Taffin on Balance

  ‘I hadn’t put it together.’ Ivy shakes her head at her own denseness. ‘No wonder Debi’s kept quiet about it; her own sister depriving us of the Post Office – that must be embarrassing.’

  ‘I can’t understand why she’d want to sell.’ Meg attacks a particularly offensive beer stain. ‘She’s a nice lady – comes in here now and again.’

  Ashley is ready with the answer: ‘She’s broke. John Becker was into the horses in a big way, but didn’t bother to study form. He left her a pile of debt and the Post Office building.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Ivy makes a tragic face, ‘but there’s no way something we all value should depend on any one person. It’s not right.’

  ‘Aha!’ Perry Butt raises a clenched fist high above his plume of hair. ‘Your Marxist soul is showing through at last, Ivy – or do you lean towards Trotsky?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean but there’s nothing new about that. There ought to be some show of public support for the Post Office.’

  ‘And there we have a predicament.’ Perry Butt gazes critically at his pink gin. ‘You can hardly engage your Robin Hood to use his persuasive skills on a friend’s sister. I’m not suggesting Mister Taffin isn’t up to the job, but it would hardly be... cricket.’

  In the corner by the fireplace, a large, silent man in a black cheese-cutter cap sits over his beer.

  So far, Dean Elton has hardly bothered to tune into the conversation at the bar – what he did pick up put him in mind of The Archers – but the name he has just heard would bring a cold smile to his face if he were inclined to let it show.

  AT THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING Alice Becker sits bolt upright in bed trying to make sense of the crash and gush of glass that brought her to the surface of sleep.

  The silence sings, the echo playing in her mind as she tries to locate it. In the house or outside? No husband to reach for anymore: no John to protect her. Light on. Stay in the room; watch the door. First instinct, reach for family. She fumbles for her mobile, finds Debi’s number and waits, breath held, picturing her sister groping for a bedside phone, wondering who this could be ringing in the small hours...

  ‘Debi?’

  ‘Alice? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I’ve just heard a crash. It sounded like a bomb going off – I don’t know...’

  ‘A bomb? Have you called the police?’

  ‘No, I’m calling you. I can’t go downstairs Debs – there might be somebody there. I’ve always hated going downstairs by myself at night.’

  Alice hears her sister conferring with her husband and feels the pang of isolation. Debs still has Rodney. Rodney, bald and jolly, someone to turn to in the night.

  Debi’s voice again: ‘I’ll call them. Give me a moment to put some clothes on and we’ll be right over.’

  By three forty-five the house is a blaze of light. Alice, frail and trembling, has collapsed on the settee in the living room, Debi perched on the arm next to her. Rodney lets in two uniformed officers, one of whom wants to know exactly what Alice heard while the other takes a look around with a flashlight, inside and out.

  ‘It wasn’t a bomb.’ PC James comes back inside, bringing with him a waft of cold night air. ‘It’s a good job you’ve got these internal wooden shutters, or you’d have had a lot more damage. What you heard was this –’ he holds up a block of concrete – ‘dirty great chunk of stuff hitting the window. It must have made a hell of a boom.’

  Alice struggles to comprehend. ‘Why would anybody do that?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ PC Bailey, more sympathetic, squats down in front of Alice. ‘Can you think of anybody who might want to scare you? Any neighbour disputes, for example?’

  ‘No, the neighbours are fine. We’re all on friendly terms.’

  ‘Anyone further afield who might wish you harm?’

  ‘I can’t think...’ Alice turns to her sister for comfort.

  ‘Alright,’ Bailey straightens up. ‘Me and my colleague are going to have another look around outside, see if there’s anything that might help trace a suspect. We’ll get a statement from you when you’re feeling up to it, and make a crime report.’ He turns to Rodney. ‘Can you and your wife keep this lady company for a while?’

  ‘We’re up now,’ Rodney tells him. ‘I hope you find something helpful. In the meantime I’ll see where she keeps the kettle.’

  At four o’clock, PC James is at the door again, speaking to Rodney.

  ‘Can you check with the lady if that’s her silver Peugeot 206 outside?’

  Rodney confirms that the car belongs to Alice. James continues: ‘You might not want to tell her this just yet, but someone’s aerosoled BITCH across the nose and windscreen.’

  ‘Bloody hell –’ Rodney glances over his shoulder at the two women on the settee.

  ‘My feelings exactly. That tells me this is more than a random act of vandalism. This is intimidation.’ James turns off his flashlight. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for the moment. It’s just the two of us covering the whole area tonight. It would be helpful if any of you could think who might have done this.

  ‘THANKS DAVE, I OWE YOU ONE.’ Erica Lyle has regular chats with her brother-in-law, Dave Walls at Stoleworth Central, ostensibly about family business. This morning it’s been time well spent; she wrote her headline while he was still on the line.

  WIDOW’S NIGHTMARE TERROR ORDEAL.

  Several phone calls and a brief drive later, Erica has enough to flesh out the story:

  Lasherham resident Mrs Alice Becker became the victim of a ‘Terror’ attack on her home in the small hours of this morning. ‘It sounded like a bomb going off,’ she told her sister, Mrs Debi Royce, who alerted local police. The explosion that woke Mrs Becker proved to be the sound of a block of concrete hitting a downstairs window, amplified by the vibration of internal wooden shutters. Further inspection revealed offensive language sprayed on the bodywork of her car at the same time, leading police to believe the attack was personally motivated. The investigation continues.

  ‘PC BAILEY TO SEE YOU.’ Charlotte opens the living room door with Bailey looming behind her.

  Taffin looks up and flicks the TV to mute, turning a re-run of Top Gear into a frantic mime. Bailey steps in and stands in front of him. He knows Taffin by reputation but has not met him before and there is a grain of curiosity in the back of his mind. Instinct says keep this firm and formal.

  ‘We’re making routine inquiries about an incident that took place last night, not far from here. Local knowledge is often the key to identifying a suspect, or suspects – so that’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Taffin indicates a chair and the officer settles himself, being sure not to look comfortable.

  Charlotte standing in the doorway, arms folded.

  Taffin, at ease in his chair, turning a blank gaze on Bailey. ‘Who have you spoken to?’

  ‘This is my first call. Your name came up as someone who might be able to help.’

  ‘Why us?’ Charlotte’s neutral voice.

  ‘You’re known as a man with roots in the area –’ Bailey is careful to look Taffin in the eye – ‘and your name comes up in connection with – how can I put it? – you have history in the debt collecting business.’

  Taffin says nothing. Charlotte moves in to stand at the officer’s shoulder. ‘D’you hear that, young man? Your name’s come up in connection with an incident?’ Then, to Bailey, ‘What sort of incident would that be?’

  Bailey, not sure who he is talking to, switches between them. ‘There was an attack last night on the home of a lady who lives by herself – a widow – and we can safely say it was personal.’

  ‘You won’t have heard.’ Charlotte turns to Taffin. ‘Debi Royce’s sister had a rock through her window and some
one wrote BITCH on her car in aerosol.’

  Taffin nods, considering. ‘That sounds personal.’

  Bailey keeps his eyes on Taffin. ‘Do you know of anyone locally who might have a grudge against the lady?’

  ‘Say what you mean, son.’

  Bailey, not used to being addressed as a kid by a member of the public, lets go of caution. ‘I suppose you’ve reached the age when policemen look young.’

  An easing of atmosphere in the room; Bailey is aware of quiet amusement on both faces.

  ‘Ask your question.’ Taffin’s eye strays back to the screen where an SUV is sliding backwards down a mountain track.

  ‘I thought maybe you could help me with some names – the odd local misfit who wouldn’t mind putting the wind up a widow, for a consideration.’

  ‘My partner asked why you came to us.’

  ‘Alright –’ Bailey sits forward – ‘I wanted to get an opinion from – to put it crudely – local muscle, which is the way people see you. You’ve got a reputation – they even made a movie about you.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘You know what I mean. A lot of people think it’s based on you. Is it?’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘I haven’t. I don’t get to the movies a lot. I’m more interested in facts and I set great store by local knowledge. In this case, the victim owns the Lasherham Post Office and she’s upset a lot of people by putting it up for sale. Her sister feels someone might be trying to frighten her out of selling it.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘You’re known to be a public spirited man with a talent for making people see your point of view.’

  Charlotte examines her fingernails.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Taffin turns an expressionless stare on the policeman, ‘I’ll ask the question for you. Did I aerosol a widow’s car and chuck a rock through her window?’

  ‘That’s about it.’ Bailey returns the gaze.

  ‘That’s more like it, son. I can’t give you names but there’s a pair of geezers been hanging around lately and a job like that wouldn’t be beneath them. Definitely not gentlemen. Not local. If they did it, someone hired them.’

  ‘That’s a start.’ Bailey stirs uneasily. ‘So the question is, who around here might do the hiring. Any thoughts on that?’

  ‘I’ll give you a thought.’ Charlotte taps Bailey on the shoulder. ‘The geezers my ol’ man’s talking about have been giving us a hard time for a while. If they’re the ones who did Alice’s place, it’s because someone reckoned your lot would think of us first.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Bailey considers for a moment. ‘You’re suggesting this might not have been about the Post Office at all.’

  ‘Probably not.’ Taffin’s eye strays to the screen again.

  ‘You’re going further than that, though; you’re implying the attack was staged to implicate you, personally, in something dirty.’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Taffin gives Bailey his full attention, ‘people who care about their Post Office ain’t the type to hire some clown to put the frighteners on a respectable lady. People like that sign petitions and write to the paper. They don’t pay for muscle and they know better than to come to me. Does that answer your question?’

  DEBI ROYCE SPENT LAST NIGHT with her sister and stayed on this morning calming her down. They were on the second pot of tea when Ashley Gunn turned up uninvited to clear the shattered glass from the window frame, repair the woodwork, replace the pane and sand and repaint the damaged internal shutter.

  ‘No problem,’ he assured them, when Alice offered to pay him. ‘No reason why some idiot with a rock should cost you money.’

  Alice has started thinking clearly enough to rifle through her husband’s desk drawers in search of insurance documents, but Ashley’s colourfully expressed views on the insurance industry have left her staring blankly at the wall.

  ‘Strong language, Ashley.’ Debi gives her sister the tenth hug of the day. ‘Alice had a sheltered upbringing, in fact we both did.’

  ‘True though, isn’t it? Who needs the paperwork?’

  Ashley clears up while the sisters inspect his handiwork and thank him profusely, brimming over with self-reproach for being shocked by his outburst. They’ve both heard language like that before, just not used with such graphic precision.

  They watch Ashley stash his tools in his Jaguar and drive away, then turn to each other with the same question in mind. Alice gives it voice: ‘How did he know exactly what needed doing?’

  Debi shrugs. ‘News travels fast.’

  They turn to go into the house and pause at the sound of a large engine growling at the gate. Alice clings to her sister as a red Mustang noses into the drive and a lumbering figure in a dark suit climbs out.

  ‘It’s alright Alice, I know him.’ Debi disentangles herself from her sister. ‘Mister Taffin, isn’t it?’

  Taffin nods. ‘Would this lady be Mrs Becker?’

  ‘I’m Alice Becker.’ Alice eyes him warily.

  ‘I heard what happened. Has Mister Gunn been yet?’

  ‘He’s just left.’

  ‘He’s a fine craftsman. You couldn’t do better.’ Taffin strolls to the Peugeot parked by the garage and runs a critical hand over the crude aerosol lettering. ‘This needs attention.’

  ‘I don’t know how to get it off.’

  ‘My lads do. They’ll take it away for a couple of days and bring you a replacement car in the meantime.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Won’t it be expensive?’

  ‘They charge the same as Mister Gunn.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Alice looks from Debi to Taffin and back again. ‘Shouldn’t I let the insurance know? My husband believed in insuring everything up to the hilt, but I don’t know if we’re covered for vandalism like this.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Taffin makes a dismissive hand gesture. ‘It don’t matter.’

  ‘It’s not just the damage...’

  ‘You’re wondering who did it.’ the hint of a smile on the blank face.

  ‘Of course I am, who wouldn’t? I know people are upset about the Post Office and I’ve been worried sick about having to sell it but I haven’t any choice. This is all horrible – and that crash in the middle of the night...’

  She shrinks away as Taffin approaches but the huge hand on her arm is unexpectedly light. ‘You can forget about who did it – those scumbags are my problem now.’

  Debi Royce looks into her sister’s face. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?’

  Alice nods. ‘I’m very grateful, Mister Taffin, but why should people I don’t know help me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask for this.’ Taffin glances at the Peugeot, hands in pockets. ‘It needs sorting. Ashley Gunn’s your man for fixing up buildings. My lads fix cars.’

  Alice watches as he strolls to the Mustang.

  ‘I’ve heard your name before, Mister Taffin. My sister thinks you might have had something to do with getting StarTrack stopped.’

  Taffin slips dark glasses on and considers for a moment. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  Debi Royce huffs a half laugh. ‘The consensus says it had a lot to do with you.’

  Alice feels her confidence returning. ‘It sounds as if you’re being too modest. What is your line of business?’

  Taffin becomes absorbed in the scenery, hands behind his back. ‘I maintain the balance.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain that for me.’

  He turns to face her. ‘In general, people want to be left in peace. It don’t always work out.’ He indicates the flowing scrawl of BITCH across the Peugeot.

  Alice nods. ‘Someone wanted to frighten me. The police were sympathetic but I don’t suppose this is high on their list of prioritie
s.’

  ‘So the balance is wrong.’ Taffin climbs into the mustang and rolls down the window. ‘The law depends on respect. Take that away and it don’t work.’

  ‘That’s very profound.’ Alice raises an eyebrow in her sister’s direction.

  ‘Read Russell Chambers Gates, “On Balance”.’ Taffin raises a slab of hand in salute, the Mustang gargles thoughtfully and is gone.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FROM HIS LOFTY WINDOW Bob Sherman looks down at the yard and across to the open country beyond its gates.

  Things have been quiet lately. There was an interlude of daily activity when some young people were staying in the caravan and the smell of bacon and coffee wafted up at first light. Then came a night of uproar and racing engines with dark figures darting here and there in the shadows. That was over quickly and the memory has receded; he couldn’t say how long ago it was.

  Young Doctor Morley doesn’t come anymore and Bob is not sorry. He was what Uncle Austin used to call a Wrong’un.

  There was a large, monosyllabic man in a dark suit who came a couple of times, once with a girl; they did something to his telephone and fitted small cameras to the walls that gave him a vague sense of wellbeing. He remembers those visits with some pleasure. He remembers enjoying that man’s company and would like to see him again. Taffin – memory serves up the name without effort – French sounding, probably Norman. The man was going to find something out for him: Mount Badon – Glastonbury Tor – that was it. Got his number somewhere on this strange phone they left with him. It’s still plugged into a wall socket. Leave it there, they said, to keep it charged up.

  Bob picks up the iPhone and peers at it, trying to make sense of its blankness. No buttons or switches on things anymore. He squeezes it with his thumb and the screen comes to life for no apparent reason. Colourful symbols: one actually says Phone. Memory coming back. The girl was patient with her tuition. Get adventurous and try it out...