Taffin on Balance

  At the same time, a field away, Marcia Griffin is surprised when her trusted Horse, Trigger, skitters to his left, stumbles and rights himself in time for her to take a firm hold and stay in the saddle.

  The sound of thunder. A rich gob of smoke rises above the trees and gradually disperses.

  CHARLOTTE rolls onto her back, the singing in her head blotting out the sound of boots approaching. Two helmeted heads swim into view, then Ed’s face, close to hers.

  She says, ‘I can’t hear a fucking thing,’ but the sound is lost to her.

  She raises her arm, sees Rick mouthing ‘Woah!’ but hears nothing as Ed gently removes the revolver from her outstretched hand.

  She becomes aware of a weight across her chest. The weight lifts and she sees a black clad arm as Ed’s attention shifts to the figure lying beside her.

  Some time later she hears sirens as the buzz in her ears subsides; then blue lights swirl and she is being lifted and slid into an ambulance, conscious of another supine form beside her.

  THIRTY

  GORDON GLENNAN was found sitting at the wheel of the Mustang at the head of the lane, staring into the distance. The first officers on the scene recognized him immediately.

  As night falls he takes a seat in an interview room at Stoleworth Central.

  He has said little, other than to confirm his name. DI Robertson and DS Barker sit facing him. The interview begins slowly; Robertson is not a man to rush things and at this early stage he is more interested in Glennan’s manner than anything he might tell them.

  ‘You are Gordon Barnes Glennan, a Minister of Her Majesty’s Government, correct?’

  Glennan nods.

  ‘For the tape please, Minister.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You understand that you’re under caution. I have some hard questions to put to you and it’s important that you answer them fully and openly. Clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First, I must assume you’re aware that your wife has died.’

  Glennan nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you were at the time of her death?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. I’ve been keeping a low profile in the last few days. Mister Taffin knows where I was – he took me there. He can confirm that...’

  An exchange of glances between the detectives.

  Glennan continues: ‘So can the old man who lives there. I was with him – we played chess.’

  DS Barker watches Glennan’s face. ‘You don’t seem very upset, for a man who’s just lost his wife.’

  ‘That’s... not the case. Ours was not a close marriage. We didn’t spend a lot of time together but I hoped we could be closer in the future.’

  Robertson refers to his notes. ‘Would the names Linklater Farm or Sherman mean anything to you?’

  ‘I don’t know about the farm but I believe the old man’s name was Sherman. The place did look like a farm, now I think of it. That’s where I’ve been, but I wouldn’t know how to get there.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Barker puts the question.

  ‘I was taken there.’

  ‘By the owner of that American Ford you were driving?’ Robertson sits back and glances at Barker.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be a Mister Taffin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what is your relationship with Mister Taffin?’

  ‘There isn’t one really. He’s shown me some kindness – some concern for my welfare – I don’t know why. May I ask a question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘My wife’s death – was it accidental?’

  ‘Not for me to say at present. Mrs Glennan’s death is the subject of an ongoing investigation and we should have some more positive data before long.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the present, Minister. Why were you on Mister Taffin’s premises – Muscle Motors – earlier today?’

  ‘Mister Taffin wanted me to follow him there – he’ll confirm that.’

  ‘What did you see when you arrived?’

  ‘A lot happened in a short time.’ Glennan shakes his head as if to clear it. ‘There’s a narrow lane up to the garage. Some maniac drove straight at me. He pointed a gun at my head. Then there was some sort of collision and he was gone.’

  ‘He pointed a gun at you?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was a gun.’

  ‘This gun?’ Robertson holds up an evidence bag containing the gun that doesn’t exist. ‘For the tape, I’m showing the suspect a Colt Python revolver.’

  ‘It could be. I’ve seen one like it before.’

  ‘Really? Where would that have been?’

  ‘A former associate had one. He showed it to me.’

  ‘Who was this associate?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘We’d rather you did, Minister. We’ll come back to that. What happened after the maniac pointed the gun at you?’

  ‘There was a bright flash beyond the trees and a hellish kind of blast, then a clang and a crunch, like metal falling to earth. I don’t know... I’m still...’

  ‘Alright,’ Robertson gets up. ‘That’s all for now.’

  ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘We have to hand you on now. You’ll be collected later this evening and taken to London for further questioning. Beyond that, I can’t comment. Is there anything else you’d like to say – anything you want to ask us?’

  ‘Where did you find that gun?’

  ‘It was in the bushes near the car you were driving.’ Robertson takes his seat again. ‘Let’s talk about your associate who had one like it. Don’t be shy.’

  CHARLOTTE is hearing perfectly now. The babble around her has resolved into snatches of conversation from which she gathers she has been lucky: a slice of car door, which must have spun in the air, embedded itself in the ground like a lance within a few feet of her body.

  She also hears murmurs of concern for the man who was lying across her when the paramedics picked her up.

  On this hard hospital bed she explores her limbs and finds them functional. Feeling coming back. Reality fighting its way to the front.

  ‘How is he?’ her voice comes sharply, as if belonging to somebody else.

  A young woman’s face close to hers. ‘You’re back with us then?’

  ‘I said how is he.’ Charlotte struggles to sit up, resisting hands that try to stop her.

  ‘Just take it easy. The doctor will be along in a moment.’

  ‘I don’t need a bloody doctor, I want to know if my fella’s alright. Where is he?’

  ‘The man who came in with you? He’s being looked after. You just settle down and get your strength back.’

  But Charlotte is up, walking barefoot along the row of beds, shaking off hands that try to steady her.

  A woman doctor hurries to her side – an authority figure with a stricter turn of phrase. Instructions are given and Charlotte is taken to a waiting area where Julia and Kate rise to meet her. Ed and Rick hover in the background. No one says much but she senses tension in the air.

  ‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘They haven’t told us much.’ Julia guides her to a seat and sits down with her.

  Hours pass. Kath watches the news on her iPad and all but Charlotte lean in to look. The announcer addresses camera from the forecourt of Muscle Motors where tape is stretched across an area where the smoldering carcass of a car is just visible.

  No one listens to the commentary: ‘...the wreckage was too hot to approach for some time and it’s still not clear what caused the explosion that reduced a car to twisted wreckage on the forecourt of this specialist garage...’

  ‘I d
idn’t like it.’ Charlotte’s voice, broken, despairing. ‘I didn’t like what he was getting into. I didn’t like it from the beginning.’

  Rick puts an arm around her, protective by instinct, but she shakes off any comfort.

  ‘I always knew he’d go a step too far and now look.’

  She flings a pointed finger at the television but the announcer has handed back to the station link, who continues with the face of Gordon Glennan on screen.

  ‘Missing Transport Minister Gordon Glennan is this evening helping Police with their enquiries into the death of his wife, after being apprehended by police attending the explosion in the previous report. Glennan, who until recently chaired the StarTrack enquiry, has not been seen publicly since the high speed rail project was abandoned. The question now is, how did the missing Minister come to be at the location of this afternoon’s explosion?’

  ‘Never mind that –’ Charlotte shouts at the screen – ‘find out who that fucker in the black cap was. He set off the fucking explosion. Why don’t the cops ask Glennan about him – why don’t they talk to me? Are they all fucking stupid?’

  Mo and Shirley arrive to join the vigil. White-coated figures drift in and out and eventually word reaches them that the man they came in with – Mister... Taffin – is in surgery.

  Finally a robed figure approaches them, searching their faces, wondering who to address. Charlotte stands up.

  ‘You can talk to me.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘I’m his brother –’ Mo steps up and puts a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder – ‘but this lady is as good as family.’

  The surgeon nods. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve removed a sharp metal object from his side. If he had an appendix before, he hasn’t got one now.’

  ‘Bloody hell –’ Charlotte has no time for details – ‘you can fix him up though, can’t you?’

  ‘We’re doing all we can.’

  ‘What was the metal object?’ Mo wants to know.

  ‘It was a twisted fragment of something. Could have been part of a piece of machinery. All I can say for certain is it was hot when it struck him – that’s the best I can do.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘He’s had surgery before, hasn’t he? There’s evidence of an old abdominal wound.’

  ‘Some bastard stuck a knife in him once.’ Charlotte looks the surgeon in the eye. ‘He survived that alright, so a bit of hot metal won’t bother him.’

  The surgeon nods again: practiced sympathy. ‘It’s early days yet. He looks like a strong man so let’s hope his metabolism will take over where surgery left off. The body has remarkable ways of repairing itself. In the meantime we’ll be keeping an eye on him. There’s nothing you can do here now.’

  ‘We’ll be back.’ Mo steers Charlotte towards the exit. ‘My brother’s as tough as old boots.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘YOUR NAME IS MARK TWILL TAFFIN?’ DI Robertson and DS Barker take their seats beside the hospital bed.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In view of the unusual circumstances this will have to be conducted as a formal interview.’ Robertson glances at Barker: a mute direction to take notes. ‘I know you’ve had a rough time but this won’t wait so I hope you’re feeling up to it.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Would you mind taking off the dark glasses?’

  Taffin removes his glasses, revealing an equally expressionless gaze.

  ‘Thank you.’ Robertson looks the man over with interest. ‘First, what can you tell me about the explosion that caused your injuries?’

  ‘Not a lot. My partner didn’t get hurt – that’s all I care about.’

  ‘You were both lucky.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Your partner was discharged the following day. I understand you will be walking out of here any time now.’ Robertson sits back and folds his arms. ‘So why don’t you tell me why a car you were driving blew up?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t? If I had to guess I’d say someone wanted you dead, Mister Taffin. I want to know who and why?’

  ‘Same answer.’

  ‘Alright, let’s talk about your connection with Mister Gordon Glennan. He says you hid him for protection and made him follow you, in your car, to your premises in Lasherham. What was that about?’

  ‘He was fed up with hiding. I said I’d bring him in.’

  ‘Sounds like he put a lot of trust in you.’

  ‘We’re mates.’

  ‘You’re mates? Socially or business?’

  ‘Gordon likes to talk. I don’t mind listening.’

  ‘What does this Government Minister talk to you about?’

  ‘Private stuff.’

  ‘This particular Government Minister has quite a lot of private stuff to explain. Can you shed any light on that?’

  ‘He got into bad company – wanted a sympathetic ear.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Robertson leans back in his seat. ‘Why would he choose your ear?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No, you tell us.’ Barker comes to life and subsides at a gesture from Robertson.

  ‘It ain’t my business.’ Taffin’s gaze settles on Robertson. ‘The man came to me for help and I gave it to him.’

  ‘Did he offer to pay you for your services?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sticking your neck out, weren’t you? I can’t decide if you were being heroic or just plain rash.’

  ‘I ain’t a hero.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Barker huffs a laugh. ‘They made a movie about you, didn’t they?’

  Taffin’s gaze settles on him. ‘I wouldn’t know, squire.’

  Robertson leans forward, excluding Barker. ‘That was a rare, collectors’ car you were driving. I don’t know a lot about your business, Taffin, but I guess there are rivalries in it. What would a car like that be worth?’

  ‘More than you and me make in a year.’

  ‘I don’t know what you make in a year Taffin, and my pay is a matter of public record. You’re saying it’s worth plenty.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who knew you would be driving it yesterday afternoon?’

  Taffin sits back and folds his arms. ‘That’s the best question you’ve asked all day, squire.’

  TAFFIN LOOKS UP to see Charlotte pushing a wheelchair with his dark suit draped over it. Mo and Shirley are with her.

  ‘What’s that?’ Taffin jerks a thumb at the wheelchair.

  ‘Your transport for this afternoon, Young Man. Let’s get you dressed, I’m getting you out of here.’

  ‘I ain’t getting in that.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told. I’ve had your suit cleaned so you’ll be decent.’ She holds up a bulky white envelope. ‘I found this in the inside pocket.’

  Taffin swings is legs over the edge of the bed, wincing. ‘The old man gave me that – old Bob Sherman.’

  ‘You haven’t opened it.’

  ‘Something for services rendered, he said. I told him he doesn’t owe us anything so he said, give it to your good lady. You must have made an impression.’

  ‘I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. He’s a nice old fella.’ Charlotte slits open the envelope, pulls out a fold of paper and reads. ‘Oh my goodness – he is a nice old fella.’ She sinks down on the side of the bed and hands him the letter:

  Dear Mister Taffin,

  I write to acknowledge the kindness and courtesy you and your colleagues have shown to me during the brief time since we first became acquainted.

  At the time we met, I was being propositioned, on a regular basis, by strangers who assured me that it was in
my best interests to sign certain assets on my property over to them, for a consideration. These assets, I imagine, were to include my late Uncle Austin’s collection of motor cars.

  As I believe I mentioned during one of our conversations, this collection is of no interest to me; in fact, I was hardly aware of its existence until these people started making a fuss.

  I believe, though, that a collection of motors such as this might well be of interest to you. Having no deserving relatives to leave it to, I have no hesitation in offering it to you, in its entirety, with any related paperwork you may find, to dispose of as you see fit.

  I hope I have made my feelings clear on the matter of legal documents and my aversion to signing anything drafted in their incomprehensible jargon. However, I am happy to make an exception in this case and will willingly sign any further papers that may be necessary to make this gift binding.

  In the hope that this signed document makes my wishes clear, I remain yours,

  Sincerely,

  Robert Sherman.

  PS Feel free to drop in any time you’re passing this way!

  ‘YOU CAN’T BEAT LOCAL KNOWLEDGE.’ Perry Butt has a stack of the last two weeks’ national dailies beside him and is in a mood to lecture anyone who’ll listen. He whacks the latest copy of The Stoleworth Observer down on the bar. ‘This girl’s been keeping her eyes and ears open and look where it’s got her.’ He nudges the stack of the week’s national dailies at his elbow and swivels on his stool, glass raised, to face the White Lion’s regulars. ‘Young Erica Lyle – home-grown talent. Salut.’

  ‘She’s a pushy little devil,’ Harry Hawkins remarks. ‘I remember her as a cocky teenager.’

  ‘Blue hair she had, at one time –’ Ivy Lewis leans over and reads from the nearest copy:

  MAN CHARGED WITH JANICE GLENNAN MURDER

  Police today charged former steel fixer, Michael James Wyatt, with the murder of Mrs. Janice Glennan, who was found dead at her Lasherham home having apparently tripped and fallen down the stairs. A Post Mortem revealed that Mrs Glennan, wife of disgraced Transport Minister Gordon Glennan, died from a single blow to the back of the neck and the fatal injury was inconsistent with a fall.