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

by Mac Fletcher

  Wyndham was mystified: he’d been proud of his achievements prior to Greg's complex revelation. Now he was lost again.

  “But what about pictures?” he asked, but all Greg could do was shrug.

  “No idea!” he replied honestly. "But we need to get this moved right away." Greg turned his attention back to the "string of sausages" lying on the doorstep. He recalled reading many years earlier of a minor royal being caught with thousands of pounds worth of cocaine in a binocular case - and the report hadn’t said the binoculars weren’t in there too!

  “I wonder how much this lot’s worth by comparison.” Greg drew an imaginary knife across his throat. “If ever we’re caught with it!”

  The colour drained from Wyndham’s face as he registered the gravity of the situation.

  “P'r'aps we can get rid of it by leavin’ it on downs,” he suggested.

  “That’s not such a bad idea,” replied Greg, grinning at the simplicity of the solution, “but I’d like to see who collects it.” The pair had no idea if anyone would collect the consignment - or show at all - though Greg was by now convinced that if the tryst was honoured it would be during the early hours of Thursday.

  “So, according to that the next shipment's due in …tomorrow night!” Greg gasped as he sat at the table, almost tugging his hair with anticipation. “I must let Eddy know.”

  “Are you going to ring police an' all?” asked Wyndham.

  “I'll leave that to Eddy. They’ll be on top like a ton of bricks if I call from this area again... What's wrong…?"

  Wyndham wasn’t listening. He’d crossed the room and was about to pull the curtain aside.

  “Don’t let anyone see you!” snapped Greg urgently. “What are you looking at?”

  Greg peered through the faded net. He could see an old Merc outside and breathed a sigh of relief. “Hud and Ten. It must be Vance who's behind them: he'd like Penmaric’s legacy intercepted to simplify purchase of the estate. All so he can continue his racket - I'm sure of that now.”

  “Do you think as that’s why drugs weren’t delivered by boat this last time?” asked Wyndham innocently, “'cause Penmaric died?”

  “You mean because he wasn’t there to supervise the landing?” replied Greg. “Could well be, or maybe the gang got the jitters over something.” He peered again at the duo, still seated in the car.

  “Probably lost,” assumed Greg, “knowing that pair. Would you mind wandering out and asking them if they're looking for something? Nothing elaborate; just act as if you know nothing.”

  Despite greeting the remark with suspicion once more, Wyndham did as requested. Greg was relieved to see the Merc eventually disappear, seconds before his friend strolled back into the room - a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “Did they ask for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And…?" Greg paled as he observed Wyndham's vacant expression. “Oh my God - what did you say?”

  “I said a bloke I met 'ad a caravan somewhere around 'ere, but he'd long gone." His face broke into the toothy smile as he held out a note scribbled on an empty sandwich carton. “Tall 'un tol' me they was in digs not far away, an' to call this number if I seen you again."

  “That's brilliant, Wyndham! They’re not terribly important in the scheme of things, but better out of the way.” He smiled and added: “And now we have their number, we can pull their strings if necessary."

  The pair relaxed with tea for half an hour or so, upon which Greg looked at his watch. “God! I've only just realised, I promised to meet Hemmings at twelve to collect my money. I must let him know I won’t be available any more. Only fair after the way he helped me… and I need the cash if I'm honest.”

  “Take a nearly 'alf hour to walk it,” said Wyndham as he pulled on his massive overcoat, “think we’d best take car?”

  “Shit! There's no choice if I’m to catch him,” replied Greg anxiously. “Those two are long gone, and we should be safe for that distance. I'll park Lucy behind the pub, and after I’ve seen Ray, we’ll risk a ride to Edwyn Ralph.”

  Wyndham shrugged. Despite his aptitude for detecting the obvious, the whole affair at that stage was less clear than at the outset.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hemmings was propping up the bar when Greg and Wyndham reached the pub.

  “Glad you’re on time.” He winked slyly. "Rather fancy a game of golf this afternoon - if I can catch my partner."

  The trio enjoyed a quick drink together while Greg explained to Hemmings that he wouldn’t be available for further deliveries.

  “Sorry to hear that – thanks for all your hard work, Greg," said Hemmings sincerely, "here’s what I owe you, and I really hope we meet again. Must rush if I’m to catch my mate down at The Falcon.” He scooped up his briefcase and left – though the door had barely closed behind him when it re-opened.

  “Who’s come in the Aston-Martin,” asked the rep, “on the rear car park?”

  Greg hesitated for a moment before answering. “I have,” he replied warily, “it belongs to a lady friend of mine. Why do you ask?”

  “An old chap from Cornwall used to come up here in it - regularly,”

  “You knew Penmaric? Did you know… he’d died?”

  “No – bloody hell, that's a shock. He used to call in at The Falcon in Bromyard regularly; we often had lunch together.”

  “Do you know any of his friends round here?” asked Greg, trying to stifle a sudden burst of exhilaration.

  “A lot depends on who this lady-friend of yours is,” replied Hemmings with a sly wink. “I don’t want to uncover any scandals.”

  Greg briefly recounted his recent involvement with Sarah Penmaric.

  “Was there another woman, Ray?”

  “Well...” started Ray cautiously, “promise it won't go any further?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lawson used to call every month to see Anne McCaffrey. Lives in a big old farm-house near Edwyn Ralph - you must know of her, Wyndham?”

  "Yeah, ‘sright.”

  Greg caught his breath as he realized the significance, though he managed to remain silent.

  “Well, between you and me, he used to stay there for a few days, though he always booked in at The Falcon for cover. Crafty old bugger’s had his cake and eaten it for donkey’s years by the sound of it. Got it made, what with her husband being an invalid an' all; bedridden y'know. I never knew Penmaric had married, though. He kept that quiet, but he would wouldn't he?” The rep hesitated for a moment. “I’m not speaking out of turn am I?”

  “Not at all,” said Greg. “Have another drink before you leave, and tell me more.”

  “Has to be a quickie, then.”

  "If you needs a drink in the next 'alf hour or so," interrupted Len as he topped up the glasses, "you'll 'ave to serve yerselves, Shout me if it's urgent." He smirked. "I'll be down cellar."

  "No prob’s." Hemmings glanced at his watch as he settled with a large Scotch, happy to relate what he knew of the local scandal. "Musn’t take too long though."

  It transpired that Penmaric had been visiting Anne McCaffrey, wife to gentleman farmer Walter McCaffrey, for longer than Hemmings could remember. “Twenty-odd years I gather,” he said, “her husband had suffered from some kind of dementia from an early age. Only fair to add though, that while she’d been unfaithful to her husband, Anne refused to ditch him and marry Penmaric - although he begged her to. Lawson used to tell me things he wouldn’t disclose to family or friends even, being miles from home and all: easier to dump shit on strangers, eh? Apparently she had a son, but he was a "rum bugger" according to Lawson.”

  Penmaric, Ray continued, had remained a bachelor largely because of the situation. “Visited her as regular as clockwork - even brought young Nigel with him… till he got too inquisitive, I reckon.”

  “You knew Nigel as well?” interrupted Greg.

  “Oh yes, matter of fact, he was up here a couple of months back. Never saw him to speak to, mind:
he was turning off in the direction of the McCaffrey’s place funnily enough – in the old Ulster.”

  “Can you remember just when that was?” urged Greg, unable to hide his curiosity.

  “My first week back after the Christmas break.” Hemmings delved into his briefcase and produced a well-handled five-year diary. “Here you are, look. I took over three weeks off for the holiday, cruise y'know, and that’s the first day back.”

  “Soon after Penmaric died,” muttered Greg angrily. “So as well as knowing all along what was going on, he was a consummate liar and a greedy bastard to boot. He was just waiting his time so he could keep the lot himself.”

  “Pardon?” blinked Hemmings.

  “Oh nothing, thinking out loud,” Greg replied. “Sorry - carry on.”

  Hemmings suddenly seemed reluctant to continue, though lubrication in the form of another large Scotch eased the situation. Greg, for his part, was prepared to spend the proceeds of his hard work over recent weeks on tapping the new and prolific source of information.

  “They were only waiting for her husband to go,” continued Hemmings, “at least that’s what I thought until you mentioned this Sarah. Anne McCaffrey’s husband only died months ago - ironic isn’t it?”

  Greg simply nodded and urged Hemmings to continue.

  “Well - never let this go any further - but Lawson was welshing the taxman. He was buying valuable paintings for Anne – her maid talked around the village you know. Of course, that way he couldn’t be linked with the pictures. The pair obviously planned to sell the paintings and live happily ever after once Anne’s husband died. All in her name, it was safer than money in the bank. And with Walter gone, who's to say it wasn't him who'd bought 'em for a song years before? Bomb-proof I'd say.” He looked at his watch again. "Must be going soon; I'd hate to miss my game."

  Greg saw it all now: the sudden upturn in the estate fortunes had no doubt occurred when Penmaric began his dealings. It wasn’t only tax-free cash he'd creamed off, but the proceeds from his share of drugs. He would have found it impractical, if not impossible, to show all the extra cash as upturn in business, so he’d invested in quality art and made it over to the person he trusted most. It also made sense that Penmaric wouldn't have wanted Sarah, or anyone else for that matter, to know how he'd amassed his wealth. As a respected squire-type figure who'd painted himself into an inescapable corner, guilt and fear of the consequences would have played equal parts in his continuance of the deception. Greg reasoned that Penmaric had no doubt tired of waiting for Anne McCaffrey, and had married Sarah in hopes of leaving an heir - possibly with the motive of eliminating his lifelong mistress when she’d served her purpose. The irony was that he could only keep a lid on his duplicity for as long as he remained alive.

  ‘No plan B’ as they say, but who'd ever have suspected a country gent in a veteran Aston-Martin of running drugs?

  While Greg had been pondering this, Hemmings had refilled the three men’s glasses - Greg’s with the now customary fruit juice - and his cup really began to overflow.

  "There’s more,” he said. “Fuck the golf!" Hemmings smirked and wriggled excitedly in his seat as he drew his companions closer.

  “He was laying off some of the paintings to a dealer from Brum.”

  “How do you know?” asked Greg, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Well,” continued the rep, “there was a sales meeting in the Oak-Room at The Falcon some months ago - right piss up it was. I never left until turned four in the morning - booked in here for the night, you see.”

  "Mind if I ask why?" Although loath to interrupt - concerned that Hemmings was becoming slower by the minute - Greg was too intrigued to hold his silence.

  “Let's just say…" Hemmings eyes danced impishly around the pub and then – significantly - up at the ceiling, "that the answer to that involves an entirely different story. Anyway, got almost as far as the Downs and the friggin' engine gave up - right state I was in. I mean, as well as being pissed, the car breaking down and all. Had to walk...”

  “What happened?” Greg broke in impatiently, though immediately regretted it. His attempt to hasten had the adverse effect and the tipsy rep insisted on starting again from the Falcon Hotel. He eventually progressed to the Downs again, and continued: “Penmaric was there, transferring something from one car to another. Never saw me - I cut across the verge and stood in the lee of some hedges.” He hesitated and looked furtively around again. “Should have booked in at the hotel with the rest of the lads, but I like to get back here. Place has ambiance." Hemmings obviously liked the word ambiance too: he repeated it several times before continuing.

  “Don’t interrupt!” whispered Greg, almost feeling Wyndham’s impatience. “We’ll only have to wait till he throws a six again.”

  “Next time I saw him, I asked what his game was,” continued Hemmings eventually. "Colour drained from his face.”

  “What did he say?” asked Greg with what little patience he had left.

  “Stuck for words - till I mentioned his art dealings. He seemed relieved to unload suddenly, and admitted selling pictures to a dealer in Brum. Crafty bastard eh? - Knocked off as well, I bet.”

  “You can bet!” humoured Greg, “do you remember the date?”

  “Date? Why?”

  “Oh, not important - just curious.”

  Hemmings picked up the wedge of a diary again and thumbed back to the previous year. “September… I’m sure it was the week following the folk festival. Ah, here it is look, September the eighteenth. So it would be the morning of the nineteenth.”

  “Oh, I see,” answered Greg vacantly; he’d seen enough: the black spot in the rep’s diary representing a new moon on the eighteenth.

  Greg held his hand out behind his back, palm uppermost. “Did he?"

  “Oh yes.” Hemmings laughed. “...Very well.”

  Greg could wait no longer: though concerned about Hemmings' state, he was anxious to meet Anne McCaffrey, “You’re not going to drive like that, Ray?”

  "Noooo!" The rep giggled childishly, then lifted the bar-flap and walked through to the cellar door. “Any chance of another drink, Len?" he yelled. "Might as well book in and make a job of it now - and balls to the golf!" He cupped his hands around his mouth. "You there Len?”

  On his return from the cellar, Len took one look at Hemmings and sighed. “I'll call the missis down to see to him. She knows how to cope with 'im when he's had a few. You wouldn't believe 'ow many times it's 'appened!”

  On his way to see Anne McCaffrey, Greg dropped Wyndham off, then followed his directions to the imposing old house. He tugged the mechanical bell-pull in anticipation of some eccentric lady answering - so was relieved when after what seemed like an age the door was opened by a homely old lady.

  “Mrs McCaffrey?” he asked politely.

  “No - I’m the daily… Who shall I say it is, m'dear?”

  “...Well…” Greg hesitated. “She doesn’t know me, I’m afraid, though in a way she may be expecting me. My name’s Alison, Greg Alison and I’m calling on behalf of...” He hesitated again, knowing he was on dangerous ground. “…On behalf of Nigel and the late Lawson Penmaric.”

  “Oh,” said the housekeeper, with simultaneous surprise and relief. “I’ll tell her you’re here. I’m sure she’ll see you.” Before she turned to go down the impressive hallway, she peered past Greg at the Ulster in the driveway. “I see you’ve come in his car m'dear,” she said, evidently happy with Greg’s credentials.

  The daily returned within seconds and ushered Greg into the library where Anne McCaffrey sat, cat in lap as ever. She looked weary and drawn as she spoke.

  “So you’ve come to collect the pictures, Mr Alison.” The old lady spoke gently, her voice as frail as her wasted frame. “I’m so glad you’ve come at last - I don’t think I could have waited much longer. Nigel called in some weeks ago to tell me of Lawson's death, and promised arrangements for collection would be made in good time.”


  She placed the cat on a rug in front of the log fire, freshly ablaze from re-stoking, and motioned a fragile hand towards one wall of the library.

  “There they are Mr Alison. I’ll have to prepare a receipt because Lawson entrusted them to my care.” Greg was amazed at the gullibility of the old lady: almost anyone could have come along with the same story, he reasoned. Even Hud and Ten!

  Bloody good job I got here first!

  Despite his relief, Greg was reluctant to simply take the pictures: after recent experiences, he didn’t fancy being pulled up with a car full of oils he couldn’t account for.

  “Look, Mrs McCaffrey,” he said seriously, “is there someone you can call on - someone who could witness the transaction, perhaps?”

  “Oh, they meant everything to Lawson, but they're probably worthless. He used to spend hours admiring them.” She sighed almost despairingly. “He always impressed on me that arrangements would be made to collect them if anything happened to him..."

  Her voice trailed off and she frowned as if remembering something of importance. “Where’s Nigel? Is he away again?" she asked.

  "He's not available right now." Greg saw no point in muddying the water more than necessary, and convinced himself yet again that he hadn't actually lied.

  “You’re not from Vance are you?” she asked suddenly, her sunken eyes widening with horror as, with difficulty she managed to stand. “Your name is Alison? You’re not that dreadful Skuce man employed by Vance?”

  “No - no!” Greg assured her, “do you think I'd be insisting on a witness if I wasn’t genuine? Any doubts you have only emphasise what I’ve said.”

  The old lady was clearly calmed by Greg's words; she sat again, and went on to explain that Penmaric had warned her, in the event of his death, not to have any dealings with Vance or anyone to do with him.

  “Lawson lived in mortal fear of that Skuce."

  "Who's Skuce?"

  "A man who Vance paid to do his dirty work; typical hit-man was the expression Lawson used.”