by Ali Harper
‘Well, you know. Equal opportunities and all that,’ said Jo. ‘Men screwed it up for years, might as well let a woman have a turn.’
He looked at Jo like he was seeing her for the first time. I could see his watery blue eyes fighting to focus. ‘What do you want with Wilkins, anyhow?’
‘We want to buy a car.’
‘Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.’ His eyes glinted as he turned and reached for a brass bell that I hadn’t noticed in the pile of crap on the sideboard behind him. He rang it, and it hurt my ears.
‘We’re trying to find his son,’ I shouted, in a bid to make the ringing stop.
He returned the bell to the sideboard. ‘Friends of his, are you?’
‘Yes, sort of. Do you know where we can find Nick? Mr Wilkins?’
‘He’ll be where he always is.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Never stops. Bump into him in the De Trafford and he’ll try and sell you one.’
‘Where does he work?’
‘The car place. You passed it on the way in.’
I shook my head.
‘Sells those massive ranger things that every sod round here aspires to drive. Take the main road into Manchester, it’s on the left-hand side, just after the crossroads with the church. Can’t miss it. Probably got a card somewhere.’
He pulled himself up from his armchair and began rummaging through a charity shop’s worth of clothing and bric-a-brac. He wrestled open drawer after drawer in the wooden dresser, then the sideboard, before turning his attention to another cupboard that was built into the corner of the room. I noticed odd socks, old curtains, and perhaps something that had once been a ladies’ evening dress, dark blue and sequinned, but eventually he came up with an envelope full of business cards. He emptied them out on the table and after a couple of moments shouted, ‘got the bugger,’ and held aloft a small card. ‘Bought the Rover from him. 1999.’
I snatched the card from his hand and almost laughed aloud when I read the header:
Wheels Motor Sales Ltd Big cars for big people.
Proprietor, Nick Wilkins
‘Never throw anything, drove Piers potty, but I told him, you never know. You never bloody know.’
I grinned at Jo and passed her the card. She flicked a finger against it. ‘Think he’ll be there? On a Saturday?’
‘Saturday, Sunday, Christmas Day. Always there,’ said the old man. ‘Has to be, doesn’t he?’
‘“Has to be”?’
‘Devil makes work for idle hands.’ He coughed again and had to sit back down. A black cat came to sit on the arm of his chair, headbutting him like it was trying to remind him to take his pills or something.
‘You married?’ I asked.
‘Confirmed bachelor, m’dear.’ The old man reached across for the whisky bottle and poured himself another measure.
‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
He glared at me, dipped a finger in his whisky and held it out for the cat to lick.
‘What about Mrs Wilkins?’ asked Jo. ‘Does she work there too? What does everyone say about her?’
‘Enough.’ He pushed the cat from the arm of the chair. ‘You want more, you come back another day. My time of life, got to be careful.’
‘We only have a couple more questions,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I make you a piece of toast or something?’
‘Out,’ he said, clambering to his feet. He swung his arms at me, ushering me in the direction of the door we’d come in through. ‘Out, out, right now.’
He shooed us as far as the entrance hall. He pulled his dressing gown cord tighter around his waist. ‘And listen to me, Missy. If I wanted Meals on Wheels, I’d sodding well ring them. Go on, off.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
Jo linked arms with me. ‘All right, granddad, keep your hair on. We’re going.’
‘Spend a term at university, think you can solve the problems of the world. I fought wars for girls like you. Wars.’ He made the last word last about five syllables.
The door slammed behind us as we stumbled back onto the drive.
Chapter Twelve
Wheels Motor Sales Ltd was on the outskirts of the town, on the road into Manchester, not the road we’d used to drive into Alderley Edge. On the forecourt stood about twenty-five plush cars, everything from your little sporty two-seaters to those ridiculous semi-land rovers that are the size of tanks – driven by people who wish they were part of the landed gentry. Each one gleamed in the watery sunlight.
‘How we going to handle this?’ I asked Jo.
A young man strode across the forecourt towards us, a smile plastered across his face. ‘Ladies,’ he exclaimed, as Jo popped open the door.
I winced and pretended to look for something in the passenger well.
‘Cut the crap,’ said Jo, climbing out of the van. ‘You don’t need to sell me anything. I’m here to buy a satnav. How much and how quick?’
I watched through the windscreen. The smile slipped, wobbled but then reappeared. ‘A woman who knows her own mind.’ He pointed both index fingers at Jo like she was the prize in a coconut shy.
Jo was already halfway across the forecourt. I clambered out of the van.
‘Is Mr Wilkins in?’
‘I’m the chief sales negotiator.’
‘Congratulations. I want to speak to Mr Wilkins.’
He frowned, revealing well-worn grooves in his forehead. ‘Are you an acquaintance?’
‘No, just like to put a face to the business. Know who I’m buying from.’ I tried to sound convincing.
‘Ah, well he only deals with car sales. I’m all you need for GPS, satellite navigation, and in-car entertainment systems.’
‘Good,’ I said, squaring my shoulders and lengthening my spine. ‘Tell him I’m in the market for a car, something like,’ – I cast my eyes around the lot and picked out a sporty little number – ‘something like that baby over there. Tell him I want to take it for a test drive, then you can go and fix my friend up with an in-car satnav entertainment system.’
He might have doubted me, but I pulled my gold-plated American Express from my back pocket. Normally, I’m embarrassed by my trust fund status but, at times, it has its compensations.
‘Righto!’ He practically skipped across to the office, a camp-ness to his step I hadn’t noticed before. He was back two minutes later. ‘He’ll be with you in a mo. I’ll go and take care of your friend.’
He crossed the forecourt to the door that Jo had slipped through.
Less than a minute later an older man appeared on the forecourt. He had a small beer belly that nestled over the top of his smart suit trousers, but other than that he looked fit. Tall, silver-haired, would have been handsome in his younger days, that much was obvious. He stalked across the parking lot like a man used to getting attention. His smile slipped a little as he took a look at me.
‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ I said. ‘Just think of me as your average, spoilt, badly-behaved trust-fund kid.’
That cheered him up. ‘You’re looking to buy?’
‘Good to go.’
‘What d’you have in mind?’
No contest. I turned to the banana-yellow sporty number on the far left of the forecourt. If I was going to go for it, I might as well go for it in style. ‘How about that?’
He followed my gaze. ‘The Mazda?’ He nodded. ‘The kid’s got taste.’
Five minutes later I was behind the wheel. I didn’t like to tell him I’d only learned to drive a few months before, and I’d been taught by Jo, who’s got more speeding fines than Usain Bolt. The soundtrack to Jo’s driving is a cacophony of blaring horns, interspersed with shouts of things like ‘stupid bitch’ from men leaning out of car windows.
‘Wow.’ He grabbed the window frame. ‘Easy on the clutch.’
We lurched off the forecourt.
‘Four-cylinder engine, fuel injected; 115 BHP.’
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could feel the power of the engine throbbing through the ball of my foot. This was the closest I’d been to taking drugs in ages. He pressed a button on the dashboard and the roof ground back, exposing a bright blue sky. He must have sensed my enthusiasm because he laughed, and his pointed canines reminded me of a wolf.
‘So, where’s the trust fund from, kid?’
‘My granddad.’ The worst thing about this conversation was it wasn’t far from the truth. I inherited over a £100,000 from my mother’s father, a man who died before I had the chance to meet him. Him and my mum were what you’d call estranged, which is why he cut her from the will and put all his money in trust for me, for the day I turned 21. Of course, my mother had never thought to mention it; so, when she died, it came as a shock. A shock that’s taken me the last three years to get over. At least now I understand her bitterness. She never had anything, my mum. I learned early to lie on the floor behind the sofa when the rent officer called.
‘What did he do?’
‘What?’
‘Your grandfather. What did he do?’
That floored me a little. I knew nothing about him. ‘He was a solicitor.’ Not altogether a lie. The man who’d told me about my grandfather’s trust fund was a solicitor. ‘He disowned my mother. She was dead by the time I got the cash.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Eh?’ I lost concentration as a lorry swerved round the corner in front of me. I hit the brakes and heard the screech of rubber against tarmac. My heart banged against my chest as I tightened my grip on the wheel and eased off on the accelerator.
Nick Wilkins didn’t appear to have noticed. ‘To get disowned?’
‘Oh. She … she married the wrong man.’
He threw back his head and laughed, and I felt affronted that he took my family dysfunctionality so lightly.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘No such thing as the right man. Haven’t you worked that out? How old are you?’
‘I’m 24.’ I shot him a glance. ‘Are you telling me I should give up on Prince Charming?’
‘The wrong man – that your dad?’
‘Kind of.’
‘“Kind of”?’
‘They split up.’ I didn’t see the roundabout until we were already halfway around it, but it didn’t seem to matter. A millimetre’s worth of pressure on the accelerator and we were out of trouble. ‘I never met him.’
‘Take the B road, takes you out of town. Give you a chance to let it have its head.’ He paused. ‘Sorry. About—’
‘Can’t miss what you never had.’ I kept my eyes on the road. A couple of miles in this and already I felt like a better driver. We drove in silence for a while until I took a bend too fast, and his left hand clutched the elbow rest on the door panel. That’s when I noticed the gold band of his wedding ring. ‘Your wife think the same?’
‘What?’
‘No such thing as the right man?’
‘She doesn’t think anything.’
The landscape changed as we zoomed out of town, the buildings thinned then dwindled to nothing. The road broadened, lost its pavement. I loved the feeling of the wind rushing against my scalp. I couldn’t help myself. I let out this kind of animal sound, somewhere between a cheer and a yell.
He slapped a palm against his thigh. ‘First time?’
‘Only ever driven a Mini before. And the van.’
He laughed again. ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing.’
I nearly missed the bend in the road. ‘Do you think I’m too young?’ I asked, easing the pressure on the gas.
‘Too young?’
‘I could go crazy in this baby.’
‘You’d soon learn.’
‘Would you let your kid drive this?’
‘Character building. Imagine how your mates are gonna look at you.’
I tried to imagine the hippies in LS6 being the least bit impressed as I spun around the streets in a banana-yellow tin can. Then I thought about the scallies. If it lasted more than thirty-five seconds outside my house, I’d eat shit.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m worried it might get nicked.’
‘Anti-theft device, great alarm system.’
I didn’t point out that LS6 was alive to the sound of ringing alarms – no one ever batted an eyelid. ‘Do you have kids?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Bit cryptic.’
‘A son. ’Bout your age.’
‘Does he drive a car like this?’
‘Prefers to pretend he hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. Calls it making his own way.’
‘What do you call it?’
‘Pig-bloody-mindedness. Can’t tell him anything. Just like his mother.’
‘I hope you’re more charming to her face.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh. Oh, sorry.’ I hit a bump in the road and bit my lip.
‘Happened a long time ago. I’m over it.’ He lit a small cigar. ‘I’m over women.’
A Vauxhall momentarily blocked my way, but the other side of the road was clear and straight, so I sailed straight past it, and in seconds it became a grey blue blur in the rear-view mirror. ‘They all say that.’
‘All sweetness and bloody light, until someone crosses you.’
‘Can’t all be perfect.’
‘Gold diggers.’
I raised my eyebrows. Good job Jo wasn’t here. ‘You’re sounding bitter now.’
‘The price of experience. Women see a man like myself, self-made, drives a great car, and you see the pound signs light up in their eyes. You talk to them and they don’t reply cos they’re too busy trying to work out your net worth. Better than a Savile Row tailor. They can judge the size of a man’s wallet from ten paces.’
‘You can’t be that over them.’ I nodded my head towards his wedding ring. ‘You remarried.’
He held up his hand in front of his own face. ‘Wear this to put them off.’ He rested his arm out the side of the window, making aeroplane shapes with his hand. ‘If there’s one thing life’s taught me it’s don’t make the same mistake twice.’
I turned in my seat to face him. ‘You didn’t remarry?’
‘No.’
‘Not even once?’
‘What?’ A frown darkened his features. In slow motion I saw his lips struggle to form the right words. ‘Watch—’
I yanked my attention back to the road but saw only a low-slung stone wall and green fields. What the fuck happened to the road? I braked as hard as I could, smashing my foot against the pedal. The car lurched sideways, the back wheels spinning round, so that they overtook the bonnet. I didn’t notice the ditch until the bonnet dropped out of sight. Mr Wilkins’s hands jerked forward, as he steeled himself against the dashboard.
‘Jesus Ch—’
The car stopped. It had to. To continue any further on its trajectory would have meant going underground. I turned in my seat. The back tyres were three feet off the ground, still spinning.
‘Shit.’ I closed my eyes. Opened them again. The picture was still the same. ‘What about your son?’
‘What about my car?’ He leaped out of the passenger door and examined the front end.
I stood up in my seat so I was looking over the windscreen. ‘Didn’t he need a stepmother?’
‘Jesus. I think you might have got away with that.’ He ran a hand along the bonnet. ‘Bloody miracle.’
‘You couldn’t bring him up on your own.’
He stopped rubbing the car and looked up at me, his dark eyebrows almost meeting in the middle of his forehead. ‘How the hell are we going to get it out of here?’
He had a point. The car was at an angle of forty-five degrees, its nose stuck in the ditch.
‘Can you lift the front?’
I restarted the engine, which had cut out on impact. Luckily the car was small.
‘I’m not bleeding Superman.’
‘What about if I get out?’
‘Kill the engine. We need something under the front wheels.’
I looked up and down the horizon but saw nothing that sprang to mind.
‘Get some stones from the wall,’ he said, pointing at the dry-stone wall a few hundred yards away. ‘The flattest ones you can find.’
I limped my way across through the tall grasses. I’d hurt my knee, I realized. By good fortune whoever had built the wall had saved the flattest ones for making crenulations on the top. I carried four back, one at a time. On my final journey, Mr Wilkins was lying across the rear of the car, using his weight to force the rear of the car down. His hands just gripped the steering wheel.
‘We’re going to need a heavy one to jam the accelerator pedal,’ he shouted.
I dropped my fourth stone, ignored my grazed fingers and made my way back over the grass.
‘And another for the clutch,’ he yelled.
It crossed my mind to yell back that he could fetch his own bloody rocks, but I figured I was riding my luck already.
When I got back he’d managed to get the flatter rocks under the front wheels. ‘We’re both going to have to press on the back. Make sure you get your feet out of the way though.’
I sat on the boot and clung to the edge of the back seat. I felt the rear of the car sink down a fraction. He placed one of my squarer rocks on the floor of the car so that it was pressing down the clutch pedal. Then he got the last rock and dropped it onto the front seat. He turned the key in the ignition and jumped onto the boot, next to me.
‘Hold on to your hat.’
He leaned right over to the front, and I saw his shirt rise and a flash of muscle on his back as he stretched across to put the car into reverse gear. He was head down in the driving seat, the rest of his body draped over the rear of the car. There were no back seats.
He dropped the rock onto the accelerator pedal and whipped away the one on the clutch. The car lurched backwards.
I gripped tighter and thought back to our initial client assessment form. The only solid thing, the only fact we knew in this case, slipped between my fingers like sand through an egg timer.
Susan Wilkins wasn’t Jack’s mother. Or his stepmother. Susan Wilkins wasn’t even Susan Wilkins, that much was obvious. Which left me with a couple of questions. Like who was she, and why had she paid us to find Jack?