Taffin on Balance

  ‘No point hanging around here then.’ Taffin leads him into Bob’s room and the phone rings in his pocket as he does so.

  Charlotte’s voice: ‘Can you hurry it up?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘There’s a fella here asking for you. I said you’d gone to collect a car. He said he’d wait.’

  ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

  Taffin slips the phone back in his pocket and turns to Bob Sherman. ‘We’ll be leaving now. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Bon voyage then. One more thing –’ the old man pushes the chess board aside, produces an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to Taffin – ‘a small token of gratitude.’

  ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘I insist. If you don’t want to open it, give it to your good lady.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Taffin takes the envelope, slips it in his pocket, shakes the old man’s hand and turns to Gordon Glennan. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘When you are.’

  ‘There’s a car here for me to collect so you’ll have to follow in mine. Ever driven a Ford Mustang?’

  ‘HOW MANY PHONES DO YOU NEED?’ Charlotte cocks an eyebrow with her question. She is standing in the open office doorway watching Black Cap who is still leaning against the wall, one phone up to his ear, another clasped in his left hand.

  He half turns. ‘What?’

  ‘A black one and a white one. You must be very organised.’

  ‘How long have I got to wait?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Why don’t you call him and find out?’

  ‘Because I’m not his nanny.’ Charlotte drops all pretense at affability. ‘No one’s making you wait. Why don’t you call back tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s no good.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’ Charlotte shuts the office door and goes to her desk. Through the window she watches Black Cap dial a number and speak briefly into his phone – the black phone, she notices.

  She imagines he’s closing a deal. The truth would surprise her: Dean Elton is calling the police.

  GORDON GLENNAN sinks into the left-hand driving seat of the Mustang with some apprehension. He has never enjoyed driving. The cars he has owned have always been designed to cushion him from what goes on outside. This brute has a nose that suggests aggressive power and a steering wheel that feels too slim to cling to.

  Taffin gave him a brief tour of the dashboard before shutting him in and now he is alone in an alien machine with a daunting journey ahead.

  ‘Just keep me in sight,’ Taffin told him. He has every intention of doing so.

  THE CORD rumbles into life like an elderly athlete disturbed from sleep. Taffin makes a brief inspection of the interior, tests the pedal pressures and pauses to answer his phone. Charlotte’s voice comes to him over the engine in a droning, uneven rush.

  ‘What’s up, girl?’

  ‘That geezer’s still here. Did you find what you’re looking for?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sitting in it. It’s a throwback from the nineteen-thirties.’

  ‘Hurry it up. This bloke gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Lock up and go home.’

  ‘I can’t leave the place unattended. Ed and Rick are out delivering the Dodge. They’ll be back here soon so don’t worry about me. How long will it take you to get here?’

  ‘In this thing, anybody’s guess. We’re leaving now.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and a client.’

  Taffin eases the Cord forward, gives Glennan the thumbs up in passing and watches the Mustang jerk with the minister’s first tentative efforts to get it rolling.

  AT THE SAME TIME Michael Wyatt is wondering how much longer he will need to sit in this rented Nissan watching the Glennans’ driveway.

  Black Cap told him to keep that house in view and gave him a number to call if Gordon Glennan appeared. It’s tedious work but it doesn’t call for a lot of effort, so put up with it.

  Wyatt shifts awkwardly in his seat. He has always resented authority but needs direction to function at all – a contradiction beyond his grasp that leaves him in a state of unrelieved, tacit belligerence. But he has found it pays to follow a leader; that has been the pattern of his life.

  The Black Cap won his obedience in a split second through a cocktail of fear and respect by murdering his colleague in front of his eyes.

  On top of that, Janice Glennan died in his presence with Black Cap in attendance. He is still not sure what happened. He watched her fall down the stairs and looked immediately to Black Cap for guidance the moment he realised she was dead. He has given up trying to piece the sequence of events together.

  There has been no sign of Gordon Glennan and Wyatt doesn’t think there will be. Police activity has been going on all around him and he has got used to ignoring it, so he sits up smartly as a squad car slides to a halt across his front and another pulls up behind him.

  Moments later he is in the back seat of the lead vehicle staring with passive resentment into the face of Sergeant Dave Walls.

  An anonymous call to Stoleworth Central gave the number of his rented Nissan together with a description of the driver.

  TWENTY-NINE

  AFTER TEN MINUTES in the Cord, Taffin is longing for his Mustang.

  The car slipped out of gear once before he was clear of the farm gates; the next few miles required a heavy touch while he got used to the steering. In spite of the power of the Lycoming V8, progress is ponderous, with an assortment of vibrations adding to the Cord’s obstinate refusal to convey any kind of surface awareness.

  Driving this antique, he decides, is more like an assault course than a pleasure and watching Glennan’s attempts to keep up adds to the discomfort.

  ‘Must be going soft,’ he mutters, heaving the wheel through a series of tight bends.

  So far, the effort has taken his mind off more pressing matters. Now, as he allows that slab of nose to lead him in a more or less straight line, he begins to speculate on how this drive will end.

  He has no idea who he is going to meet, or why he has been singled out for a stranger’s attention. All he knows for certain is that Charlotte is aware of a threat: the flat tone of her voice on the phone told him that.

  The road unfolds before him, mile after mile. Every so often he slows to let the Mustang catch up.

  DEAN ELTON leans against the outside wall of the office, clearing his mind of everything but the job in hand.

  The gun that doesn’t exist hangs heavy under his left armpit. He would have preferred a Glock 17 but this heavy Colt revolver was stowed away for him in the Porsche so he didn’t argue: he doesn’t expect to use it anyway. The white phone will take care of everything and then he’ll be away, Muscle Motors will be history and the bitch in the office who looked at him slant-eyed will end up as a casualty. Collateral damage – a phrase Morton used in connection with Glennan’s wife. Best do a thorough job.

  While he’s thinking this, Charlotte is scanning the forecourt yet again. Black Cap is still where she last saw him and she opens the door to give herself a wider view.

  Her phone is in her hand and she would like to call Taffin again but remembers his views on people who use phones when they’re driving and decides it can wait. Ed and Rick should be back any time now.

  She is about to shut herself into the office when Black Cap turns to her.

  ‘You’re keeping an eye on me,’ he remarks. ‘You ought to be more trusting.’

  Something in his tone causes her to freeze. ‘I only trust people I know, and I don’t trust all of them.’

  ‘That’s not very friendly.’ Black Cap moves as if to stretch his shoulders and her phone is gone, snatched away faster than she could think.

  Ch
arlotte’s eyes blazing. ‘You can give that back right now.’

  ‘Get inside.’ He is facing her and she has a flash glimpse of the gun under his arm as he turns.

  Charlotte stares at the man, feels her world slow down and backs away towards her desk.

  Black Cap follows her in, rips the phone and computer connections out of the wall, goes back outside, closes the door and leans against it with his back to her.

  Charlotte sits very still, perched on the edge of her desk. She glances at the rear window that looks out over the workshop: too small. It sticks and she doubts that she could squeeze herself through it. No way out there. She is imprisoned, cut off, unable to communicate with anyone, and the man outside is a killer – of that she is now certain.

  Stay active – get Black Cap used to her moving – keep calm but be ready to make a break for it given the chance. She tidies her desk, puts tomorrow’s worksheets in order ready for Ed and Rick, locks the filing cabinet, looks around for something to use as a weapon in emergency.

  Nothing comes to hand. Defenseless. Bad feeling.

  ‘Who needs two phones?’

  Something inside her weakens.

  No weapon? What were you thinking? Her eyes suddenly open wide. There’s a gun in the safe a few feet from her. Taffin took it off the man he called the Tooth Fairy.

  She gets up slowly, a smooth flow of movement.

  Reach out, turn the knob, two clicks right, three left, two right, four left: Click. Ease the handle down. The heavy door opens under pressure.

  Black Cap glancing briefly over his shoulder.

  Charlotte reaching into the safe, hand searching, closing on the weapon.

  The gun is in her hand, heavy, snub, grimly reassuring.

  A closer look. She has never even held one before but assumes there is a safety-catch. A grooved button under her thumb. She presses it forward and flinches as the cylinder drops sideways. Not the safety-catch then, but a glance tells her Taffin left it loaded.

  Close it up with a click and hope the weapon would work if she dared use it.

  On her feet now, ambling to the door, hands behind her back.

  TAFFIN GLANCES at his watch. Given a clear road he should be at Muscle Motors in about twenty minutes.

  He needs to see Charlotte and make sure she’s had the sense to lock the office door. He is hoping Ed and Rick are back at the workshop.

  With a mounting sense of urgency to contend with, all he needs is a hold up in the high street of a small town. But here is a large woman in a high-visibility jacket holding a STOP sign.

  The engine settles to a deep-seated grumble as he waits. A procession of school children screeches and clatters across the road, more queuing up ready to cross, some of the boys breaking away to cluster round this weird car, one or two trying to climb on the front wings.

  Sharp commands from the woman. The kids reluctantly getting back in line. When the last of them is safely across, the woman allows a moment to pass before marching off after them.

  The Cord slips out of gear again as it pulls away. An argument with the linkage, a grudging uptake of power, Taffin takes a deep breath as he leaves the town behind and slows down again waiting for the Mustang to appear in his mirror.

  Open road stretching ahead again. The Cord clears its throat and surges on while Taffin allows himself to relax. A saying of Russell Chambers Gates calms him: ‘Time passes at its own set pace regardless of our efforts to compete.’

  The huge motor home looms in his windscreen, square, impassable and slow. Low gear called for, refused a third time, and the Cord slows down in spite of the rumbling power.

  The motor home continues on its way and is lost to view. Taffin steers the Cord onto the grass verge, wrestles to find a gear, feels the jerk as it engages and glances back, willing the Mustang to catch up.

  CHARLOTTE stares at the broad back leaning against the office door.

  The gun is a lump of cold metal in her hand, the muzzle mere inches from a jacket that encloses flesh, blood, bone, sinew, life. Every instinct works against destroying that – and with the back turned, you’re powerless.

  Even with a lethal weapon in your hand.

  Close-shaven bristle on the back of the neck beneath the black cap. The man feeling her presence behind him by some ancient sense, turning round to look.

  Charlotte staring at him through the pane of glass. Two-way eye contact. Elton facing her now, arms held out, a phone in each hand.

  ‘Settle down, lady.’

  ‘Let me out, now. There’s laws against imprisoning people.’

  ‘You’re too tense. Tension’s a killer.’

  He should not have used the word. A flash of fury and Charlotte shatters the glass with a punch, gun in hand, aimed at the man’s face.

  ‘That’s a dangerous toy,’ Elton remarks, as the last shards cascade at his feet. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘What are you here for?’

  ‘Just business.’ He makes a weighing motion, one phone in each hand. ‘Sit back and enjoy the moment.’

  Charlotte braces herself, both hands on the gun. She has seen that on the movies. ‘Put the phones down and walk away.’

  ‘Or you’ll shoot me?’ Elton seems to look through her. ‘Big decision. You have the power of life and death in your hands.’

  ‘Just drop the phones.’

  ‘Which one?’ Elton brings his hands together, shuffles the phones and holds them out again – one black, one white. ‘Life and death – which is which?’ Another shuffle. ‘Black or white? Life... or death?’

  ‘I’m telling you, drop them right now.’ Charlotte curls a finger round the trigger, wondering how much bluff is left in her.

  Elton slips the black phone in his pocket and weighs the white one in his hand. ‘Compromise.’

  Charlotte feels her teeth gritted. Flash of memory – the speed of his hand when he took her phone. His calm voice has kept her attention and he has moved closer.

  She takes a step back in anticipation. He throws the door open. A moment face to face with nothing between them, her arms still straight out gripping the gun. No bluff left.

  ‘That won’t save you.’ Elton’s face set like granite now. ‘You couldn’t pull that trigger to save your life.’

  Charlotte’s eyes suddenly wide open as a flash of white appears among the trees along the lane and the roar of an engine reaches them.

  Elton turning to look, taking a step outside, the white phone in his raised left hand as the Cord heads up towards them.

  ‘I’ll be leaving now.’ He throws the remark over his shoulder. ‘Go say hello to Mister Taffin.’

  And against instinct, Charlotte knows what has to happen. Eyes tight shut as her finger closes round the trigger. The gun jumping in her hand, the Bang mingling with the growl of the Cord’s engine.

  The bullet chips Elton’s shoulder blade carrying off a gush of muscle and splinters of bone. Elton jerks and stumbles forward on one knee, left arm flicking out in crazy mime, white phone spinning away across hard ground.

  Charlotte running wildly towards the approaching Cord. Taffin flinging the door open to greet her as she grabs his arm, hauling him from the car, mouthing frantic words, starting to run.

  Elton rolling over searching for the phone, dragging himself towards it.

  Taffin staring at the man on the ground who is now clambering to his feet, falling forward, righting himself, reaching for the phone.

  The world slows down. Taffin turning away from the Cord, reaching for Charlotte, covering distance together.

  As Elton fumbles for the phone with his right hand, straining against swelling agony in his left shoulder, staggering to his waiting Porsche, letting himself in, glancing behind to see two figures flinging themselves flat as h
e grips the phone, thumbs the numbers 812, fights the car into gear, pressing SEND as he accelerates away.

  AS GORDON GLENNAN steers the Mustang into the lane leading to Muscle Motors, it seems to him that an already overloaded day has turned manic.

  A car is driving straight at him, the driver preoccupied with something in his hand.

  Glennan making a stab for the brake as the oncoming car swerves, slowing to miss him, the driver staring across the narrow space, Glennan’s eyes wide as a gun flicks into view pointing at his head, a blare of sound, a surreal instant of leather-clad figures flashing between them, wiping away the vision of the gun.

  A rush of wind and Glennan is left staring at the trees flanking the lane as the car that all but rammed him screams out to the main road and is gone.

  ED PENTECOST has spent his day at high speed. An hour ago he delivered the restored Dodge Charger to the new owner, spent a little time discussing the car’s characteristics, shook hands and handed over the keys.

  Rick Bishop picked him up on the Fireblade and brought him back to Muscle Motors, taking advantage of an experienced pillion rider to lean into the bends on the way.

  They were in sight of the red Mustang just as it turned into the lane and caught up with it at the exact moment it swerved to avoid an oncoming Porsche Cayenne that slowed, the driver apparently pointing out of his window.

  Rick’s only option was to aim for the narrow space between the two cars. The decision taken in a micro-second, a fleeting impact and now they’re through, Rick braking hard as they reach the forecourt, the two of them stepping off the bike as it slides on, shielding themselves from the inferno blazing on the concrete apron in front of them.

  A HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, farmer Peter Shaw fancied a break from mowing his field, parked the John Deer tractor, gang-mowers raised, and perched on a style to roll a cigarette. Rizzla paper between his fingers, a generous caterpillar of Golden Virginia spread out on the surface promising a peaceful interlude under a clear sky. He licks his lips, raises the paper and as he does so the tobacco vanishes, a blast of air rocks him backwards and a beat later, incredibly, he hears a clap of thunder.