He takes half a step – at the rear of the showroom is a door marked, “Private” and beside it a kind of window with a mirror finish in which he can see their reflections. Now her grip tightens on his sleeve.
‘Well – at least let me give you my card, sir – I’m sure you might have second thoughts – please wait.’
There is a certain affected desperation in her manner – and she uses her mascaraed lashes to good effect, to implore his compliance. He is not sure to which of his sentiments she appeals – it could be anywhere between pathos and lust. He stands while she walks – more composedly now, emphasising her good figure – across to one of three sales desks on which there are display cards advertising finance, “Only 19.9% APR” – an eye-watering oxymoron that leads Skelgill to wonder if hapless customers actually believe the bigger the better! He notices his pulse has become a little irregular – and there is a fragrance in the air – not unpleasant – that seems to make him catch his breath.
‘There you are, sir – it has my private mobile number.’
Skelgill is impatient to move, and rather rudely he does not look at the card but slips it into his back pocket.
‘I take it he’s in here.’
His tone is not that of a question – and he walks towards the back office.
‘But – I should just phone through – in case –’
However, Skelgill has the door ajar. She seems unwilling to risk the wrath of her boss, and watches from a distance as Skelgill disappears.
*
Skelgill has not been to this showroom before – in fact he has had no cause recently to come even near. As alluded to by Mouse, it is only a year since his cousin Marty relocated his business from Penrith to Workington. But he seems to have settled in. Behind a largely clear desk Marty Graham reclines, one leg over the arm of his sprung chair, a copy of What Car? spread open in his hands. From an ashtray rises a vertical column of smoke; beyond him Skelgill notices a fire extinguisher and a fire exit door. To the right, looking more cramped, is a second desk that bears a bulky old-fangled PC, with a printer on a stand next to it; there is a set of in/out trays, and on the other side of the desk a grey metal filing cabinet, with drawers labelled “HP” and “Invoice’s” and “MOT’s” – grocers’ apostrophes and all. On the side of the cabinet is taped a charity calendar with a picture of rugby league players posing nude, oval balls strategically placed if suggestively angled. On a wall hook is a suit jacket that Skelgill recognises as a probable match to the pencil skirt of the female sales executive. It is not difficult to work out which of the two – she or cousin Marty – does the admin.
‘Daniel, commiserations.’
Skelgill realises he is not even sure what age is Marty Graham – younger than he, yes – he would guess early thirties – but he presents the demeanour of being the older man. It is with a worldly, careworn languor that he rises and reaches out a slow hand. He behaves more like Skelgill’s uncle than cousin. And, though he smiles knowingly, he looks away, as if embarrassed that Skelgill has suffered some much greater loss and is inconsolable. The only logic could be that Skelgill’s mother was a lifelong neighbour of the late Ernest Graham; but the manner seems borne out of an assumed seniority. Skelgill finds his grip limp and his skin clammy; he has to resist the urge to draw his palm across his thigh.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Daniel. It’s a sad business.’
A characteristic of the Grahams is a certain spareness of frame. Marty Graham is tall – probably a couple of inches taller than Skelgill – but he is also plump in a curious evenly padded way – like the Michelin Man – when most men of his age gain weight first around the midriff. And facially he is unlike a typical Graham. When the words gaunt and craggy would apply to much of the clan, Marty Graham has small piercing blue eyes and a button nose, retroussé, and an inconsequential mouth. These features are set in a weak doughy countenance, with hardly any eyebrows, and mousy hair thinning at the temples and styled to make the best of a bald patch. It is a porcine impression.
Phenotype aside, there is a further incongruity in that dress-wise he looks a good notch smarter than the slightly seedy premises. Away from here – in the foyer of a business hotel, say – he would carry the swagger of a wealthier figure. A three-piece suit – the jacket on a hanger – is new looking and well tailored; a carefully knotted silk tie tops a crisp white shirt. And there is a series of gold embellishments: monogrammed cufflinks, a chunky signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a wristwatch that might be a Rolex Oyster and, lying upon the desk beside the ashtray, a Cartier lighter.
That Skelgill has not spoken more than saying, “Alright, Mart” does not appear to have disconcerted him – nor Skelgill’s presence per se, which – being unannounced – must surely strike him as connected with the incident at the wake involving Mouse. It cannot escape his notice that this is the first time Skelgill has demonstrated a desire to seek him out, or even accidentally to cross paths with him outwith family gatherings. He lifts the handset of his desk phone and gestures with it.
‘Cappuccino, Daniel?’
Skelgill is thinking that his cousin does not display any outward signs of having been crowned with a plastic chair – and Marty Graham is already beginning to tap out an internal number when he responds with a start.
‘No – no thanks, Mart – I’ve just had a mash.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Along at that burger van.’
Marty Graham replaces the handset. A superior tight-lipped smile breaks out across his face.
‘Ah, yes – good old Bob Staines – his tea comes in handy for stripping spark plugs – hah-ha!’
The laugh is simulated – meanwhile Skelgill, realising he has not spoken with his cousin since longer than he can remember, is processing the accent; he concludes it too is somewhat counterfeit – when he knows the man grew up dropping his aitches and using aye for yes and me for my.
‘I’d better watch out then – seeing as I’ve got a cast-iron stomach.’
Marty Graham is continuing to grin vacantly, as though other thoughts in fact preoccupy his mind; thus, he ignores Skelgill’s joke.
‘Sorry I never got chance to catch up at the funeral, Daniel – I had to dash back here – Friday afternoon can be a peak time – Trish was on her own – she was suddenly swamped. Mostly tyre-kickers, unfortunately.’
Skelgill nods.
‘How is trade?’
Marty Graham gives an exaggerated sigh and leans further back and raises his flabby pink palms in a gesture of, “don’t ask”.
‘This time of year – the main dealers begin to flood the market – they have to clear their pre-owned stocks to make room for all the trade-ins they commit to in August.’
Skelgill could have predicted the clichéd response – no businessman ever likes to admit they are in easy street – but he is diverted by the slippery euphemism – what’s wrong with ‘second hand’? As for seasonality, he rather suspects that every month dawns with its bolted-on excuses for why folk are reluctant to spend – it is human nature, especially in this remote corner of England, where incomes are well below the national average. Besides – austerity or otherwise – cousin Marty seems to have found his niche.
‘Tidy little convertible you’ve got out there.’
Marty Graham responds with a snide cackle.
‘Between you and me, Daniel, it isn’t for sale. It belongs to Trish. No harm in a bit of window dressing. Eye-candy. She tickle your fancy?’
For a moment Skelgill wonders whether his cousin refers to the sports car or its owner – but he has already made the assessment that those flashy models displayed nearest to the road are designed to appeal to a man’s heart – yes, eye-candy of a sort – when half an hour later wallet or wife (or a potent combination of both) will reassign the final decision to the head. He tries to appear phlegmatic – though he is certainly confounded, since the woman – Trish – surely implied that the MG was available. Marty Graham seems to detec
t his misgiving.
‘Of course – she’d have her price – don’t we all?’
Now Skelgill must glower rather severely – for his cousin makes a retracting gesture with both palms briefly raised. To change the subject he regales Skelgill with what must be one of his stock lines.
‘What are you driving these days, Daniel – same old warhorse? Be a classic if you keep it much longer.’
Skelgill is uncertain whether to take this as a compliment or a slight; it strikes him that Marty Graham seems to know exactly what he is driving.
‘Aye – I keep thinking of changing – but it’s hard to see past it. Fishing and whatnot. Except –’
Despite that Skelgill has not yet stated the purpose of his visit, and that Marty Graham can be in no doubt that there must be one, the man’s sales instincts cannot let him pass up this small opening. He tilts his head to the side, like a doctor affecting concern.
‘Except?’
But now Skelgill engages his cousin with an even stare, steely eyed. ‘Except – that’s why I’m here – I believe you’ve got the keys to my new second car.’
Marty Graham looks baffled – but perhaps not very convincingly so. Skelgill produces from his jacket pocket a document that is instantly recognisable to his cousin. It is a VC5 – a vehicle registration document, generally considered as proof of ownership. ‘Way back – Ernie insisted he wanted to sell it to me. Happen there’s been a crossed wire.’
Skelgill opens the document and presses it flat upon the desk. Marty Graham’s gaze flashes to the sections marked “New keeper” and “Declaration” – it is plain at a glance that they have been completed.
‘But – but – I’ve got a –’
He has uttered this half-formed protest before he can check himself. There seems to be a momentary darkening of his countenance, a glint of alarm in his eyes. But he regains his composure – and now he leans forward, his palms planted on the desk, his manner collaborative.
‘No – what I mean to say, Daniel – that chap Oswaldtwistle – he was circling.’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to appear bemused.
‘What – Mouse – he wanted the car?’
Marty Graham taps the side of his nose with a forefinger. However, his explanation does not quite match the implied cunning of the gesture.
‘Does anyone really want to ride a motorcycle in this climate?’
Knowing Mouse – knowing motorcycle enthusiasts – yes, they do – and so Skelgill sees this as a diversionary remark. Perhaps it has struck Marty Graham that if he condemns Mouse over the profit opportunity he will highlight his own motive. Skelgill opts to caw canny.
‘I don’t even reckon he’s got a car licence – he’s had bikes as long as I’ve known him.’
Marty Graham does not have an immediate rejoinder. There ensue a few moments’ silence. Then he speaks, his tone strangely wistful.
‘Are you planning to keep it?’
‘Mine’s a gas-guzzler – usually full of gear – part-time dog kennel. Often enough I could do with a little runabout.’
Though Skelgill’s explanation is plausible, in reality he is struggling to think when these occasions might be. But in his cousin’s mind there is a little arm-wrestle playing out, the wheeler-dealer is getting the upper hand. He slouches back in his seat, and then poses a question in a way that suggests only a passing interest.
‘What did you pay – if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Four.’
‘Thousand?’
Marty Graham’s voice rises by an octave; there can be no concealing his dismay. But the reaction seems to pass over Skelgill’s head.
‘Looked it up online. Wouldn’t want to short change a relative.’
‘No – naturally, not at all.’
Marty Graham is quick to support Skelgill’s contention – but clearly any scheme he was formulating about re-buying – or perhaps suspecting Skelgill of coming along to cut a deal – such ideas are dashed. He appears to be entirely distracted. It takes a prompt from Skelgill.
‘The keys?’
‘Ah.’
Marty Graham rises somewhat ponderously and crosses to what looks like a medicine cabinet on the wall. Inside are keys hanging on rows of cup-hooks. It does not appear to Skelgill to be a particularly secure arrangement – although he can think of plenty of ways of thwarting joyriders that don’t involve keys. His cousin returns with a set attached to a plastic St George’s cross fob. He drops it with only a hint of reluctance into Skelgill’s outstretched palm.
‘Cheers. I’d better shoot. Folk’ll be missing us.’
Marty Graham rises – and now he offers to shake hands again – but Skelgill has moved too far from his desk – and he makes a ham job of pretending he was about to reposition his telephone.
‘You should let me buy you a lunch that’s not from a burger van. We Graham cousins ought to stick together. Catch up – come to my golf club. It never hurts for people to know there’s a policeman in the family. Better than a burglar alarm.’
Marty Graham half sounds as though he is testing these ideas on himself as much as making declarations to Skelgill. Skelgill opens the door and pauses on the threshold.
‘I’m surprised you’ve not got CCTV.’
This brings on the fleeting hunted look of a few minutes earlier – and forces, perhaps by default, an admission from his cousin that Skelgill suspects he immediately regrets.
‘Hah – no one would steal any of that lot!’
*
Returning to his much-maligned shooting brake Skelgill finds both the jackdaw and homing pigeon to be gone, although some avian has left its calling card across his windscreen. He growls – the evidence is circumstantial and the prime suspects have flown.
The interior is stifling – the sun is strong at this time of year – and there is a smell of fried bacon mingled with what an angler would recognise as dried keep-net. He lowers all four windows – but his main interest is his mobile phone. And indeed a text that came through on silent during his chat with his cousin is the one he had anticipated. It is from DS Jones.
“Black BMW M3 Coupé. Registered owner Kenneth Nigel Oliver Bulkington, 55, Company Director. Registered address Altrincham, Manchester.”
Skelgill reflects for a moment, his brow furrowed. He glances at the clock on his dashboard and then types a short reply. Now he inhales and exhales deeply, just the once. He starts the engine and is about to spray the washers – when he notices a tiny red spider mite running in frenetic circles. He watches, mesmerised, it seems. But in fact a clear sequence of events passes through his mind.
The arrival of two characters who were clearly not at work (in the conventional sense) and looked like they did not need to be. The heading off of his entrance – by the alluring Trish. Her mild panic when he made a beeline for cousin Marty’s office. A one-way window that afforded sight of his approach. A smell of aftershave pervading the showroom. Inside the office, a paradoxically unoccupied-looking cousin Marty – ostensibly reading a copy of What Car? that was two months out of date. An almost burnt-out cigarette that must have been lit several minutes before and yet had not been smoked. Again the smell of aftershave, despite the tobacco fug. Two coffee mugs on the filing cabinet, their contents unfinished. A fire exit door behind Marty Graham’s chair, pushed to, but not completely shut – the steel bar can make a loud noise when it is re-engaged. Marty Graham, smart-suited but perspiring at the armpits. The disappearance of the black BMW. No CCTV. And now DS Jones’s text message.
Conscious that he could generate work for himself any day of the week – at almost every turn – and that a loaded in-tray lists like a stricken Elizabethan galleon upon his desk at HQ, Skelgill considers his options. But – he is here. And feelings he can’t quantify suggest he is not yet quite finished. Without putting on his seatbelt he drives slowly around into the service lane that runs behind the row of businesses that includes Marty’s Motor Mart. A couple of deliveries are
being made from ubiquitous white vans – two middle-aged women in matching pink overalls stand smoking at the back door of a hairdressing-and-beauty supplies outlet, blowing two-fingered kisses of death into the air – and a trio of roofers dangle their legs off scaffolding like kids on a riverbank, contemplatively eating their bait from Tupperware and drinking tea from flask lids; they remind Skelgill of the three wise monkeys.
He continues past. Marty’s Motor Mart is near the far end of the lane. At the back of his cousin’s place a youth in a tracksuit is hand-polishing a gleaming white top-end Range Rover. On the kerb a bright yellow power-washer is attached to a striped hose that snakes from an open service bay. Going by the slick wet tarmac and residue of suds he is nearing the end of his job. Skelgill pulls up alongside.
‘Hey up, marra.’
The youth regards him suspiciously.
‘Private hire taxi – I’m supposed to pick up two folk from this showroom.’
Despite Skelgill’s avuncular manner, the youth looks decidedly uncomfortable. He avoids eye contact and slides one hand into a pocket of his leggings and balls his fingers into a fist.
‘Ah divvent ken nowt.’
Skelgill regards him evenly for a moment.
‘Happen they’re waiting round the front, eh?’
The youth shrugs.
Skelgill nods, indicating his windscreen.
‘Give us a spray with that jet wash, marra.’
The youth obliges – it takes just a few seconds to dislodge the guano (and the poor mite, presumably). Skelgill signs his appreciation and drives off. He does not wish to dwell – Marty Graham must be close at hand – and, besides, the callow youth – an insufficiently accomplished liar – tells him all he needs to know. Possibly it was a crisp banknote that was burning a hole in his pocket – or perhaps, more sinister, there were words of ‘advice’ still ringing in his ears.
4. HEMPSTEAD AVENUE
Monday, early afternoon
‘Leyton.’
Murder on the Run Page 4