The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  He walked right down to the shore’s edge with Red, and stood as the sea lapped over his shoes; it didn’t seem important that they'd be soaked, and almost impossible to dry on a cold, damp, February morning.

  “It’s so lovely here.” Greg sighed as he squatted to cradle Red’s bony head between his knees. "Be nice to have some peace to enjoy it.”

  Greg went back to the caravan expecting to go out like a light, though sleep evaded him. Several times he woke sweating and shivering, and on each occasion it was a while before he convinced himself he wasn’t still locked in the cell. He got up around mid-day, still tense and aching, and after an icy shower he visited the cabin.

  “I was just going to make some tea,” said Jan as she opened the door, “Jamie and me have just got back from the village.” Jan prepared a tray, and sat opposite Greg at the table and waited for the kettle.

  “What on earth have you been doing?” she asked as she studied Greg in the uncompromising light from the kitchen window, “you look awful!”

  After swearing Jan to secrecy, Greg recounted events. “It was the worst experience I’ve ever had, Jan,” he finished eventually. “I never want to go through anything like it again.”

  “I can well believe you from the state you’re in,” sympathised Jan. “And what you’ve said explains the gossip in the village earlier.”

  “What’s been said?” asked Greg with concern.

  “They said Penmaric’s garages - the coach-houses - have been broken into, and one of the cars ransacked.”

  “I’d better go and put Sarah wise about what I heard, then.” Greg stood to leave. “Don’t mention anything to a soul.”

  “What about your tea?”

  “Sorry, no time. See you later.”

  Sarah was every bit as shocked as Jan had been by Greg’s appearance. “I think you should see a doctor,” she declared.

  Greg shrugged off her suggestion, “I’ll be alright,” he replied, “I must tell you about last night.”

  Sarah listened with horror to Greg’s revelations. “I'll call Stubbs immediately,” she said when he finished, “so they can lock all three up where they belong.”

  “All three?”

  “That’s right - there seems to be a young man involved as well, I saw him last night, and I’ve seen him hanging around Trevelly several times recently.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Greg with some curiosity.

  “Young… scruffy…” replied Sarah hesitantly, “...but most significantly he wore an eye-patch.”

  “A scrawny, long-haired yob?” Greg’s eyes widened as he gulped with surprise.

  “That’s right. I never got a close look, mind; but there’s worse, Greg - much worse.”

  “What?” croaked Greg, finding it difficult to believe matters could deteriorate further.

  “Drugs, Greg. Stubbs called in a DCI Tooth from Plymouth, who said a 'light dusting' of white powder has been found in the back of the Aston-Martin, They're calling in drug squad.”

  Greg’s eyes widened again, this time with horror. The whole sequence of events on his ill-fated trip suddenly clicked into place.

  “I’ve been set up!” he said. “I’ve carried hard drugs into the country without knowing, and worse still, the police have a cut and dried case against me.” The last vestiges of colour drained from Greg’s face as he told Sarah what had happened; and how he was certain to be jailed if he didn’t leave immediately. He also explained how he'd told a series of lies to tie in with the first innocuous one about his background.

  “I know it was a stupid thing to do,” he said, covering his face with his hands, "but I didn’t want to explain the whole degrading affair to every new acquaintance; I wanted to be someone other than Greg Alison for a while. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, but surely that isn’t a terrible offence?”

  Greg shook his head. “I’m not sure it's an offence at all in that sense, but it’s far more involved. Before I left for Spain I realised I’d brought my old passport by mistake. There was no time to sort it, but Nigel got it doctored, brought up to date that is. Problem is he did it in my assumed name!”

  “How stupid!”

  “I realise that now, but I intended doing nothing more sinister than seeing my children. Instead I brought a junkie back, and came through border control with a forged passport, an assumed name and a cargo of hard drugs as well apparently. And to top it all I’ve no alibi for my whereabouts in France… I could never find that doss-house again in a million years, and I don’t think I’d get much support considering I left without paying. I’ve no proof of where I was during that time.”

  “Where is this forged passport?” asked Sarah with urgency.

  “That’s the worst bit,” moaned Greg, “I left it in the Ulster glove box; in police hands by now, no doubt.” Greg buried his face in his hands again. “Best of all I put the junkie in the clear by insisting he cleared customs as a foot passenger. No wonder he never argued….it seems the varmint had stowed a duffle bag full of hard drugs in the back!”

  Sarah saw the full implications, but was still puzzled. “Where do Hud and Ten come into it all? Do you reckon they’re in on the drug business as well?”

  “I honestly don’t know what to make of it,” said Greg, “judging by their mentality it must have been a sordid coincidence. It's my guess that Cass lout and his partner had been waiting their chance to recover a further hidden stash, and turned up on the same night as Hud and Co. The only thing I am sure of is that someone’s paying Hud and Ten to find your late husband’s legacy, and destroy it for some reason. There must be a lot of money involved somewhere.”

  “Do you think Nigel's in on it?”

  “It's hard to imagine him being shrewd enough to muscle in - but he did use the rally as an excuse to travel to Barcelona!" Greg paused for a moment and asked: "Did Lawson ever mention paintings - or a man named Edwin Ralph?”

  “No” Sarah looked blankly at Greg. “I’ve never heard the name. As for paintings, the only pictures we have are here in the library. Worth thousands I'm sure, but nowhere near enough to put the estate right.” She poured them each a large brandy then asked Greg what his plan was.

  “I’ll have to get out of the area. The police won’t waste any time, and if they find me here, I'll be locked...” Greg winced; the sentence was too painful to finish.

  “But surely Greg,” countered Sarah firmly, “if you’re innocent they can’t just lock you up.”

  “Stubbs did last night,” said Greg bitterly, “and that was for breaking out of a pub. God knows what treatment I’d get for suspected drug running.”

  “But Greg...”

  “I’m not giving them chance!” insisted Greg, “I’ll risk death before I’ll let ‘em lock me up again.” He considered for a second and added, “Can you spare Bart or Si for the day? I need one of them to tow the caravan away somewhere.”

  “But what about your truck?”

  “Risky enough moving the caravan, but I’ll be a sitting target driving that. Would you ring Hud and ask him to bale it up please? I don’t like involving a shark like him, but he’d weigh his kids in for a tenner. No doubt someone will be riding round in it in a few weeks with a new registration, but that’s his pigeon.” Greg looked desperate; prepared to resort to any means to stay outside a cell.

  “It all sounds utterly ridiculous to me,” protested Sarah angrily, “someone’s bound to give you away. I think you should stay; face the police and explain what’s happened.”

  Greg remained adamant. “They’ll never believe me,” he insisted, “and I’ve a slender chance of proving my innocence while I’m free. Locked up I've none!”

  Sarah could see he wasn’t to be moved. Reluctantly she walked over to a small writing desk.

  “For God’s sake don’t involve me,” she said as she returned with a handful of notes and the keys to the Ranger, “this is all the cash I can spare just now. Where will you go?”

  “
Bromyard way – in the Worcester-Hereford area.” Greg took the keys, but raised his hand to reject the money. “I can manage with what I have, Sarah. Thanks very much.”

  “Why that area?” asked Sarah, slightly rebuffed by Greg’s independence.

  “Two reasons: I know some very isolated sites up there, and I’d like to talk to the tramp – the man with a bag - while I’m in exile.” Greg smiled at the prospect: "I reckon I've as much chance of finding him as the Borgias had of becoming marriage counsellors. I’ll go and find Bart or Si - I’ll be in touch.”

  On his way, Greg took the risk of calling briefly at the Holly Tree to explain his situation to Eddy and ask some questions.

  “You're sure the tramp was in here that night Hud and Ten discussed the message?” asked Greg, reassured that the barman had promised to keep an ear to the ground.

  "Positive."

  “And do you know of a man named Edwin Ralph?”

  “Never heard of him,” Eddy replied, “and I doubt if Isaac has either. Not what you'd call a mixer and he wouldn't be much help if he was: bit like trying to hold a conversation with a scarecrow!”

  “Mmm.” Greg sighed heavily. “Worth a try, I suppose. Will you keep a lookout for the youth with the eye-patch?”

  “I’ll find out everything I can,” assured Eddy, and he handed Greg a card. “If you have trouble and can’t catch me here, ring my mobile. If I can help I will.”

  Greg thanked him and left, reassured to have Eddy on side. He then tracked down Bart, who collected the Ranger whilst Greg prepared the caravan for towing. On the way he called briefly to explain matters to Jan, who was understandably upset by the development. Like Sarah, she thought Greg should stay and face the music.

  “What about the cafe?” she asked tearfully, “I’ll never sort it on my own.”

  “Don’t worry,” assured Greg, “I’ll be back one way or another. I swear. Keep your ears open for anything suspicious, and tell Eddy everything! I'll call you...”

  ***

  "Don't take the motorway, or any major roads where possible – we're limited to sixty anyway with the 'van attached." Greg, his paranoia escalating by the minute, set the Satnav for Bromyard. "We'll travel up through Chepstow and Ross way. It will take much longer, though the journey's pleasant. Not that we've time for sightseeing."

  Like everyone else, Bart tried to talk sense into Greg throughout the journey. "Where’s young Nigel?” he asked as they headed north, skirting the Forest of Dean. “Surely if he tells the law what happened, and that it was his idea to give the youth a lift, you’ll be in the clear.”

  “I’ve a feeling Nigel's going to be difficult to find,” replied Greg, shaking his head gloomily, “and a stronger feeling they’ll nail him the instant he surfaces. Neither of us will be allowed to disappear again.”

  “But they’ve got to prove you’re guilty.”

  “They’ve enough to arrest me, Bart, and the thought of being detained is enough. If they want to lock me up - even for a night - they’re going to have to find me. That’s final!” Greg went on to tell Bart of events in the Holly Tree, and how certain he was that Penmaric had left a legacy. "Of sorts – somewhere. Vague to say the least I know."

  “From what you’ve said,” replied Bart, “doesn’t it strike you that Penmaric realised his time was up? Why else would he leave a message?”

  “I thought of that,” replied Greg. “You think it likely he’d been threatened, is that your drift?”

  “Well he could have been. No point in getting carried away though, I mean, Penmaric did have a weak heart. He’d been visited by 'is doctor the day he died.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Greg with surprise, “... that means he probably wouldn't have needed a post-mortem.” He pondered for a moment before asking Bart if he’d heard of Edwin Ralph.

  “The name definitely rings a bell; name of a firm or summat, but I can’t just call it to mind.”

  “Could well be the name of a company. I’m certain I know it from the midlands.” Greg frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve seen the name on the back of a lorry or some-such. Anyway, if you find out, let Eddy know - or if you see anything of the youth with the eye-patch.”

  “Will do,” promised Bart, “but I doubt he’ll show his face near Trevelly again. Too easily identified, I reckon.”

  “I'm sure you're right. Gone to ground probably, and the tramp the same I'm sure.”

  “I doubt as you’ll get far if you finds 'im,” replied Bart doubtfully. “Even if he 'eard summat, I doubt as he’d retain it. Penmaric’s answering machine's more cooperative – an' more sensitive!”

  When they eventually reached the northern outskirts of Herefordshire, Greg directed Bart to a remote site he’d visited years previously, some twenty miles north-west of the city. It was little more than an obscure field at the rear of a farm, not unlike the one in Cornwall, and with no more amenities. A standpipe tap - there primarily to serve a pig-trough – a wooden shed housing a chemical disposal unit and a chipped stone sink comprised the total facilities.

  “Not been tarted up as fancy as site you was on in Trevelly.” Bart grinned derisively. “'Ard to say which is pig-pen.” Greg didn’t mind; there was little danger of him being located, and confinement in a caravan was infinitely preferable to a cell.

  “What'll you do for transport?” asked Bart.

  “I’ve got a few hundred left,” replied Greg, “I’ll see if I can pick up an old banger with some ticket left on it. I can always sell it again when the heat’s died down.”

  “All seems bloody barmy to me,” said Bart scratching his head, “I doubt as they'm even lookin' for you.”

  “If I believed for a minute you're right,” nodded Greg, “I’d never go to these lengths.” Just then an old farmer joined them, rather more surprised to have an out of season visitor than his Cornish counterpart had been - though he'd no objection to Greg staying.

  “I hope to be working in the area,” explained Greg, almost biting his tongue at the thought of a fresh string of lies in the making. “I've been here before. You’re Alf Cropper, aren’t you?”

  “'Sright, I remember you now,” nodded the round, weathered figure. “Used to come years ago with your family – couple o' nippers as I recall; buggered if I can remember your name, though.”

  “Greg,” was the simple reply. He was anxious to avoid the same trap again.

  While Greg and the farmer talked, Bart was busy setting up the caravan supports and disconnecting the Ranger in readiness for his return.

  “How would we contact you in a hurry?” asked Bart as he led Red resignedly from the vehicle; the dog now almost conditioned to life as an itinerant.

  Greg turned to the farmer. “Mind if I give Bart your phone number? It would only be used in an emergency.”

  “You could 'ave it wi' pleasure,” said Cropper, “if on'y I had one. I uses phone at pub I’m afraid.”

  Greg considered not being on tap might be advantageous, though he arranged with Bart to ring Cropper's local, The Malthouse, in an emergency.

  “Now,” said Cropper as Bart drove off, “my old ears might be failin' me, but did you mention as you was in the market for a motor…?”

  The van was old, battered, filthy inside and out – more so in than out - and just the sort of vehicle Hud would enthuse about - but it had four months tax and MOT.

  “What more could I expect for sixty quid?” said Greg, “just the job!”

  “Well, I on'y uses truck nowadays,” replied Cropper, surprised by Greg’s enthusiasm, “so you might as well get some use out on it. You’ll get your money back for bits when you’m done of it.” Greg nodded agreement, though doubted there'd be much more than bits after a few hundred miles.

  “I’ll get back to the house and get pans on, then,” said the amiable figure, “no wife to cook for me nowadays.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't realise.” Greg patted his dog as watched Cropper amble back to the farm. “Still as colourful, Red:
same trilby on by the looks of it, and that incongruously expensive silk neckerchief. He must be very contented, Red; time hasn’t changed him.”

  The pair climbed into the van and drove back across a field to the caravan, then Greg put the kettle on and sat with Red, much as he'd done on his arrival in Cornwall.

  “Funny,” he said to the placid dog, “I’m in an even worse situation than I was a few weeks ago but, confinement aside, I don’t feel quite as desperate. I think we're becoming accomplished recluses.”

  Greg sat and pondered over recent events as he sipped his tea. Months earlier he'd been a well-heeled businessman with all the worries in the world. Weeks later he’d been reduced to an out of work itinerant, with no permanent home and a few thousand in cash. Only days before he'd been over the moon with progress on the cabin and had started looking to the future. Now suddenly he was a recluse again: a fugitive from justice – or its miscarriage - with only a small amount of cash between him and starvation. His wife, children, and business had all somehow relieved him of their burdens – only to be replaced by the most complex dilemma he’d ever faced.

  Greg finished his tea and took Red for a walk across the high open farmland surrounding the site, observing the first tell-tale signs of spring as they went. It was what his grandmother would have called a “kindly day” - mild as March days go, and one that pretends spring has arrived.

  Over the approaching weeks Greg was to find it hadn’t.

  At first he set to with dynamic resolve to find the missing tramp, though it's fair to add he spent a fair amount of time exploring local pubs too. He was sitting in The Malthouse one lunchtime pondering, as ever it seemed, as to how he'd found himself in such a predicament.

  “I wonder how things are in Trevelly,” he said to his beloved Red – who'd also taken to pub life, “and how Sarah’s going along.”

  For obvious reasons, it eased Greg's angst to think of Sarah: with summer approaching the possibilities seemed endless – always assuming he could resolve his dilemma, of course. When they’d run out of rooms in the immense house, he mused, there were the Italian gardens; the summerhouse; the back of the Ranger; and perhaps - almost wishful thinking - he might get her into bed. Greg certainly wished he was there with her at that moment.