Taffin on Balance

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE CORD 812 was built in 1937 and was by far the most eye-catching car of the year. That, at least, was the opinion of the New York dealer who bought this particular one for himself: a sedan, finished in cream. The 1936 Cord 810 had caused enough stir, but this new one was sleek, mean and supercharged, with a pair of chrome external exhaust pipes on each side to show where that extra grunt was coming from.

  Highly desirable, this cream Cord sedan: a personal statement about the man who drove it. But, being in the automotive business, the first owner soon traded it in for something newer and less troublesome.

  The second owner was a Major in the US Army who pulled strings and took his Cord to war with him. In 1945 it was stolen while parked for the night in a small Bavarian town, and the Major was repatriated before he had time to look for it.

  In 1956 the cream Cord, now sadly discoloured, was noticed in a side street in Innsbruck in the Austrian Tyrol. Locals said it had been there for some time and no one remembered how it got there, so an enterprising enthusiast called Kurt Stark took it on and restored it to running order. The car looked and sounded rough but it ran well enough, even though no one quite knew what to call it.

  Eventually bureaucracy caught up with Kurt and required him to register the car that had long since become his property by default, and was therefore his responsibility. There was no original paperwork with it and the system wasn’t equipped to recognize a rare make, so the cream Cord 812, now dull grey, was registered as a Volkswagen.

  Its fortunes then took a new turn. Kurt had his car shipped to London, where he had been advised the market for exotic vehicles was picking up and he might be able to get a good price for it. The Cord arrived at the London Docks with a consignment of new Volkswagens, where a young man, also new to the country, had a job washing the cars as they came off the boat.

  When Kurt turned up to collect his car, this young man was there to meet him and, by chance, was able to recommend a place for him to stay while he was trying to turn his asset into cash.

  Kurt had been ill advised: the Cord didn’t sell and eventually he was forced to hand it over as part payment for back rent to a London entrepreneur and property owner named Arch Sprawley.

  Time went by. The Cord was put up on blocks and was still listed among Sprawley’s effects when he died. It was bequeathed in his will to the young man who had first recognized it as something special while he was washing it at the docks.

  The young man was Sprawley’s protégée, ‘the son he never had’, a natural speculator with all the flare and dynamism you could wish for in a successor.

  His name was Daniel Frey-Morton.

  BOB SHERMAN is deep in the Dark Ages, reading and rereading the reference to the Arthurian legend in Churchill’s History of the English Speaking Peoples.

  For the second time in as many days he is disturbed by the sound of an engine under his window.

  Yesterday he saw some men in overalls delivering a long, curvaceous car to the barn. This was of no interest to him. A rare Cord 812 was just another shape on wheels and he had forgotten about it before the delivery truck was out of sight.

  Even so, visits are not an everyday occurrence. He lays Churchill aside, eases himself out of his chair and takes his time walking to the window.

  A dark grey Jeep is parked in the yard. Bob opens his window and leans out. No sign of activity. It occurs to him that perhaps young Doctor Morley has come back to plague him, but dismisses the thought and returns to the sanctity of his chair, his book, and a world that doesn’t keep demanding his physical attention.

  Down in the yard, Gordon Glennan strains his neck to look up from the Jeep. ‘Are you going to tell me what the fuck we’re doing here? There was someone looking out of that top window a moment ago.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Taffin opens the rear door to let him out. ‘You wanted somewhere to disappear. We’ve arrived.’

  ‘This feels uncomfortably like abduction.’ Glennan stretches his legs and looks around. ‘I’m putting my trust in you, Taffin. I hope you’re not going to abandon me in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got nothing but the clothes I’m standing up in and no toothbrush.’

  ‘We’ll get you some stuff. In the meantime, I’ll make you comfortable, show you the security measures and introduce you to the occupant. You’ll be fine.’

  Taffin shows him to a flaking, ill-fitting wooden door, lets him in with a key and leads him up several flights of creaking stairs.

  ‘This doesn’t look secure to me.’ Glennan peers grimly to right and left on each corridor as they climb. ‘Look at the state of these walls. The place ought to be condemned.’

  ‘Plenty of life in it yet.’ They reach the top floor and Taffin uses a keypad to open the attic apartment.

  Bob Sherman looks up from his book, takes a moment to focus and recognizes the broad figure in the dark suit.

  ‘Well, blow me down – Mister... Taffin. What a pleasure to see you. I spoke to your good lady just the other day. She promised me one of you would be dropping by, but I didn’t expect you to appear so promptly.’

  ‘Good to see you, Mister Sherman.’ Taffin stoops to offer the old man his hand.

  ‘I haven’t met your companion.’ Bob leans to look at Glennan, who is standing in the doorway. ‘Is he another of your telephone people? Does he play chess?’

  ‘He’s Gordon.’ Taffin steps aside to let the two shake hands. ‘He needs somewhere to stay for a few days.’

  ‘I haven’t much to offer.’ Bob indicates the confined space with a limp hand. ‘There are plenty of rooms downstairs; I recommend the one that opens out onto a flat roof. At one time I thought of turning it into a kind of roof garden, but never got round to it. He’s welcome to that.’

  ‘It’ll do.’

  ‘While I think of it, there was something you were going to look into for me – Glastonbury, or Mount Badon, as I prefer to think of it – the scene of Arthur’s last great battle against the invading hoards.’

  Taffin resists a smile. ‘I’ll see to it now.’ He thumbs his phone, waits a moment and Kath’s face appears. ‘A job for you, Kath.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Kath stares at him from the screen. ‘Charlotte says you took off like a bat out of hell and didn’t tell her where you were going.’

  ‘Tell her she worries too much. Ever been to Glastonbury?’

  ‘The rock festival? I went one year.’

  ‘Describe it.’ Taffin holds the phone where Bob Sherman can see the screen.

  ‘Pandemonium,’ Kath tells him. ‘Heavy metal, mud, writhing bodies everywhere.’

  ‘Good enough. I’ll be back tonight.’ Taffin turns the phone off and looks down at the old man. ‘Sounds like a great battle to me.’

  Bob stares at him, open mouthed. ‘I say, that girl is remarkable. Where does she get her information?’

  ‘She works hard.’

  ‘D’you know,’ Bob rises unsteadily to his feet, ‘I believe I can accept that as confirmation. Glastonbury and Mount Badon are one and the same place. I’m very much in your debt.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Taffin turns to Glennan who has been standing by without a word. ‘Your turn, Gordon. Time to take a look at where you’re staying. It ain’t the Ritz but It’ll do for a few days.’

  ‘Very kind,’ Glennan nods. ‘And yes, I play chess.’

  THE ROOM BELOW BOB’S ATTIC is a step beyond shabby and one wall shows signs of damp, but there’s a fat mattress on the iron bedstead, a table and chair in the corner and a single ceiling light.

  A French door opens onto a flat roof, which is at least twice the area of the room. Glennan steps out, grateful for the extra space; somewhere to spend time, breathe fresh air and appreciate the landscape.

  This building is hard to date. Around 1800, he guesses, or
maybe earlier, but extensions have been added over the years and the roof terrace he is standing on is clearly one of them.

  Taffin said this place was secure and Glennan is inclined to believe him. Creature comforts must take second place for now; at least he won’t spook here the way he did in the Knightsbridge apartment – unless his nerves are totally shot to pieces. In which case no amount of protection will do any good.

  Down in the yard, Taffin’s Jeep describes a U-turn and heads out through the gate. Glennan watches until it is out of sight, then goes inside, wondering if Bob Sherman knows or cares that a Minister of the Crown is staying under his roof. Perhaps the old man can at least lend him something to read. Or offer him a game of chess.

  MICHAEL WYATT wasn’t planning to work today and had no intention of getting up to answer the door until a splintering crash told him someone had kicked it in.

  A moment for his head to clear. Loud noises are commonplace in this run-down apartment block. First thought, Silver has come back with new instructions. That would make sense; Silver rented this apartment as a base and deserves a bollocking for keeping them hanging around with back pay owing.

  Silence, then someone whistling patiently outside.

  Wyatt swinging his legs off the bed, blundering out to the hallway with all the fury of a man disturbed, face ghastly with rage. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Get dressed.’ The man in the black cheese-cutter cap seems unconcerned. Dean Elton has dealt with the likes of Wyatt many times and is more than happy to show him how if need be.

  Wyatt takes a moment to size up the odds. Heavy frame, evenly distributed, arms folded. He decides to move slowly. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to, pal? I’m under contract – not available... get it?’

  Greg Dupree, roused by the disturbance, appears from another room. ‘Who’s making all the fucking row?’

  ‘You too –’ Elton shifts his gaze to Dupree – ‘get dressed and step on it.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, you snotty shite.’ Dupree takes a step forward. ‘We don’t work for you.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Dupree’s beefy face glows with the prospect of taking this man apart.

  ‘You work for Mister Adams.’

  A pause hangs in the air.

  Wyatt speaks. ‘You know Mister Adams?’

  ‘I work for him – you work for me.’

  ‘We’ve got a contract with Silver.’

  ‘He’s retired.’ Elton studies their faces: typical failed military. ‘Don’t look at each other, look at me.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Dupree again, moving closer.

  ‘I told you to get dressed. Prove to me you’re not the slow-witted moron you look and jump to it.’

  Dupree is quick. Hammer blow to the body with locked fists, left and right elbows to the jaw and knee to the groin.

  None of it connects.

  Elton stands back to look at him, one hand flashes and Dupree slams back against the wall, senseless before he hits the ground.

  Elton turns to Wyatt.

  ‘Mister Adams isn’t happy with you.’

  Wyatt stands very still. ‘We don’t know Mister Adams – never met the man.’

  ‘You know who Mister Gordon Glennan is, don’t you.’

  ‘Sure – we’ve got him under observation.’ Wyatt shifts his weight, warily.

  ‘You lost him.’

  ‘No problem. We know where he lives.’

  ‘Really?’ Elton takes a leisurely step forward. ‘So why aren’t you on his doorstep?’

  ‘Taking a break.’ Wyatt squares up, ready to react. ‘Glennan’s got a place in Knightsbridge. We can find him any time.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Right now? I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘That’s disappointing. Mister Glennan is missing. No sign of him anywhere. That’s not good; Mister Adams likes to know where he is at all times.’

  ‘We’re on it.’ Wyatt glances at the silent form on the floor.

  ‘You’re on it.’ Elton stoops, places a hand on Dupree’s neck for a moment. ‘This one’s through. Put him in his room and shut the door.

  This time Wyatt doesn’t hesitate. It takes him a few moments to haul Dupree’s inert weight down the corridor and deposit it on the bed.

  The final effort of lifting it causes an unnatural exhalation of breath and the truth hits Wyatt like an electric shock: this man will soon be cold.

  ‘You got a problem with that?’ Elton watches him from the door.

  Wyatt shrugs, trying to find somewhere to look.

  ‘Close, were you?’ Elton’s cold eye.

  ‘I hardly knew him.’

  ‘No memories then – that’s a healthy attitude. We can’t use amateurs.’

  Wyatt straightens up. ‘What now?’

  ‘You understand what just happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know what that means as far as you’re concerned.’

  ‘I didn’t see a thing.’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘Trust me – I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened. This fellow had a fatal accident and you were there. It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘I didn’t touch him.’

  ‘That’s not the way I remember it. But then, no one’s ever going to ask me. I’m not here.’

  Wyatt staring wide-eyed at nothing, finally focusing on the man in the black cap.

  ‘Relax.’ Elton folds his arms. ‘We’re going to discuss damage limitation.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means you doing everything it takes to find the missing Minister, Gordon Glennan.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Possibly, but we won’t leave the planning to you. Tactical sense is called for and I think your talents are more basic.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Exactly what I say without question. You and your late colleague lost track of Mister Glennan’s movements.’

  ‘He’s got to be in his apartment...’

  ‘Forget it. It’s empty.’

  ‘So where do we start?’

  ‘He could be anywhere, so we won’t waste energy looking for him. Instead, we get smart. We flush him out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By you doing what I tell you. I’ll say it one more time: get dressed.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ALICE BECKER’S PEUGEOT was in her drive when she woke up this morning and she immediately called her sister over to look.

  ‘That’s an amazing job.’ Debi Royce peers at the paintwork. ‘It looks like it did when you first had it.’

  ‘You know what bothers me?’ Alice is still shaky from the night she was vandalized. ‘I didn’t hear them deliver it.’

  ‘They obviously didn’t want to disturb you.’ Debi steers her into the house. ‘Reasons to be thankful – you’re not a BITCH anymore. I got a paper on the way over. That’s my contribution – you can make us breakfast.’

  When tea and toast are on the table, Debi glances at the paper, pauses and looks again.

  AT THE SAME TIME, a couple of miles away, Taffin lowers himself face first on to Tessa’s massage table, dismisses Gordon Glennan from his mind for the moment and resigns himself to the magic hands. First contact; always sensational.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ Tessa addresses his shoulders. ‘Been busy?’

  A non-committal grunt from the buried face, which she takes as affirmative.

  ‘My brother enjoyed the bit of work he did for you. I’ve never seen him so animated.’ Tessa digs in with some force. ‘Knotted muscles. What have you been doing?
’

  Taffin says, ‘Keeping out of trouble’, but the sound comes out as a muffled blur. This is fine with Tessa, who has learnt from years of experience to decipher the unique language of the massage table.

  A sound from the adjoining room. Pierre has arrived to read the paper and make himself a bacon sandwich from her fridge. She hears him pause, hears the rustle of newspaper, hears him mutter ‘Bloody hell’, and makes a conscious decision not to let him interrupt her.

  ASHLEY GUNN has made an early start this morning. A few grace notes need to be added to his barn conversion before he puts it on the market. Taffin and Charlotte left it in fair condition after spending time there, but a restored property needs to look and feel fresh.

  On the drive up to the site he stops at the village shop for an egg sandwich and picks up a paper as an afterthought.

  Once in the barn, he appreciates the smell of cedar on some subconscious level, but what he wants is coffee.

  While the kettle is boiling he picks up the paper and turns instinctively to the property section, ignoring the front page. No tempting properties catch his eye and he tosses the paper aside, glances at the front page, pauses to look again and slowly takes a seat to read, coffee forgotten.

  IN THE WHITE LION, Meg makes preparations for opening time. When the papers arrive she places them on the usual table and carries on putting the place in order.

  The regulars don’t normally start turning up until eleven. Dan the chef arrives and goes to work in the kitchen. She hears him singing to himself as the pans begin to clatter.

  Meg straightens the pile of papers, glances at the front page and looks again. Her daily routine is set, solid, automatic and is seldom, if ever, interrupted. Today she hesitates, takes a copy over to the bar and begins wiping the surface with a cloth as she reads. Her hand moves slower as the news sinks in. She purses her lips and looks round the empty bar, wishing there was somebody to share this with.

  It won’t be long now. People are going to want to discuss today’s main story. The usual faces will be in early and there can only be one topic of conversation.