by Jan Toms
For two pins he would have thrown it away but he still had to make contact with the elusive correspondent. Perhaps this time he would be lucky.
Once Charity had completed her household chores she walked round to see Victor. She hadn’t been expecting much from the evening before but in the event it had turned out quite well. Victor wasn’t exactly her dream man but he was alright – a little stuffy, generally too thin – except, surprisingly, where it mattered. That had indeed been a pleasant discovery. Since she had split up with her boyfriend Sebastian, a fellow manager at M&S, she had been celibate. It wasn’t a state she favoured for long. Clearly Victor didn’t have much idea but she could soon lick him into shape, perhaps even literally. Her blood pressure went up a notch or two.
She knocked on the door with the lion’s head knocker and Victor came to meet her, looking flustered.
‘Have you been out already?’ she asked, seeing that he was wearing his brogues.
‘Just a little business at the bank.’
They walked into his kitchen and he rather hurriedly swept up the morning’s post and secreted it behind the mantel clock. Remembering her original goal, she wondered if it was significant. Victor went to make tea and so, to keep in practice, she described to herself what he looked like. There were a few additional details she could now name but it seemed unlikely that they would ever come in useful, not unless he turned up as a mutilated corpse and she had to identify him by what remained of his torso. She realised that she hadn’t noted whether or not he was circumcised. Unlikely as it seemed, one day that might turn out to be an important clue. She must remember to find out.
Victor returned with the tea tray and they discussed the rest of the day. As Charity suggested various activities, he began to wonder whether they were discussing the rest of his life. Were they perhaps engaged now? Surely the degree of last night’s intimacy demanded some sort of commitment? He imagined walking into the office on Monday and announcing, ‘By the way, while I have been on leave I got engaged.’ No doubt there would be congratulations and speculation as to who the lucky girl might be. He thought about Pamela and wondered if she would be disappointed. Could she have nursed a secret love for him all this time and he had never noticed? Perhaps he could console her, tell her that somewhere out there was the perfect man for her but that it really wasn’t him.
‘What do you think?’ asked Charity.
‘Pardon?’ He realised that all the time she had been talking. She gave an exasperated tut and said, ‘Why don’t we go out somewhere, take the dog and have a picnic.’
‘That would be very nice.’ He sensed that this was how it was going to be – her making plans and him going along with them. It wasn’t exactly what he had dreamed of but it was certainly better than what had gone before. He said, ‘I shall be back at work on Monday.’
‘Then I’ll come round and see to Fluffy and the cats.’
‘Would you? That would be perfect.’ Perhaps perfect wasn’t quite the right word but Victor was wondering what they might take for a picnic. Meanwhile, Charity seemed to have changed her mind and was suddenly rather ruthlessly struggling with his trouser zip. Given the choice of cheese sandwiches in the park or her groping fingers, he certainly knew which he preferred.
The next two days of his holiday passed in a frenzy of sex and walkies. On Saturday he tentatively announced, ‘I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy tomorrow preparing to go back to work.’
Charity looked surprised. ‘What have you got to do?’
‘Well, there is some washing and ironing and I need to clean the house…’
‘I will do that.’
For a moment Victor felt that he was losing a barely acknowledged battle of wills but then he asserted himself. ‘I don’t want you having to look after me. Besides, I like to have a quiet Sunday so that I can read the paper and…’ He didn’t know what else he might do that required being on his own for the entire day but he craved some solitude.
‘I see.’ He could tell that Charity was offended but while they were on the subject he had something else to say. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you on Monday either because I have to go to a meeting after work.’
‘In that case I could come round and take Fluffy out and cook you a meal.’
‘No, really. I have my lunch at the canteen and I can take Fluffy with me in the evening. I don’t know what time I will be back.’
He thought of Rylstone, the designated meeting place with his mysterious benefactor. It was a secluded cliff-top park perched above the Chine. A quaint chalet suggested that it had once been a private residence. The garden was open to the public until dusk. Here he and Fluffy could lie in wait for whoever might turn up.
‘Is there someone else?’ asked Charity in a brittle voice. ‘If there is, I’d rather you said so.’
‘No, of course not. It’s just that…’
With a rare moment of insight, Charity visualised what had been his normal routine – staid, stolid, set in stone – and perhaps secretive? Her arrival seemed to have thrown his life into disarray. ‘It’s alright,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’m sorry if I have been too pushy.’
‘You haven’t. It’s been – wonderful, but I…’
It could so easily have developed into a quarrel. They might at this point have done what Victor thought of as breaking up, but instead, Charity said, ‘Well, if you don’t have anything better to do on Tuesday after work perhaps we could go to the cinema again?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Victor took her hand and squeezed it. ‘You are a splendid girl, Charity.’
Overcome with emotion, Charity launched herself into his arms, thereby setting in motion another molten surge of passion on the rug that hopefully would be sufficient to see her through until Tuesday.
Alan had the weekend off and enjoyed having a rare Saturday to himself. Charity had thoughtfully baked some sort of casserole and left it in the fridge, and rather guiltily he left it and sneaked down to the chippy for a longed-for piece of cod. It seemed that Charity had found herself a boyfriend, and having her attentions directed somewhere else was a bit of a relief.
On Sunday he planned a round of golf and then a Sunday roast at the Tudor Restaurant. The taste of flesh would be a welcome change from beans and vegetable protein. Regretfully, he thought about Edna’s Sunday roasts in her calm, peaceful house, where he had read the papers and drunk a half of beer while she quietly sat and sewed. Still, he should be grateful for having such a devoted daughter.
As he was about to go to bed on Saturday evening, Charity arrived home. She looked breathless and dishevelled.
‘Had a good evening?’ he asked. ‘I was just going to bed.’
Charity seemed to be fighting with some internal demon. She said, ‘I will be at home tomorrow father to look after you.’
His heart sank. ‘Charity, there is really no need. In fact I have arranged to play golf with Sam Walters and then we are going out to lunch together. You go on out and do whatever it is you are doing.’
Charity looked increasingly crestfallen.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alan came over and touched her on the shoulder. ‘Have you fallen out with someone?’
She shook her head, miserable for no very good reason. ‘It’s just that I came home to look after you and now I seem to have deserted you.’
‘Nonsense. You go out and enjoy yourself. A young woman like you should be having a good time.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Is the young man anyone I know?’
‘It’s – Victor Green.’
‘Victor? Splendid, a more reliable chap you’re never likely to find. Why don’t you invite him to tea one day?’
Charity thought of her enquiries. To regain some of her self-respect she reminded herself that Victor was on her list of suspects, although at the moment it was a list of only one. She assured herself that she wasn’t taking him seriously as a boyfriend – was she? It was more of a Mata Hari scheme to find out what she could about the deaths
of two associated gangsters, both in mysterious circumstances. Victor had been there at the first and a man with a small white dog seemed to have witnessed the second. There was a mystery here and it had to be solved. She straightened her shoulders. Right! She would ask Victor back to tea and listen to what he and her father talked about. Perhaps, accidentally, Alan would force him into revealing some clue. She made up her mind. Time to stop being distracted by Victor’s body: time to put him back where he belonged on the list of the Isle of Wight’s Most Wanted.
TWELVE
Barry sat alone at the boardroom table and looked through the day’s post that Sonia had plonked down in front of him with barely disguised contempt.
‘You can fetch me a coffee,’ he said, wondering whether to remind her that while Harry and Gary were away, he was in charge and he could, if he felt so inclined, dismiss her on the spot. In reality he would not dare to do so, because for some reason Harry seemed fond of her and he would get it in the neck if Harry came back to find that she was gone.
He opened the letters one by one, putting them into piles to be dealt with. The last one stopped him in his tracks. It contained just one line summoning him to a meeting at Rylstone Gardens on Monday – no signature. He wondered if it might be from Vincenzo. On the other hand it might be an ambush set up by the Blues Brothers. Something told him that this was significant though; it might even be a chance to avert a wholescale war.
It was then that he realised that he couldn’t go. He already had a meeting with one of Harry’s contacts, bringing in some stuff from Turkey. With Harry in Spain, he simply had to be there. Damn. He really wanted to go and perhaps at last get a look at Vincenzo Verdi. For a long time he sat and wondered what to do, then he decided that the next best thing was to send someone in his place. He thought long and hard, but so many people were out of commission for various reasons that the only person he could come up with was Fingers Kilbride.
Fingers was not a good choice. He never washed, and outside his area of expertise as a safe blower he was unsociable, grubby and generally uninspiring, but he couldn’t think of anybody else. So, Fingers it would have to be. Pressing the intercom on the desk, he said to Sonia, ‘Get me Angus Kilbride.’
‘What are you planning to do with him?’ He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. Biting down his irritation, he said, ‘Tell him to be here at six o’clock on Monday – without fail.’
On Monday, Fingers arrived at the office at a quarter to six to be sent directly to the boardroom, where he found Barry putting on his jacket.
‘I’ve got an important job for you,’ Barry started.
Fingers stared suspiciously at him. ‘I’m dead worried Mr Hickman, first Gruesome and then Mauler. ‘Ave you sorted anything out yet?’
‘It’s all underway.’
Fingers was silent, fulminating. Barry said, ‘I want you to go to Rylstone Gardens. You know where that is?’
Fingers gave an uncertain nod of his head.
‘Well, you don’t have to do anything, just see who’s there – and take a photo of anyone who comes in, with this.’ He held out a camera.
Fingers looked at it as if it might explode in his face. Barry felt impatient.
‘Look, all you’ve got to do is look through here and press this button here. It has a zoom lens – see? You just move this lever and you can photograph someone close up from a long way away. That’s all you’ve got to do.’
Fingers shook his head as if he was being asked to swim with crocodiles. ‘Who’s going to be there then?’ he asked.
‘Probably no one. You don’t need to speak to anyone, just get a description and take some photos.’
Fingers shook his head more vehemently. ‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Look, there’s a ton in it for you if you do it.’ More gently, he said, ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ll be quite safe. Nothing can go wrong.’
Victor got up early on Monday morning and took a rather surprised Fluffy for an early morning walk. Before leaving for work he left a door key under the flowerpot for Charity and, with some misgivings, set off for the tax office.
‘Hi Victor, good holiday?’ He was greeted in a friendly manner by Rob, who had been overseeing his work while he was away.
Victor agreed that he had had a good break and Robbie filled him in on any developments during his absence. ‘Do anything interesting?’ Robbie asked.
I had sexual relations, with a woman, Victor thought to himself, allowing a secret smile. No doubt his new-found passion with Charity was something that Robbie was familiar with, but it gave Victor a warm feeling to be part of adult male society, something he had rarely experienced before.
Pamela actually made him a cup of coffee and seemed to hang around quite a lot. Looking at her he wondered if he had been right, and that all along she had had some sort of feeling for him only he had been too blind to see it. He studied her as a man of the world might do. Under her old-fashioned blouses she was a quite a pleasing shape, nothing provocative, but beneath the prudent garments there was no doubt a well-endowed woman. Her legs, hampered by the sensible lace-up shoes, curved in all the right places too. Disapproving of his own thoughts, he turned back to a very inventive tax return, deciding to call Mr O’Shaughnessy in to discuss his claims. He gave Pamela a relaxed and friendly smile. He wondered what it would have been like to follow his daydream through and announce that he was engaged, but, to be honest, he didn’t think he was really ready for such a step. He wasn’t sure what would follow, a wedding? Planning guest lists, choosing a honeymoon destination, Charity preparing to move in with him – after the ceremony, of course. He imagined her ordering new furniture, throwing out things that had been in the house ever since his childhood. No, he really wasn’t ready for that.
He left the office at five sharp so that he could race home and pick up Fluffy, ready for the rendezvous. He hoped that he wouldn’t find Charity still there waiting for him and expecting an explanation. In the event, the house was empty except for Fluffy and the kittens. The cats were blissfully asleep, food still in their bowls, and Fluffy was clearly quite relaxed and probably hadn’t had too much time on his own to begin to feel abandoned.
Victor decided not to change. His work clothes were more official somehow and he needed some degree of authority to find out what was going on. He washed his face and hands and cleaned his teeth, and wondered about boiling an egg before he left, but then decided to make himself some sandwiches. He could eat them sitting on a seat in the gardens. It was a lovely spot and a nice evening and he would enjoy that.
Looking in the cupboard he only seemed to have peanut butter, but that was OK. Carefully he sliced the bread – he never bought ready sliced – spread it thinly with local farm butter and covered it with a thick layer of crunchy peanut butter. Delicious.
It took him less time than he expected to get there. He wandered in at the entrance along the cliff top. The evening was perfect. A dying sun cast its last blessings across the sea below as if sprinkling an inheritance of diamonds, dancing on the waves. Victor fished out a notebook to write down the image of the sunset, just right for a poem. There was no one else in the garden.
The garden’s flowerbeds were secluded by fir trees. From the top branches, the scraping call of rooks echoed across to meet the hiss of the sea. Glancing at his watch, Victor realised that he was too early. He found himself a rather ornate garden seat on the sunny side of the wall and sat down to wait.
As the Monday rendezvous approached, Dodge felt increasingly nervous. He had prepared a speech to address to both Vincenzo and Barry. As the time grew near, however, it seemed less and less likely to work. Dodge hadn’t met either of them before. He was always nervous with strangers and in this instance so much depended on making the right impression.
By mid-afternoon he was so anxious that he decided to call in at one of their warehouses to check on some stock. At least it would give him something to do. As he drove out of town he began to
regret the decision. The warehouse was a deserted barn of a place on a disused industrial estate and, being isolated, there was no one to notice any comings and goings. At the same time the place was eerily silent and it gave Dodge a creepy feeling. He nearly turned back, but the stock really did need checking and he couldn’t think of anything else to fill the time.
Inside, everything was covered in a layer of dust. As he worked it got up his nose and clung to his fingers. Just after four-thirty he had had enough and decided to go home and change, ready for the evening meeting. Heading for the exit he practised his speech to himself until he reached the top of a narrow wrought iron staircase. Quite what happened next he didn’t know but somehow he missed his footing, tumbling down twenty-one steps to the concrete floor below. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the dark well of the stairs and from somewhere a torrent of pain was engulfing him. He moved his leg and the pain turned to agony. Damn it! Damn it! He knew for certain that he had broken his ankle. This was a disaster. To reach a telephone he would need to climb the stairs again and he was in far too much pain to move. He tried shouting but there was no one around. Unless he was very lucky, he was going to be stuck here until next morning.
Victor sat for a while enjoying the evening sunshine and then he began to unpack his sandwiches. At his feet, Fluffy amused himself by sniffing around the area as far as his lead extended. The dog must have had several long walks during the day, for after a few moments he curled up under the bench and went to sleep.
A man wandered in at the other end of the garden. He looked round with rather exaggerated care and then began to walk slowly with his hands in his pockets. First he stopped to study the lobelia then, after looking round again, he took out what looked like a camera and stared at it, turning it this way and that before apparently turning it on. A little further on, he reached out and sniffed at a misty pink rose before pointing the camera very roughly in the direction of the flower and snapping away. Victor covertly watched his progress, planning what he should say. The man did not look in the least like he had imagined. He had been expecting someone well dressed, executive, the sort of person who might have dealings with thousands of pounds.