Taffin on Balance

  Police are still seeking the caller behind an anonymous tip-off that led to Wyatt’s arrest. Wyatt admitted to being inside Mrs Glennan’s house at the time of her death but insists that it was an accomplice in the break-in, whose name he could not supply, who killed Mrs. Glennan.

  According to Wyatt, his accomplice drove a Porsche Cayenne, but he was unable to supply any more detail. Wyatt was remanded in custody pending trial...

  Ashley Gunn moves up to the bar. ‘That’s Gordon Glennan off the hook, right there. You all reckoned it was him, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was always a dangerous assumption.’ Mostyn studies his half of bitter. ‘Gordon Glennan was miles away when his wife was murdered but he’s got problems of an entirely different nature.’

  ‘Who says he didn’t pay someone to get rid of her?’ Ivy Lewis offers the question with round-eyed innocence.

  ‘No way.’ Ashley Gunn sweeps the idea aside. ‘He’s the politician everybody loves to hate, but a good friend of mine, who knows him better than any of us, says he hasn’t got it in him.’

  ‘That would be Taffin.’ Ivy’s face softens. ‘He confirmed Glennan was somewhere else at the time – and if he can vouch for Glennan’s character, that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Perhaps the Minister just fell in with bad company –’ Perry Butt brandishes a later front page. ‘Save your sympathy – the truth is, he was an elected representative who abused public trust. Here’s more from the redoubtable Miss Lyle. Now tell me this doesn’t do your heart good.’

  GLENNAN FACES STARTRACK FRAUD INQUIRY

  The defunct high-speed rail loop project, StarTrack, was plagued by early mismanagement that left it open to exploitation by ruthless speculators, according to a Home Office source.

  Transport Minister Gordon Glennan, who chaired the Select Committee monitoring StarTrack’s progress, now faces questions on how the project was directed and why the proposed route continually changed, causing untold distress to thousands of householders, who had to stand by helpless while property values plunged.

  ‘Yesss!’ Harry Hawkins rubs his hands together and grabs another national daily. ‘And how about this...’

  DISGRACED MINISTER REVEALS LAND GRAB CONSPIRACY

  Gordon Glennan, former Chair of the StarTrack Advisory Committee, admits he collaborated with an unnamed entrepreneur to defraud property owners along several routes proposed for the aborted StarTrack plan. The objective was to depress property values to make cheap land available for development.

  Glennan, briefly a suspect following the death of his wife, Janice Glennan, now faces further questions and will be required to name names in connection with the StarTrack fiasco.

  ‘Just like we all thought.’ Debi Royce sweeps the assembled company with an iron stare.

  ‘And now we know who the unnamed entrepreneur was.’ Perry Butt holds up this morning’s front page and they all crowd round to read:

  BILLIONAIRE RECLUSE SOUGHT IN STARTRACK INVESTINGATION

  Police in sixteen countries are today seeking property magnate Daniel Frey-Morton, named by disgraced Minister Gordon Glennan as the driving force behind the StarTrack conspiracy, which aimed to drive down property values to favour speculators. Thousands of householders would have suffered loss of their principal assets had the plan succeeded.

  Frey-Morton lives and works in hotels when on shore, or on one of his three yachts, one of which is thought to be worth $200 million. He is known to have left the United Kingdom some weeks ago and his present whereabouts are unknown.

  Assets of several subsidiary companies comprising Frey-Morton’s business empire have been frozen until he is available to answer charges.

  ‘And there you have it.’ Perry Butt lowers the paper. ‘That’s what I call reporting. Don’t let the bastards off the hook until you’re sure you’ve got the whole story – not just the scraps they want to give you – all of it. You can’t beat local knowledge – it can lead you anywhere.’

  DEAN ELTON understood his wound perfectly. It was not his first and he had seen many like it. The effort of high-speed driving kept the blood flowing but at sunset he judged that enough time had elapsed and pulled into a field to rest. Here he mopped himself with the clothes he was wearing, changed into combat fatigues from his travelling kit and cleaned up the car.

  The following day he left the Porsche in a car park near the Southampton docks, checked into an address he had been given and waited for a launch that would take him across the Channel.

  With unlimited funds, the world was open to him. Now, ten thousand miles away, his wound properly tended, he is lying on a king-size bed in air-conditioned luxury wondering which of Singapore’s bars and nightspots will get his patronage tonight. CBS News is burbling in the background. Elton pays no attention; he leaves the TV on to break up the silence.

  Sooner or later, boredom is going to get to him and he knows it. Mercenary soldiers are always in demand somewhere in the world and he can’t believe there’s any way Mister Morton could find out.

  He frowns. Mister Morton’s information network is phenomenal: he would find out. Dean Elton had best learn to cope with the boredom or starve.

  A knock on the door. A pause, then another, more urgent. Elton swings his legs off the bed, covers the distance in four strides and opens the door.

  The Hotel Manager, whose badge identifies him as Jeffry Chung, stands before him.

  ‘Ah, Mister Elton, I am sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done that, so what do you want?’

  ‘It’s very embarrassing. I have to ask you to settle your hotel account.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, my credit is good. The hotel management knows that.’

  Jeffry Chung remains as still as one of the sculptures in his own foyer. ‘I’m afraid that’s not so, Mister Elton – not any more. I must ask you to settle your account before you leave the hotel.’

  Dean Elton turns his back on the man, flicking the door closed as he does so, and is immediately confronted by Daniel Frey-Morton’s face on screen as the commentator’s voice picks up the story:

  ‘...all assets in Frey-Morton’s companies frozen until further notice pending investigation of his affaires in Europe and the United States...’

  Some time later, Elton presents his credit card at the hotel check-out desk.

  ‘I’m sorry Mister Elton, your card has been declined.’

  ‘Try it again.’

  He has three cards; all are declined. Finally he turns to Jeffry Chung, hands spread out. ‘What can you do for me, Jeffry?’

  ‘I can order you a taxi, Mister Elton. That’s the best I can do.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ALICE BECKER wasn’t expecting visitors this morning. She pauses in the act of raking leaves in her front garden to watch the red Ford Mustang nosing in through her narrow gate.

  ‘Mister Taffin, how nice to see you.’

  ‘I can get someone to help you with that.’ Taffin climbs out and glances round the garden.

  ‘No need. It’s my therapy. When the Post Office is sold I won’t have much else to occupy my time. Until then, I rake leaves to take my mind off things.’

  ‘No offers yet?’

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘I have a proposition for you – a serious one.’ Alice watches Taffin as he heads for the front door and wonders what a man who wears intimidating dark suits, whose shoulders swing like a wrestler’s, with a slightly bow-legged walk, could possibly have to offer her.

  She follows him, opens the door and leads him into the kitchen.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Always a cup of tea, Mrs. Becker. That’s the way to seal a deal.’

  ON A BRISK AUTUMN MORNING, Erica Lyle catches sight of Perry Butt in the High Street and follows him into the White Lion.


  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mister Butt.’

  ‘Then do so, Miss Lyle – or is it Ms?’

  ‘I don’t really give a stuff, you can call me what you like.’

  ‘And people most definitely will in the profession you have chosen. I’ll call you Erica, and ask Meg here to supply me with a large gin and just a splash of Angostura. Have you ever tried pink gin?’

  ‘This will be my first... Perry.’

  ‘Good girl.’ The old journalist nods. ‘And why would you want to talk to a dinosaur like me?’

  ‘Part of my education, let’s say. Have you been reading my stuff?’

  ‘Very impressive. You have tenacity and nerve.’

  ‘I appreciate that. Nerve is what I want to talk to you about. I’ve had a sniff of local news and I don’t know who else to consult.’

  ‘Do you want to concern yourself with a local story?’

  ‘Local knowledge got me where I am.’

  Meg has poured two pink gins and set them on the bar. ‘Is this with you, Mister Butt?’

  ‘Good grief.’ Perry Butt fishes in his pocket until Erica comes up with the cash, then raises his glass and clinks with her. ‘Slainte mhaith. Yes – local knowledge – you can’t beat it.’

  ‘Someone’s bought the Post Office and is busily stocking it with the entire contents of the old Tollgate Bookshop. That’s quaint, but there’s obviously a minor philanthropist in the background. Any ideas?’

  ‘Are you asking me to spread rumours?’

  ‘I’m asking for your instincts.’

  ‘True humility.’ Butt relishes his gin and peers at Erica through the glass. ‘Tell me, where do you think you’re headed?’

  ‘Right to the top.’

  ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘Managing Editor of a national daily. Any advice?’

  ‘Yes –’ Butt’s gaze wanders to the middle distance as he recites: ‘To learn the age old lesson day by day, it is not in the bright arrival planned, but in the dreams men dream along the way they find The golden Road to Samarkand.’ He knocks back the rest of his gin. ‘To this day I’ve no idea who said it, and I can still hardly quote it without cracking up – but for what it’s worth, it’s the secret.’

  ‘So who should I talk to?’

  ‘Taffin.’

  The two fall silent for a moment. Meg pours them each another drink. Finally Erica nods.

  ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

  CHARLOTTE looks up from her computer as Erica Lyle walks into the office.

  Two transporters loaded with classic cars from Bob Sherman’s barn are due any minute. Kath has taken delivery of a van full of equipment for inter-active displays and is now in the new main building working out where to position them. Julia is around somewhere photographing every stage of the development for future reference. And now there’s a reporter on the doorstep. No problem: the press is welcome any time.

  ‘Are you the lady who called earlier?’

  ‘That’s right. I was told Mister Taffin was here. I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘Good luck with that. Getting more than two words out of him entitles you to a mystery prize. He’s out there somewhere on the building site, love. Why don’t I walk you round?’

  They walk out together. Erica says, ‘I hardly recognized the place. Everything’s new. Is this going to be your new show room?’

  ‘It’s going to be a classic motor museum, love – state-of-the-art –people will flock here to see it. You’re a journalist, tell the world.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure. Are you Mrs. Taffin?’

  ‘We’re not that formal, love.’

  ‘You don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘That’s your job. What do you want to ask Himself about?’

  ‘I don’t know where to start. He watched over Gordon Glennan for a while – gave him an alibi and seemed to be the man in his corner during the trial. I’m curious to know why he’d do that.’

  ‘He had his reasons.’

  ‘Is it true he visits Glennan in prison?’

  ‘Now and again.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Glennan asked him to. Himself made a promise and that’s one of the few things he sees as binding.’

  They walk past a massive polished wooden sculpture of cogwheels and chains. Erica glances back.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s the centerpiece for the new forecourt. It’s a commissioned original by Graham Lester. I hope you’re impressed.’

  ‘I don’t know the name.’

  ‘He’s a sculptor. He studied the burnt out skeleton of the car that blew up – a Cord – and then produced that amazing bit of sculpture based on what he saw. Then he designed a whole new look for us, including the sign you’ll soon see over the entrance.’

  They walk on towards a structure of steel and glass where a new sign is being raised by pulleys to hang over the double glass doors. Erica stands back to read: THE BOB SHERMAN MOTOR MUSEUM.

  ‘Who’s Bob Sherman?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Must be a very good friend.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Himself. Here he is.’

  Taffin turns to watch them approach. Dark suit, dark glasses, hands in pockets.

  Charlotte says, ‘I’ll leave you with him,’ and wanders back to the office.

  Erica shows open hands. ‘Look, no notebook.’

  Taffin studies her quietly. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I’ve been training my memory. There’s a lot I want to ask you.’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Do you mind if we talk about Gordon Glennan first? He’s not a popular man. A lot of people would like to see him strung up but you stood by him. Why?’

  ‘He asked for help.’

  ‘You must have believed he didn’t kill his wife.’

  ‘I know he didn’t.’

  ‘Why do you visit him in prison?’

  ‘He don’t get a lot of visitors.’

  ‘Apart from lawyers, I imagine. What do you talk about?’

  ‘He needs to unburden to someone. He tells me stuff.’

  ‘Has he told you anything about his billionaire friend, Daniel Frey-Morton?’

  Taffin glances up at the steel beams that form the roof of this new structure and wanders across the floor of what will soon be the museum. His right leg betrays a slight limp as he turns to face her.

  ‘You’re a journalist, you know about Frey-Morton.’

  ‘They caught up with him in Buenos Aires last week. The Americans want him for tax evasion. You know that’s how they got Al Capone?’

  The hint of a smile brushes Taffin’s face. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that. What do you really want to ask me about?’

  Erica takes a deep breath and stares him in the face. ‘You think I’m going to ask about that movie again, don’t you? Well, I might. I still don’t know if you believe it’s about you or not.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not the person to ask.’

  ‘Alright, let’s move on. Would I be right in saying it was you who acquired the Post Office building, insisted on keeping the service running and transferred the Tollgate Bookshop stock there, so it’s all central to the village? Would you have a problem if I printed that?’

  Taffin shrugs. ‘No.’

  ‘What gave you the idea?’

  ‘Charlotte suggested it.’

  ‘The lady I just met?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Taffin steps outside to watch a massive transporter loaded with classic automobiles making its way up the lane. Rick Bishop jumps out of the cab on the passenger side and signals the driver into position.
Ed Pentecost appears from the workshop to supervise unloading.

  Erica follows Taffin out and stands beside him.

  ‘Is this the famous collection?’

  ‘Part of it.’

  Another fully loaded transporter has turned into the lane and is making its way towards them.

  ‘Will it all fit in here?’

  ‘Some have been sold to collectors. How do you think we’re paying for all this?’

  ‘That makes sense. Bob Sherman – who is he and how did you meet him?’

  ‘Through business.’

  ‘And he became your benefactor?’

  ‘He’s a generous man – a friend.’

  ‘You seem to have a lot of friends these days. That wasn’t always the case, was it?’

  ‘Times change.’

  ‘There are people who still think you had a hand in derailing StarTrack – you’ll forgive the pun. Is there any truth in it, given your association with Gordon Glennan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you flattered that people believe it?’

  ‘Someone should put them straight.’

  ‘Well,’ Erica flicks blonde hair from her forehead, ‘here’s what I really want to ask – and I’m asking as a human being, not as a reporter – why is it that people seem instinctively to trust you with their problems?’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘But you can understand why people are curious. How does anyone abduct a Minister of the Crown, survive a car bombing, come through a major police investigation untainted and end up building a museum. My readers would love to know how it’s done. Any advice?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Taffin turns to face her. ‘Be lucky.’