by Dilys Xavier
As he drove towards the industrial estate his mind went back to his first meeting with Murphy. He had been having a drink with an acquaintance in a nearby pub when the man walked into the bar. After Peter’s friend left they struck up a conversation. It seemed that Murphy, as he introduced himself, had just arrived from Ireland and was looking for some suitable premises in the neighbourhood to garage his vehicle.
‘I’ve got a van,’ he explained, ‘and I need somewhere to take delivery of things. It doesn’t have to be very big, just secure, that’s all.’
They had discussed his proposed venture over a few drinks. By the time they had parted company, Peter had promised to help him find a place, and had even offered to offset some of the expenses for a share in the enterprise. Murphy began making regular trips to France almost immediately, and within weeks suggested that Peter should invest in an extra van to increase the turnover.
The next time he visited the garage, Murphy introduced him to two other Irishmen. Cousins, he had laughingly called them, but whereas he was a fairly presentable person with the gift of the gab, the others were sullen and withdrawn. But it didn’t seem to matter at the time. It was only later when Peter began to have second thoughts about their association that things became uncomfortable.
All too soon, Peter realised that he had been just a pawn. Murphy had used him to present a respectable face to the public while he took advantage of a loophole in the law. The lease on the garage was in his name, and now he owned two of the vans they used to transport the goods from France and Belgium. Peter had been effectively tied into the operation, and there seemed no way he could extricate himself and, to make matters worse, the man had become abusive and threatening. And now as he walked towards the lockup, Peter felt a sense of foreboding. Brucie slid out from under one of the vans as he entered the garage.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, aggressively. ‘Didn’t Murphy tell you to piss off?’
‘Where is he?’ Peter asked, ignoring the man’s remarks. ‘I want him to get something for me on the next trip to France.’
At that moment Murphy drove into the yard. Whistling a catchy tune, he swaggered into the garage carrying a small plastic bag that contained something that looked like white powder.
‘Here you are, Brucie, something to get you in sweet with your girlfriend.’ Then he saw Peter. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What’s that?’ Peter demanded, pointing to the bag in Murphy’s hand. ‘I thought I told you no drugs.’
‘And I thought I told you to mind your own business and to keep away from this place.’
Without thinking Peter plucked the sachet from the man’s hand and ran out of the garage. He had just reached the car, tugged open the door and thrown himself behind the wheel when the two men caught up with him. In a desperate attempt to stop them dragging him out of the vehicle he locked his hands around the steering column. But he was no match for Murphy; the man was a born brawler.
Somehow or other he managed to stay on his feet when he was yanked clear of the Jaguar, but a blow to his kidneys knocked the wind out him and he doubled up and fell to the ground. After kicking him in the stomach, Murphy turned to Brucie.
‘You sort him out.’
The bullet-headed man hauled Peter to his feet, slammed him up against the car and then proceeded to use his face as a punching bag. When Brucie finally let go of him, Peter slumped to the ground, but as he struggled to his feet the two men threw him into the driving seat of the Jaguar, with the rejoinder to get out and stay out. He managed to start the car and shove it into gear, but he had barely driven more than a mile when he collapsed on the front seat. Half an hour later he came to, and made his way back to Langley Hall, where he passed out again.
Catherine found him slumped across the wheel when she returned that afternoon, and choked back a scream when she saw his bloodied face and torn clothing. Unable to get any response from him, she called for an ambulance. As the officers eased him out of the Jaguar they asked her what had happened, but when it became clear that she had no idea, they laid him on a stretcher and pushed it into the back of their vehicle. By the time Catherine arrived at the hospital he had already been x-rayed and was about to undergo minor surgery. When he awoke, she was by his side.
‘What happened, Peter?’ Her normally calm voice bordered on hysteria. ‘How did you get those injuries? Who did this?’
Peter hesitated before answering as he searched for an explanation.
‘Some young hoods beat me up,’ he muttered. ‘Apparently, they didn’t like being overtaken. They forced me off the road and pulled me out of the car and then began hitting me.’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t know how I managed to drive home.’
Try as she might, Catherine could get no more out of him about the incident. After he had drifted off to sleep she checked with the doctor and found out that as far as they could determine Peter had not suffered any serious internal injuries. However the physician had been concerned enough to notify the police. When she told Peter that someone from the local police station would interview him the following day he became highly distressed and said he wanted to discharge himself from hospital.
Unable to convince him it was foolish, Catherine reluctantly agreed to pick him up the next morning. She glanced sideways at Peter as she drove through the gates of the estate. He’s hiding something from me, she thought, as he pretended to gaze thoughtfully out the window. I wonder what he’s done. Her attempts to find out more about the attacks were brushed aside with an angry, ‘Just let me be for the moment.’
A police officer arrived to interview him that afternoon. The young P.C. gave Catherine an appraising look as she showed him into the study, and then he thanked her profusely before sitting down opposite Peter.
‘Now, Mr Hamblyn, just tell me in your own words what happened.’ he said, taking out a notebook. ‘Where were you when the attack took place?’
Peter faltered for a moment because he had not prepared himself for the interview. He drew in a deep breath as the officer watched him closely.
‘I was just coming out of a lay-by when a car suddenly pulled off the road in front of me. I was lucky I didn’t hit it.’
‘Which lay-by?’
‘Er ... er, the one close to the underpass. Yes, I think that was the one.’
‘Go on.’
‘When I stopped to tell them to be more careful, they dragged me out of the car and began beating me up.’
The policeman made more notes in his book and then asked, ‘Can you describe your assailants?’
‘Er ... one was dark-skinned; suppose he could have been Pakistani, or maybe Afro-Asian. The other was fair, well, he had fair hair.’ He hesitated again as he realised he had given very little thought to the story he was trying to concoct. ‘It’s pretty hard to take notice of appearances when someone is beating the living daylights out of you.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the officer agreed. ‘Did either of them have an accent?’
‘Not that I can remember; they didn’t say much.’ Peter replied. ‘Of course, I didn’t get a close look at the fellow in the car.’ When the officer reminded him that he had only mentioned two men previously, Peter mumbled something about not really being sure how many men attacked him.
The policeman continued to take notes, but began to look sideways at Peter as he began to change his story. When the officer queried some aspects of his statement, Peter pleaded that he had been in a state of shock. Finally, the officer stood up.
‘Could I have a look at the vehicle, sir?’
The Jaguar still stood where Peter had come to a halt two days earlier. The officer gave the vehicle a cursory glance, opened the door, looked at the bloodstained steering wheel, and was about to shut the door again when he stopped.
‘What’s this then?’ he asked, pointing to a trace of white powder on the floor. The officer touched it with a wetted finger and lifted it to his nose.
The colour drained from Peter’s face as the
man’s expression hardened. He vaguely remembered throwing the sachet into the car before he grabbed the steering wheel, but had not seen where it had landed. The bag must have split open when it hit the floor. And now, as the policeman waited for a reply, he wondered why he had snatched it off Murphy in the first place. There was no logical explanation.
‘I’ll need to take some of this back to the station for analysis.’ the officer said, scooping some of the powder into a plastic bag. ‘And I have to caution you that I suspect it to be a prohibited substance. I would advise you to remain on the premises until such time as a senior officer has taken a statement from you.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Peter blurted out, grasping at the man’s sleeve. ‘I’m sure I’ll remember how it got into the car. I can ...’ He stopped as the officer shook himself free. ‘Sorry, but I’m a bit confused at the moment.’
Peter leaned against his car until the policeman had left, and then he walked slowly and painfully back to the house. He stumbled inside and through to the office. Sinking down onto a chair, he buried his head in his hands and began to weep softly. A feeling of abject hopelessness swept over him as he realised that the situation was spiralling out of control.
‘Oh, my god,’ he sobbed, ‘what have I done? How could I be so stupid? What am I going to do now?’ There was only one course of action really. He would have to tell the police the whole story: how he had become involved with Murphy and his friends, how he had partly financed the operation, how he had suspected they were involved with drugs. Then he would have to explain why he had not reported his suspicions. But would they accept his account of things? It was quite obvious that the officer had not believed the story that he had been the victim of a road rage attack.
And what of Catherine? He had to keep her name and the good name of Langley Hall out of it. What if she were implicated in any way? The very thought was horrendous. He would have to tell her, and distance himself from everything associated with the estate. Another tear coursed down his cheek.
‘I’ll lose her too,’ he sobbed. As he searched for a handkerchief to dab his tearstained face, he heard a tap on the door and Catherine call his name.
CHAPTER TEN
Richard breezed into the office the next day and rifled through the mail to see if there was a letter from the Register Office. When he failed to find what he was looking for he threw the letters back onto the desk in disgust.
‘What’s taking them so long?’ he muttered.
‘Give them a chance,’ Nicole retorted, testily. ‘They aren’t going to drop everything just to attend to you.’ She took the letters out of his hand. ‘I’ll let you know the moment something turns up.’ When he pulled a face she pointed to the clock. ‘Don’t forget your eleven o’clock appointment.’
In the privacy of his office, he pushed the redial button on the phone and willed Cecile to pick up the receiver. But all he heard was the continuous ringing tone. Maybe she’s playing games, he mused; keeping me fired up until she’s good and ready. He dropped the phone back onto its cradle. ‘Well, two can play at that game,’ he murmured.
The rest of the morning went by quickly as he attended to the numerous requests for his latest innovative product. Business had never been better. He wondered whether he should approach Grant Hersy, the managing director of Fullers Electric, again. The man had not been at all interested the last time they had discussed things, but he might be more approachable now that some of his competitors were eager to acquire the new equipment.
As he prepared to leave the office, Richard asked Nicole to set up a meeting with the man within the next few days. When he returned after lunch there was a note on his desk to confirm that she had arranged an early morning appointment.
Richard resisted the impulse to phone Cecile one more time even though he was sure that she was keen to see him again. However, he felt that she and Catherine had arranged everything, the dinner, the grand entrance and the flat battery. But he couldn’t understand why Catherine would use Cecile as a decoy. Maybe she did not want to become personally involved because she found herself attracted to him. But whatever the reason, it showed she must be quite concerned about things.
The morning appointment with Grant Hersy necessitated either a very early start, or an overnight stay in Leicester. Richard opted for the second choice, because he would be more relaxed if he didn’t have to drive a hundred odd miles through peak hour traffic. As he prepared to leave that afternoon he pushed a slip of paper across the desk to Nicole.
‘Would you ring Ms Katsoulis tomorrow morning and tell her ... tell her ...’ He stopped as his secretary began to laugh.
‘Shall I give her the pressure of work routine, or the out of town excuse?’
‘Let’s use the latter; at least it’s true on this occasion.’ Richard said, joining in her laughter. ‘You’ve got me taped haven’t you?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Right, I’ll give you a ring from Leicester to let you know what time I’ll be back.’
He was just about to open the front door of his house, when a van bearing the legend, Thomas Clancy – Building Contractor, stopped on the other side of the road. This is a bit untimely, he thought, as the man clambered out of the vehicle. After all it was more than two weeks since the builder had promised faithfully to quote for the removal of an internal wall and redecorate a couple of rooms.
The man apologised for not keeping their prior arrangement.
‘I’ve been snowed under with work,’ he explained.
Richard hesitated before leading the way into the house. He had decided to make the alterations before he discovered his connection to Sir Hugh and Langley Hall. Was it worthwhile going ahead he wondered? After all he might be moving in the near future. He hesitated for a moment.
‘Well, you’re here now so you’d better have a look at the job,’ he said, inviting the builder inside. When the man had measured up the area and jotted a few figures into a notebook, Richard asked. ‘Can you give me a price off the top of your head?’
‘No, I don’t work that way. I’ll pop a quote in the post tonight,’ he replied. ‘And if you’re happy with it, let me know.’
‘How soon can you start?’
‘Depends on how soon I finish the work I’ve got on hand. As I said, I’m pretty busy at the moment.’ He paused and pursed his lips. ‘Three to four weeks at least. Will that be soon enough?’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve got your quote, okay?’
After Clancy left, Richard changed into some casual clothes and packed an overnight bag. He checked his portfolio to ensure it contained all the information he needed, locked the door behind him and slipped into the Saab. The usual bumper to bumper line of cars had ended by the time he reached the motorway and he had a reasonably pleasant journey through to Leicester.
The meeting with Grant Hersy went well, and he left the managing director’s office with a feeling akin to elation. Even the traffic seemed to run more smoothly on the return trip. By the time he pulled into his parking space just before one o’clock the next day, he was feeling very pleased with himself. He breezed into the office and was just about to regale Nicole with the results of the meeting, when he saw the expression on her face.
‘What’s up?’
‘Something’s wrong with the computer. It keeps crashing.’ Nicole looked close to tears. ‘I’ve tried everything I know, but I can’t get it to work.’
‘Let me have a look,’ Richard said, pulling up a chair. Half an hour later he threw up his hands in despair. ‘It beats me. I can’t think of anything else.’ He picked up the phone. ‘I’ll give Tony Randall a call. He’ll be able to sort it out.’
The computer technician arrived just as Nicole was leaving. He asked her the very same questions that Richard had done, and then he began tapping away at the keys. The only words he uttered over the next ten minutes were; ‘Uh, uh,’ until he found a clue, and then he said, ‘Ah, ah.’
He punched in a
few more commands, and then turned to Richard. ‘Someone’s been hacking into it.’ He loaded a disk in the A drive and watched the results of his input. ‘Whoever it was must have been pretty dumb; they managed to jam everything up, but apart from that they haven’t done any lasting damage. It’ll pay you to change all your passwords just to be on the safe side.’
‘Any idea what they were after?’
‘Could have been anything,’ Tony replied. ‘Anything or nothing. It could have been someone just playing around.’ He eased himself away from the console. ‘It seems a bit strange that a hacker would do this during the day. Most of them work late at night.’
After the computer technician had gone, Richard left a note for Nicole, made a few phone calls and then closed the office. As he drove into the nearby village, he suddenly saw a vacant spot outside an off licence store. He was just about to climb back into the Saab when he heard someone call his name. Louise waved to him from the other side of the street.
‘Yoo-hoo, Richard,’ she called, cheerily.
He crossed over to where she stood. ‘What are you doing here, Louise? I thought you would have returned to Ireland by now.’
‘I had intended to go home yesterday, but I thought I’d better stay on for a few more days in case I’m needed,’ Louise said, dropping her voice as she continued. ‘Peter was beaten-up by some hooligans. He’s in a terrible mess. They had to put stitches in his ear, and he can hardly see out of one eye.’
When Richard pressed her for more details, Louise said Catherine was very concerned about the whole affair. Apparently the police were suspicious of Peter’s account of the events, too. Everyone seemed convinced there was more to it than met the eye. As he listened to her version of things he wondered how a fairly inoffensive man like Peter Hamblyn would become involved in an altercation with hoodlums. Surely it was just a case of mistaken identity.