RICK BISHOP parks his Fireblade outside Muscle Motors. Ed dismounts from the pillion and the two of them go into the office. The TV is on in the background. Charlotte is on her feet.
‘Have you seen the news?’
Two blank looks and matching shrugs.
‘Himself’s getting a massage. One of you get round to Tessa’s place – he’ll never pick up while he’s on that couch.’
‘What did we miss?’
In reply, Charlotte waves them to silence and points to the screen.
‘I’ll tell him.’ Rick is out of the door, heading for the Fireblade.
Charlotte is on the phone again dialing Tessa Van Hagen’s number for the third time.
IN TESSA’S KITCHEN, Pierre gives the phone an evil look. His sister never answer’s while she’s working; she insists it’s not fair to clients. He dislikes telephones and would never normally presume, but this is the third time it’s rung so he puts his bacon sandwich aside and gets up to answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Pierre?’ Charlotte’s voice, not to be dismissed. ‘Put Taffin on. He needs to get over here fast.’
‘He’s not going to like it. And my sister will kill me. She’s very strict about not being disturbed.’
‘Just do it.’
Pierre winces at the tone, and again at the roar of a motorcycle outside.
‘On your head be it.’ Pierre tiptoes to the treatment room, taps on the door and delivers the message.
A moment later, Taffin, clad in a towel, is in the kitchen with the phone to his ear. He is about to say ‘What’s up’ when his eye falls on the newspaper on the table.
MINISTER’S WIFE FOUND DEAD IN FAMILY HOME.
Janice Glennan, wife of Transport Minister Gordon Glennan, was found dead at the couple’s country home yesterday morning following an anonymous call to local police.
Cause of death has not been established but Mrs Glennan is thought to have fallen down a steep flight of stairs, tragically resulting in a broken neck. There is no clue to the identity of the anonymous caller, who could prove key to the investigation.
Police are anxious to talk to Mrs Glennan’s husband, Gordon Glennan, who has not been seen publicly, in his constituency or in Westminster, for over a week. The investigation continues...
ALL THE NATIONALS are running the story and Erica Lyle is hungry for details. ‘What can you tell me, Dave?’
‘Not a lot at the moment.’ Sergeant Dave Walls is in no position to talk to his sister-in-law. ‘This is too big. Sorry Sis, I can’t comment.’
‘Can you confirm cause of death?’
‘I can’t speculate. You’ll have to wait for the post mortem result.’
‘Come on Dave, the public’s got a right to know. How long had she been dead when she was found?’
‘Time of death, somewhere between midnight and six yesterday morning but that’s not official and you didn’t get it from me – don’t push it, Sis.’
Moments later, Erica is in her car heading for Stoleworth Central. A high profile death on her patch is a major career opportunity and she resents having to jostle with the competition at the press briefing – but that’s how it is. A Sun reporter beats her to the question: ‘Is foul play suspected?’ – and she keeps moving to catch the eye of DI Robertson, who has taken charge.
Robertson is an old hand, not easily drawn. ‘At the moment we have no reason to treat this as anything other than a tragic accident. We’re waiting for forensic results and the post mortem will no doubt tell us more.’
‘Any leads on the anonymous caller?’
‘The call was made from a mobile, pay-as-you-go – untraceable. We’re hoping the caller will reveal him or herself in some other way. Yes...?’
Erica finally gets above the noise level. ‘Her husband is a high-profile politician. Is there any clue to his whereabouts yet?’
‘There’s no information on that at this time.’
‘Will you be interviewing him?’
‘When contact is made, we shall of course be talking to him. That’s all I can give you for now.’ Robertson makes a move to leave.
Erica keeps bouncing for attention. ‘Is Gordon Glennan a suspect?’
Robertson makes a calming gesture and addresses the room quietly. ‘When cause of death has been established we’ll know whether suspects are being sought. Until then, I’ll ask you not to speculate on the circumstances of Mrs Glennan’s death. That’s all for now.’
THE WHITE LION IS HEAVING. Perry Butt, the veteran journalist, is holding court. Everyone has a theory but the old warhorse trumps them all.
‘There are only two possibilities,’ he announces above the babble at the bar. ‘Either she accidentally fell down the stairs and broke her neck, or she was murdered. The press will want to keep everybody prattling about it as long as it sells copies, hoping, of course, that the police investigation will be inconclusive so the story can run and run. There’s still mileage in the Lord Lucan story, I’ll remind you – if anyone here can remember that.’
‘Where’s her husband, that’s what I want to know.’ Ivy Lewis voices what everyone is wondering. ‘Doesn’t anyone else think it’s strange that he’s not around at a time like this? His wife dies suddenly and he goes missing – come on, there’s something not right there.’
‘The paper said he hasn’t shown up in London for a few days.’ Harry Hawkins peruses the much-handled copy on the bar. ‘He’s a government minister – supposed to be in Whitehall doing whatever he does – which obviously isn’t much.’
‘Ten to one he made the anonymous phone call.’ Meg wipes the bar with a passionate swirl of her cloth. ‘Who else would have been in the house? He lives there.’
‘The evidence points strongly in his direction –’ Mostyn’s face is troubled; a look of permanent youthful innocence has followed him into middle age, never more noticeable than when a point of ethics arises – ‘but it doesn’t constitute proof and we should be aware of that.’
‘Yeah, bollocks.’ Harry Hawkins expresses the general view.
All heads nod in unison. It was murder – whether premeditated or not is irrelevant – and that is the finding of the White Lion jury. Gordon Glennan killed his wife, rang the police in a fit of agonized conscience, changed his mind and made a run for it.
No one pays any attention to a man at the far end of the bar. Prominent jaw; black cheese cutter cap pulled down shading his face; easily ignored.
Dean Elton sips his beer and pretends to read the racing page.
‘THIS ARRIVED BY MESSENGER.’ Charlotte finds Taffin propped against the Mustang and hands him a brown A4 envelope.
‘What have we got here?’ He slits it open, pulls out a colour print and shows it to her.
‘Very pretty. I believe that’s a Cord, and don’t it look smart in white?’
‘It’s a Cord 812.’
‘You haven’t said much today, young man.’ Charlotte watches him closely. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I’ve got to go away for a bit, girl.’
‘How long’s a bit?’
‘As long as it takes. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’
‘What’s going on in there?’ She steps in closer; her face mirrored, double, in his dark lenses. ‘I’m tired of your disappearing acts. Talk to me.’
‘I’ll tell you about it when I can.’
‘Don’t give me that. It’s about that woman’s death. You know something. Don’t make me guess –’ her eyes widen; she leans up and removes the dark glasses – ‘You know where Gordon Glennan is, don’t you.’
Taffin’s stillness gives her the answer.
‘Tell me this then, did he kill his wife?’
‘No.’
‘You sound very sure. How
do you know?’
‘He ain’t got it in him. He’s a man with problems but he ain’t a murderer.’
‘You know him that well, do you?’
‘I know where he was when it happened because I put him there.’
Charlotte sighs, wanders away and comes back. ‘Does Ed or Rick know about this?’
‘No.’
‘Only, I don’t like the sound of what you’re getting into. I’d be a whole lot happier if one or both of them was with you.’
‘I can’t involve them.’
‘Alright, have it your way – be a hero.’ Charlotte stares into his face. ‘I forgot to tell you, that old man rang – Bob, I think his name is.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not a lot. He just likes someone to talk to – said he saw a car being delivered and thought you’d want to know about it.’
‘Smart man.’
‘Promise you’ll call him or he’ll think I didn’t tell you.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Taffin climbs into the Mustang and fires the engine up. ‘If anyone asks I’ve gone to collect a car. Don’t worry about a thing.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
DEAN ELTON SHAVES with a cutthroat razor. Given experience and a steady hand, the results are incomparably better than any flashy modern system. The cold steel demands a master’s touch, a certainty that suits his temperament to perfection.
The practice of shaving gives him time to reflect. The last conversation with his boss left him with a nameless unease that is only now coming into focus. The problem is simple: the prospect of affluent leisure never featured in Elton’s plans, which have always been vague, at best.
His job as Frey-Morton’s chauffeur, bodyguard and enforcer was more to his taste than anything he had previously imagined and he hasn’t yet come to terms with the idea of a new, unfamiliar pattern, however ideal it might sound.
Dean Elton is not, and never has been, a man of leisure. He thrives on action, needs to use his skills, and life without short-term objectives equals boredom. The present matter in hand suits his temperament better than the promise of five-star retirement.
Priorities then: first, find Gordon Glennan. The politician has vanished but the bait of his wife’s death ought to flush him out. Once the spotlight is on him again, he can be reached. All that’s required is a hunter’s patience, and Elton learnt that long ago in a variety of war zones.
He rates the odds of Glennan showing up at the couple’s country home at fifty-fifty. On the one hand, the place will be under surveillance round the clock, so the Minister would be wise to stay away; on the other, it was the scene of his wife’s death, which might trigger a reckless, emotional instinct in an already broken man.
In either case, Michael Wyatt has been detailed to keep a discreet watch on the place and if his clumsiness attracts police attention, Janice Glennan’s murder will eventually be laid at his door anyway. No risk there.
So it’s a waiting game. Elton contemplates his face in the shaving mirror and turns his mind to the second objective: destroying Taffin.
This will be a real pleasure but not a major challenge by comparison.
He knows how; he has no interest in why; and in this case, he knows where to look for his quarry.
GORDON GLENNAN looks up sharply from the chess board as Bob Sherman ponders his next move, lifts a deliberative finger, swoops with his queen’s bishop to knock out Glennan’s queen’s knight and sits back.
‘Did you hear a car?’ Glennan peers glumly at the board, hardly daring to raise his voice.
‘I did not.’ Bob’s concentration is focused on the game. ‘It’s terribly important not to let such minor details distract you. Check.’
‘I wish I had the knack.’ Glennan is dealing with the private turmoil of a public man cut off from all contact with the outside world.
There’s no TV here and Bob’s ancient radio resists all attempts to tune it to a recognizable station. He hasn’t seen a paper in days. He is fairly sure Taffin relieved him of his own phone before leaving – presumably so he couldn’t be traced through it. Added to that, he has no idea where he is and his companion, though entertaining company, lives in an Arthurian parallel universe.
But it was a car he heard: a gruff, throaty note that rose once and cut out.
In the yard, Taffin sits at the wheel of the Mustang listening to the silence. He has covered the distance from Muscle Motors in just over an hour. All the way here he has been reflecting on his last conversation with Charlotte. She divined what he hadn’t told her and he reminds himself never to think of concealing anything from her in the future. Equally important, she unwittingly confirmed the link he suspected between Mister Adams, the mystery buyer, and Glennan.
The picture he received this morning showed more than a white Cord: it showed him the location.
First thing, make certain. He leaves the Mustang by the door to the main house, walks round to the barn and hauls the door open.
He never really doubted it. The Cord is parked with its blunt grille and curving wings facing the entrance, headlamps concealed, white coachwork, white sidewall tyres and chrome domed hubcaps gleaming like new. That is fat, fast and beautiful; he could love it.
Taffin allows himself a moment’s appreciation, then drags the barn door closed and heads for the house.
Bob Sherman raises his head as the door opens to reveal an expanse of dark suit. He was anticipating mate in two moves before his opponent palpably lost interest in the game – something he can’t forgive – but his knit brow clears as he recognizes the intruder.
‘Mister Taffin – what a pleasure. Your friend plays a splendid game but lacks concentration. I have him, see?’ he indicates the board, ‘how would you judge his chances?’
‘Not too good.’ Taffin takes the old man’s offered hand. ‘I need a private word with him if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all, if he concedes.’
‘I concede. I haven’t beaten him yet’ Glennan gets up with a helpless shrug, follows Taffin out to the corridor and stares anxiously into the blank face.
‘I’m relieved to see you. I’ve come to a decision –’
‘Save it.’ Taffin watches him quietly. ‘I’ve got some bad news for you.’
‘Oh Lord...’ Glennan leans against the wall. ‘You’re going to tell me it’s all out in the open – I don’t even get to redeem myself by confession.’
‘It’s your wife.’
‘I might have guessed.’ an exasperated upward glance. ‘What’s she done? Sold the story to the gutter press I suppose – “Disgraced Minister’s wife tells all” – that’s about her level, greedy bitch.’
‘She’s dead.’
The words hang in the air for a beat while Glennan stares into Taffin’s face, then sinks down to an awkward sitting position on the top step, gazing into the dark stairwell.
‘How?’
‘Looks like she fell down the stairs.’ Taffin lowers himself to sit beside the Minister.
A heavy minute passes while Glennan stares into the abyss. ‘What now?’
‘That’s for you to decide.’
‘I suppose everybody’s wondering where I am.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘I was going to say, I want to go on record with what I’ve done and – how did you put it? – take the bad guys down with me.’
CHARLOTTE NOTICED THE MAN in the black cap a few minutes ago and paid him no attention at first; just another punter browsing the stock on the forecourt. The Porsche Cayenne he arrived in is parked at the head of the lane.
She looks up as he comes into the office, closing the door behind him, and instinctively checks to see that her mobile is within easy reach. Big bloke; big jaw. That cap gives him the look of a bird of prey.
‘Where’s the man?’
‘That depends which man you’re looking for.’
‘Mister Taffin.’
‘He’s not here. Perhaps I can help.’
‘When are you expecting him?’
‘He may be a while.’ Charlotte regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth. ‘He went to collect a car. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll wait.’
He lets himself out and she watches through the window as he settles himself against the wall.
‘SHE WOULDN’T JUST FALL DOWN THE STAIRS.’ Glennan gazes into the shadows in the well of the old house. ‘Something must have distracted her. Did she suffer?’
‘I don’t know any more than you do.’ The floorboards complain as Taffin rises to his feet.
‘What do the police say? Do they think I pushed her? Oh God, I’m a suspect.’
‘Probably.’
‘But I haven’t been anywhere near her. I was in London, then you brought me here.’
‘So what’s the problem? I know you were here when it happened, so does Bob Sherman. There’s your alibi.’
‘So you believe I need an alibi. That must mean foul play is suspected.’
‘Like I say, we can vouch for where you were.’
‘I won’t say I’m not relieved, but... with the greatest respect, will the police regard you as a reliable witness?’
‘I ain’t got a record, Minister – and no one’s going to doubt Bob Sherman’s word. You’re an innocent man – get a grip.’
Glennan struggles to his feet. ‘Not entirely innocent though, am I?’
‘You’ve got stuff to answer for – no way out of that.’
‘As you say, no way out – not now. I’d decided to face up to it anyway. Ironically, turning myself in for defrauding the public offers some degree of safety. I’ll spend most of my time in interrogation rooms. Not an appealing thought, with the press clamoring for details, but I don’t care for life as a fugitive. It’s time to come out of hiding.’
Taffin on Balance Page 22