They did not at first appreciate that the question had come from a third party. Eventually, however, as the gale of their laughter blew itself out, they noticed a man staring at them round the corner of the settle. He was a small, shrunken, whey-faced fellow of indeterminate age, dressed in a threadbare ratcatcher’s coat and a greasy pork-pie hat.
Without waiting for an answer, he slid round, Mackeson in hand, and joined them at their table. ‘Sounds like you could be talking about a mate of mine.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Harry.
‘Fred Christie. Streaky, hawk-eyed bloke with a ’tache but not a strand of hair north of his eyebrows to call his own.’
‘Never met him.’
‘Are you sure about that? Only—’
‘What does your mate do for a living?’ put in Chipchase.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Simple question, old cock. What’s his line of work?’
‘Well …’
‘And what’s yours, while we’re about it?’
‘Look …’ The man leant forward and lowered his voice. ‘I need to find Fred. Pronto. If you know where he is, I could, er, make it worth your while to point me in the right direction.’
‘But Harry’s already told you. We’ve never met him.’
‘He, er, could be using a false name.’
‘Oh yeah? Why might that be?’
‘Let’s just say … there are reasons.’
‘Then we’d best be hearing what they are.’
‘They’re, er, private. Between him and me.’
‘Not any more they aren’t.’ Chipchase gave the man a less than genial wink. ‘Not if you want to get a chance to talk them over with Fred.’
‘Are you saying you know where he is?’
‘I’m saying we’ll come clean if you’ll come clean.’
The man squinted at each of them in turn. He did not look persuaded of the case for soul-baring.
‘Have a think about it,’ Chipchase continued. ‘Harry and I are just off. We’ll wait in my car. It’s the Wolseley parked over the road. Two minutes.’ He raised a pair of fingers. ‘Then we skedaddle. So … don’t think about it too long.’
‘What are you playing at, Barry?’ Harry demanded as soon as they were outside.
‘Following my nose, Harry. Always a good policy.’
‘You can’t seriously think that creep really is a friend of Rillington’s.’
‘The description matched, didn’t it?’
‘That’s rich. I was the one who met Rillington, not you.’
‘Thin. Moustache. Toupee. You telling me that isn’t Rillington?’
‘I’m telling you—’
Chipchase whipped the driver’s door open and flung himself in, slamming it behind him. Harry sighed heavily, opened the passenger door and clambered in.
‘I’m telling you,’ Harry resumed in a level tone, ‘that there isn’t a single good reason to believe a word this bloke says.’
‘No?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How about your MoT man’s choice of moniker?’
‘What?’
‘According to our friend, his real name’s Christie.’
‘So?’
‘Like the murderer.’
‘Like the actress too. And the whodunnit writer. I don’t see—’
‘Never mind them. Where did Christie the murderer live, Harry? Tell me that. Surely you remember. It was all over the papers.’
Enlightenment dawned slowly on Harry in the Swindonian night. Christie the murderer. Of course. Harry had even flicked through a book about the case his mother had borrowed from the library. He really should have remembered the title. His pseudo-civil-servant visitor of earlier in the day clearly had. ‘Ten Rillington Place,’ he murmured.
‘Exactly.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Looks like you’ve been had, Harry. And here comes the man who can tell us why.’ A shadowy figure in a pork-pie hat had just emerged from the Glue Pot. He peered suspiciously about him, then headed towards them. ‘Leave this to me.’
As the man slid into the seat behind him, Harry sensed all was not quite right.
Long before he could have said why, however, he felt something cold and hard pressing into the back of his neck.
‘Yes, Harry, it’s a gun,’ said Fred Christie, aka C.E. Rillington of the Ministry of Transport. ‘One false move by you or Barry and your brains will be all over that windscreen.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly. Very bloody indeed.’
‘Calm down, mate,’ said Chipchase, characteristically recommending a course of action he was obviously not following himself. ‘There’s no—’
‘I’m not your mate, Barry. And I’m perfectly calm, thank you. But I am a little short of time and patience, so we’ll dispense with the niceties. I tried the roundabout route and it didn’t work. How much did Arnie tell you?’
‘You mean the owner of that hat?’
‘The very same.’
‘Well, nothing really, except he knew you … and …’
‘You weren’t from the MoT,’ Harry finished off, swallowing hard. ‘We, er, stepped out here for a word in private.’
‘And that’s what we’re having, Harry. Arnie’s collecting his thoughts in the Gents. He’ll be collecting them for quite a while, actually, so there’s no immediate rush, but we do need to press on. Once I’d checked the workshop, I realised we’d have to resume our conversation on a more realistic basis. I asked after you at the pub where you take your liquid lunch and they mentioned several other watering holes where I might find you. This was second on the list. I imagine Arnie came here because it’s close to the station. He’d have been hoping to get some directions. Geography’s not his strong point. Never was.’
‘You and he … go back a long way, do you?’
‘Too long. But let’s get to the point. Where’s my money?’
‘Money?’
‘Don’t act dumb with me. I kept a careful mental note of the burial spot. It was a tricky exercise, pacing out across your yard and workshop what I originally paced out across a field. But there’s not a shadow of a doubt. I checked and double-checked. The inspection pit is exactly where I buried the money – and several feet deeper than I dug. Well, Arnie did most of the digging, to tell the truth, but that doesn’t give him any prior claim in my judgement, considering I went down for a longer stretch and we’d have been caught in possession but for me thinking on my feet. Now, you said Knight’s Motorcycles owned the site before you, didn’t you, Harry?’
‘Yes,’ came a hoarse response in what Harry barely recognised as his own voice.
‘Did they have an inspection pit?’
‘No.’
‘So, you installed it?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, I return to my original question: where’s my money?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Chipchase.
‘You dug the pit. Harry’s just admitted it. You couldn’t have avoided finding the money.’
‘We didn’t dig it. We got a builder in.’
‘Sharland,’ said Harry, his heart sinking as he realised the significance of the builder’s identity.
Now it was Chipchase’s turn to say, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What about Sharland?’ snapped Christie.
‘Our workshop was the last job he ever did,’ Chipchase replied. ‘He had a big Pools win straight after and retired.’
‘A Pools win?’
‘So he said.’
‘And where did he retire to?’
‘Spain, wasn’t it, Harry?’
‘Florida, I heard.’
‘Shut up.’ The pressure against Harry’s neck increased. ‘Why should I believe any of this?’
‘Well, there’s the fact that Sharland’s bronzing himself in some palatial villa in the sun …’ Chipchase began.
‘While we’re still stuck here in Swindon,’ Harry rounded of
f.
‘Bit of a choker for all of us,’ Chipchase went on. ‘No wonder the last time I saw the bloke he was grinning like the cat that’s got the cream. Not that I know how much cream there was, of course.’
Christie said nothing. Harry’s heart was thumping in his ears. A rivulet of sweat was inching down his temple. His breaths came fast and shallow.
‘What now?’ Chipchase asked eventually.
‘Now?’ Christie responded, as if from some more distant place than the rear seat of the car. ‘You’d better start driving.’
‘Where to?’
‘Head west. Towards the motorway.’
‘There’s not a lot more we can—’
‘Just drive.’
‘Okay, okay.’
The bleak thought formed in Harry’s mind that this was likely to be a one-way journey. Either Christie believed them, in which case he was probably planning to kill them before going after Sharland. Or he did not believe them, in which case …
‘That’s funny.’ Chipchase had got no response from the starter. He turned the ignition key off, then back on and tried the starter again. To no effect. ‘The engine’s dead.’
‘Don’t play games with me,’ said Christie. ‘Start the bloody car.’
‘I can’t.’ There was another futile wrestle with ignition key and starter. ‘It’s dead as a doornail.’
‘Do you take me for a fool? Get this thing moving.’
‘I can’t, I tell you.’
‘Barry,’ Harry put in, ‘for God’s sake—’
‘I’m not kidding, Harry. It’s kaput.’
‘But you’ve just driven it from Newbury.’
‘I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense.’ Chipchase glanced back at Christie. ‘Why don’t I take a look under the bonnet? There must be a loose connection.’
‘There’d need to be a loose connection under my bonnet to fall for that one.’
‘It’s God’s honest truth. I don’t know what’s the matter with the thing. Let me give it the once-over. You’ll still have Harry as hostage. I’m not going to leg it with an old mate’s life on the line, am I?’
Harry closed his eyes for a second, praying silently that Chipchase might for once be relied upon.
‘All right,’ said Christie after a long and breathless moment’s thought. ‘Go ahead.’ He pushed his door open. ‘But remember: I’ll have time to plug you as well as Harry if you try to scarper.’
‘Okay. Understood.’ Chipchase climbed out, moved round to the front of the car and raised the bonnet, obscuring their view of him.
‘Stand where I can see you,’ shouted Christie.
Chipchase edged back into view round the nearside wing. He secured the bonnet-strut, then peered down into the engine.
‘Now you know how it feels.’
The voice had carried distinctly through the still night air, though where it had carried from Harry could not have said. His eyes swivelled in search of the source.
‘That Zephyr you sold me conked out the second trip I took in it.’ The source materialised in Harry’s field of vision, striding towards Chipchase along the pavement. ‘And what did that mealy-mouthed partner of yours say? Not our problem. Well, it is now.’ It was Mr Gifford, outraged and out-of-pocket buyer of one of Barnchase Motors’ less durable used cars. Harry recalled a recent conversation with him. It had not ended harmoniously. ‘Since I can’t drive my car, I don’t see why you should be able to drive yours, Mr Chipchase.’
Chipchase seemed lost for words. He glanced up at the approaching figure of Gifford – a bullet-headed, square-shouldered fellow carrying some weight he looked intent on throwing around – then gaped helplessly back at Harry through the windscreen.
‘There’s Mr Barnett as well,’ roared Gifford, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. ‘Get yourself out here and join the fun, why don’t you?’
‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Harry.
‘Come on.’ Gifford yanked Harry’s door open. ‘Let’s be having you.’
‘Bugger it,’ said Christie. Quietly and decisively.
Harry flinched at the words and closed his eyes, reckoning the odds were heavily weighted in favour of Christie pulling the trigger at that moment.
But he did not pull the trigger.
The pressure was suddenly removed from Harry’s neck. There was a scuffling sound behind him. Then a pounding of running feet on paving stones. He opened his eyes. Both Chipchase and Gifford were looking past the car along the street. Harry turned to look in the same direction.
Just in time to see the pork-pie-hatted, toupee-sporting figure of Fred Christie vanishing at a trot round the corner into Faringdon Road.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded Gifford.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Chipchase replied, leaning back against the wing of the Wolseley and tipping up the brim of his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow. ‘Believe me.’
‘I thought … he was going to shoot me,’ Harry said unevenly. He made to climb out of the car, but his legs buckled beneath him. Gifford had to help him out in the end, frowning in puzzlement at his sudden conversion from saboteur to saviour.
‘What’s going on?’ Gifford asked, almost solicitously.
‘Long story,’ said Harry.
‘He dropped the gun,’ said Chipchase, pointing to a dark shape lying a few feet away in the gutter. ‘Can you believe it? He dropped it and ran.’
‘Gun?’ Gifford stared at them in astonishment. ‘You mean there are customers of yours even more pissed off than me?’
‘In a sense,’ mumbled Harry.
‘But a gun? That’s a bit strong.’ Gifford stepped towards the discarded weapon, then stopped – and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ growled Chipchase.
‘This gun.’ Gifford stooped and picked it up.
‘Be careful with it.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not connected.’
‘Connected?’
‘It’s a petrol-pump nozzle.’ Gifford held it up for them to see. And a petrol-pump nozzle was indeed what they beheld. ‘Gallon of thin air for you two?’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Harry.
‘He must have filched it from the workshop,’ said Chipchase.
‘Let’s hope that’s all he filched.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
The shout had come from the doorway of the Glue Pot. They turned to see Arnie, bare-headed and even wobblier on his feet than Harry, staring blearily across at them and rubbing what was presumably a tender spot behind his left ear.
‘That way,’ said Harry and Barry in unison, pointing in the direction Christie had taken off in.
‘He won’t give me the slip this time,’ Arnie declared optimistically before setting off in tepid pursuit.
A brief silence, born of general disbelief, fell upon them. Then Chipchase said, ‘Maybe we should phone the police.’
‘Never thought I’d hear those words coming out of your mouth, Barry,’ Harry responded, truthfully enough.
‘Neither did I.’ Chipchase shrugged. ‘Anyway, I only said maybe.’
‘What about my car?’ Gifford cut in, seeming suddenly to remember his grievance.
‘What about mine?’ Chipchase countered.
‘Listen.’ Harry’s spirits had revived sufficiently for him to assume the role of conciliator. ‘Come to the office tomorrow, Mr Gifford, and I’ll give you a full refund for the Zephyr, plus ten per cent for the inconvenience you’ve been put to.’
‘If you think you can fob me off with a rubber cheque, you’ve got—’
‘Cash in hand. And call it quits. Provided you replace whatever vital part you took out of this Wolseley, of course.’
‘Well …’ Gifford softened. ‘I suppose … that’d be all right.’
‘Hold up, Harry,’ said Chipchase under his breath. ‘I know you’ve just had a nasty experience, but don’t you think you’re getting a bit carried away? A full refund?’
‘In the circumstances,
I reckon we can afford to be generous.’
‘Yeah? Well, there’s generous and there’s over-generous and then there’s plain bloody crazy. We don’t have to—’
‘Tell you what, Barry. You can stay out here and haggle with Mr Gifford if you like. Or you can join me in the pub. But I need a drink. And it won’t wait.’
So saying, Harry turned and steered a straightish path across the street towards the Glue Pot, tossing back a concluding comment over his shoulder as he went.
‘It’s up to you.’
THE HOLIDAY
Clare Francis
Melanie Briggs decided to lay out her clothes two weeks before the holiday: not so soon that time would begin to drag, but not so late that she couldn’t enjoy the sight of her new dresses to the full. She wanted to make the most of the build-up, not simply because the holiday would mark the end of the worst year of her life, but because the preparations, the small tasks and rituals, were about the only thing that got her through the day. Already she had the cruise brochure propped up beside the kettle so she could leaf through it while she ate her breakfast, and for an hour or so every evening she sat, with the cat curled in her lap, poring over the itinerary. The mornings were still bad, though, and she hoped that the sight of her beautiful new dresses would ease the moment of waking with its lurch of memory, and give her courage to face the day.
She had lived in the small basement flat at 27 Albany Road for fifteen years. Every Saturday morning she did the weekly shop and cleaning. During her troubles she’d bought lots of sweet doughy food and let the cleaning slide, but on the day she was to lay out her clothes she shopped for slimming products and cleaned the flat from top to bottom, washing the net curtains and bleaching the slime off the area steps. By the time she’d finished, she felt a sense of achievement and rather wished she’d got around to it before.
Finally, after a coffee and a low-calorie cereal bar, she began on the clothes. From the shelves she gathered some of the old faithfuls that had taken her to the Costas in her twenties and early thirties: strappy sandals, T-shirts in the bright colours she loved, shorts and skirts – those that hadn’t become too much of a struggle around the waist and hips at any rate. Then, in a concession to the advancing cellulite, she added two sarong-style wraps, one green, one red, to conceal her upper thighs on the walk back from the sun deck.
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