address.”

  Heather began to speak in a monotone voice, still avoiding eye contact. “Phaeton Cars. Cobden Street, Pendleton. A rental service for high–end cars, specializing in prestige and import vehicles. Privately–owned limited company with a moderate but acceptable turnover. Fewer than fifty employees.”

  Edith broke in to the monologue. “How does this help?”

  “I’m just establishing facts. Some of it might be useful for you to know.”

  “Can’t you just give me the stuff you consider important?”

  “How would I know what’s important?” Heather turned and met Edith’s glower. She returned like with like. “Oh, okay. Here’s the executive summary. If person who was driving the car which rammed Thomas off the road was part of the Establishment, then Phaeton Cars, as the owner of the car, has to fall into one of three situations.

  “One. It’s a front business run directly by the intelligence or security services for the purposes of supplying cars for operations. Two. It’s a normal business with an insider or special understanding which lets cars be used with few questions asked. Three. It’s a normal business which the intelligence or security services are using surreptitiously by posing as normal customers.

  “If it’s one then this expedition is pointless, as no records will exist. If it’s two or three then we’re likely to get some useful information. But I can tell you it’s not one.”

  Edith was silent for a moment taking in the stream of in
formation. Then she asked the obvious question. “How do you know it’s not a front business?”

  “The company has a good paper trail. Mentions in official records, newspaper advertisements, even a website that has been online for nearly fifteen years. A front business would have a much shallower history. They can only fake so much. And they wouldn’t risk the same front existing for too long. There’s good evidence from company registration that the business was founded several decades ago.”

  “Ninety eighty–eight?” Edith hazarded a guess, thinking of the murder of the other Thomas Faircote and the car which drove him to his supposed suicide.

  “Yeah,” Heather failed to hide her surprise, “how did you know?”

  “There’s more to this case than you know.” Edith suppressed a grin. It was pleasing to demonstrate that Heather was a junior partner in this case. However much information she could reel off she would never know the fundamentals.

  “Okay. Well, if you could fill me in then it would help a lot. Otherwise I’m working blind. As I said, how am I to know what’s important and...” Heather’s anger was slight and controlled, but noticeable.

  David spoke for the first time since he had begun driving. “Heather, just let it go. Edith explained to me earlier about the situation. You know it’s safer if we only know as much as we need to.”

  The car plunged into almost utter silence. Only the sound of passing cars from outside and the occasional ticking of the indicator stopped the silence from being complete. Edith watched from her window as Stretford flew by. Undistinguished and unloved, the town had been slashed into pieces decades ago by a dual carriageway. Houses on either side of the road lay penned in behind metal barriers, the road widened monstrously, overflowing its original course.

  The road opened up a little, breathing with more spaces as the houses leapt forty years forward. Then further down the road another round of housebuilding marked the passage of another twenty years. Each time the houses lost character and decoration but gained gardens and driveways. Still the road was much too wide for this suburban setting. Edith could imagine how, in the busiest hours of the day, the town was overrun by cars.