Family Business

by Mark Eklid

  ‘Do you think that’ll get you get anywhere?’ There was a hint of scepticism in the question.

  ‘You never know. It’s like I said to you last night, none of us understands anything about him but that might just be because he chose to keep his home life and his work separate. Some people are like that. I thought that by seeing where he lived I might just get a bit more insight as to who he was. It’s worth a shot.’

  Janet was not won over by his reckoning and neither did she understand his compulsion to find out but had prior experience of the lengths her husband was prepared to go to when he had the bit between his teeth like this.

  ‘If you say so,’ she replied and left it at that. They followed the path to where it led to the cemetery and neither of them raised the subject again.

  Graham dropped Janet at home after work and set off straight back towards the city centre. He knew that she thought he would be wasting his time and was aware of that possibility himself but he wanted to do this anyway, driven by the prospect, however slight, that he might find some small detail which could be the key to the big picture.

  He parked part way up the steep road and eyed the climb ahead, hoping he had not underestimated how far up in front of him the house he was looking for actually was. He was aware of Sheffield’s reputation for hills before they moved to the area but had not seen enough of the city yet to experience their challenges and wondered briefly if his creaking knee joints were up to the task.

  Behind him, he could hear the faint baying of goats. The brown signs, as he approached the road he wanted, warned him there was a city farm close by but still the noise felt completely at odds in the urban setting.

  The house closest to him was number 81. That meant he did not have far to go, which was a welcome bonus. Many of the buildings on either side of him were relatively modern but, as he trudged up the slope, the one he believed to be Yates’s was among a block of narrow terraced houses. They looked as if they dated back to when similar buildings, on both sides and probably road-by-road for quite a way around them, must have stretched uniformly the full length of the street. He was glad some, at least, had survived town planning and the decay of time to serve as reminders of how the area would once have been.

  Number 103 looked neglected. Stumps of iron railings, long since hacked down and taken away as scrap metal to be made into weapons in the 1940s, were embedded in a low wall in front of the house, leaving the much higher solid stone gate posts, standing beside the opening to a slender path, looking isolated and obsolete. Weeds poked from between the uneven paving slabs that covered the tiny patch of yard and the grimy blue paint of the large bay window was chipped and peeling.

  Graham stood at the wooden front door and composed himself before knocking. He did not expect anyone to answer, but had a cover story prepared, just in case. There was no sound of activity from within but he was poised to try again when a voice called from behind him.

  ‘You won’t find anybody there, pal.’

  A man was watching him from the path of a house opposite. Graham crossed the road towards him, keen to make the most of any opportunity to gather information. The man stood still, arms folded. He was in his forties and wore several days of stubble, a loose white t-shirt, baggy black shorts and flip-flops.

  ‘Hi. I wonder if you could tell me if I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Chris Yates’s house.’

  The man eyed him with suspicion.

  ‘Are you press?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m a work colleague. Well, former work colleague, I guess.’

  ‘Only we’ve had one or two press around here.’

  The man was clearly not in the mood to give anything away until he had been assured that the stranger was not looking for a fresh angle to a story. Graham reached into his trouser pocket and produced his work photo ID in the hope of appeasing him. The man inspected it warily.

  ‘I worked with Chris at Johnson’s,’ explained Graham, taking back the ID. ‘I’ve come to see if there was anyone at the house. The last time he updated his personal details at work he said he had no next of kin but that was a few years ago and I wanted to check if that was still the case. There’s his company pension, you see. Do you know if he had a partner or any family?’

  The man stroked his chin. ‘Not that I know of. I’ve never seen anybody else coming or going from the house and I’ve lived here 13 years.’

  That was less than promising. This man appeared to be the naturally vigilant type and if he hadn’t noticed anything ...

  ‘So as far as you’re aware, nobody has been to the house since he died?’

  ‘Well,’ the man shook his head, ruefully. ‘Nobody that wasn’t up to no good. He had a break-in on Sunday night, see. Later the same day after they found him dead.’

  ‘Really?’ Graham was shocked.

  ‘There are some scumbags around. It must have only been a few hours after they announced the news. No respect, some people. The coppers were all over the house the next day, of course.’

  ‘Was much taken, do you know?’

  ‘I had a look through the front window before the coppers got there – just to check, like. It looked a mess. It looked as if stuff had been turned upside down and thrown around but it was funny because his telly was still there. You would have thought if somebody had broken in to do some thieving they would have nicked the telly, wouldn’t you?’

  That did strike Graham as odd. If they were not opportunist burglars, what were they after?

  ‘Did you know Chris very well yourself? You say you lived opposite him for quite a long time.’

  ‘Nah,’ replied the man. ‘We just exchanged nods and hellos when we saw each other leave the house and that’s it. He was never any trouble but he very much kept himself to himself, Chris. I’d see him in the Sheaf sometimes at weekends but he’d never socialise; just sit by himself with his pint and a paper. It’s funny though ...’

  The man suddenly sparked with a recollection.

  ‘I had to tell my missus about this because it was so unusual. I was at the bar at the Sheaf, what would it be – three or four weeks ago? Anyway, I was waiting to be served and he came to the bar as well. I said “All right Chris?” and he said “Aye”. That was about as much as you ever got out of him but then he just started telling me this bloody bullshit story.’

  Graham was intrigued. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he started telling me that he’d just bought a house out in Menorca and that he was going to sell up and move out there before long. Just came out with it like that. He looks like he never spent very much on himself but I wouldn’t have thought your lot pays that much. Not so much that somebody could just pack up and go to live out in Spain at his age. He can’t have been much older than me and I don’t suppose there’s much call for long-distance lorry drivers in Menorca. I thought he must be having me on but he kept a straight face and then as soon as he’d got his pint and told me his tale, he went off to sit by himself again. It was as if he just wanted to get it off his chest – you know, like he wanted to brag about it and had been busting to tell somebody. Weird – but that was Chris for you. I take it you’re no wiser than I am about why somebody would kill him.’

  The question snapped Graham out of his musings. The story of running away to a home in the sun was a revelation. It appeared to confirm the suspicions that Yates was mixed up in something other than – and far more lucrative than – being a humble lorry driver but what might that have been? Whatever it was, the timing of his sacking must have dealt a huge blow to his dreams, especially if it jeopardised his extra-curricular interests. It was no wonder he was full of threats and bitter recriminations in the exchange at the gates.

  ‘No. None of us know why.’

  The man sighed. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose,’ he said, before being alerted by tapping from the inside of his own front window. A dark-haired woman in a low-cut pink top gestured for him to come back inside.

  ‘It looks
like my tea’s ready,’ he said, instantly lifted by the news as he began to edge back towards the door. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t really help you.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s been good to talk to you,’ Graham replied, raising his hand to confirm his gratitude to the retreating figure, who disappeared inside with a faint smile.

  The conversation had been more informative than the man realised. It did not give any answers, but it had put flesh on the bones of the little he knew about Yates and that was worthwhile.

  Graham thought about knocking on a couple more doors to see if further progress could be made. Could another neighbour be even more well-informed than the man in the flip-flops? Possibly.

  He checked his watch. He had promised Janet he would not be long because it was his turn to cook their evening meal. He was almost at the outer limits of the time he had allocated himself. He thought again about knocking at maybe only one more door, just a quick call, but decided against. Another day, maybe. He shouldn’t keep Janet waiting. That wouldn’t be fair.

  And so he set off back down the hill to the car.

  17

  It was a similar routine the following day. Graham was about to drop Janet back at home and head straight off but this time it was to meet Doug Bentley at the pub.

  There had been no further official update on the Yates murder, though there had been plenty of continued speculation at the depot as to what degree of bad company he must have fallen into to have met such a grizzly end in a dark lay-by. The more cautious offered reminders that they didn’t know he was up to no good and that he might have simply been the victim of a random attack. The only thing everyone was certain of was that they had no idea what the truth was.

  Graham pulled up at the end of the drive outside their home and waited for his wife to make her move.

  ‘Righto, duckie.’ She released her seatbelt and leaned over to kiss him. ‘Hope it goes well. How long do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ He knew what he wanted to get from the meeting but didn’t know how forthcoming Bentley would be. ‘I shouldn’t think it will take much more than half an hour.’

  ‘OK. I’ll cook for half seven. If you’re going to be much later, give me a ring to let me know.’

  ‘I tell you what, if I’m not back in time carry on without me and I can warm mine up in the microwave. You never know, we might find a lot to talk about, maybe some way our two companies can work together to benefit both of us in the future. I might be there all night.’

  She cast him a sideways look.

  ‘Yes, well, don’t you have too much to drink.’

  He responded with incredulity.

  ‘You know I never have more than one pint when I’m driving.’

  Janet would have been unable to come up with a single example of when that was not the case but it didn’t stop her giving him a final doubting glance. He wondered if all women believed that inside even the most mild-mannered of men there was an inner Oliver Reed waiting to burst out.

  ‘I’ll see you later then.’ She opened the door to get out and he watched her as she walked to the house. He had already programmed the location into the sat nav and had worked out that the trip would take half an hour. The clock on the dashboard said there were 42 minutes until the scheduled meeting time. He pressed the button for the sat nav to start dictating the best route and pulled away.

  There was a large car park opposite the pub but few of the bays were filled. Graham steered the car into a space a third of the way down, well away from anyone else, and turned off the engine. He waited another moment to compose himself. The abruptness of Bentley on the phone had made him more nervous about the meeting than he might have been. He wanted to present himself as businesslike and not easily intimidated.

  He drew a deep breath as he locked the car door and walked two steps before waiting for a large black BMW to pass by and turn into a space on the opposite side of the car park. Graham tucked his keys into his jacket pocket and strode towards the pub.

  There were three steps leading up to the grey front door and a large golden orb was suspended ominously above the entrance. A pillar, unmistakably an old and crooked tree trunk, dominated the centre of the bar area and appeared barely capable of supporting the huge roughly carved beam of the low ceiling but, judging by its obvious age, it had clearly done the job perfectly well for a long time. Two groups of early diners were at tables to his right and he walked across the stone flags towards the bar on the left.

  A young woman, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail, was consulting her notepad and pressing an order into the till.

  ‘What can I get for you, love?’

  He had a look at the hand pumps.

  ‘Could I have a pint of the Thornbridge, please?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  She finished with the till and went to pull the pint.

  ‘I’ve come to meet a man called Doug Bentley. I don’t suppose you know him?’

  ‘Doug? Yeah, I know him. I’m sure he went through to the beer garden.’

  She indicated the direction with a nod of her head and a flick of her ponytail.

  He paid for the pint, gave his thanks and set off to find Bentley.

  It was a warm, sunny evening and the beer garden, sheltered from whatever cool breeze there was by tall conifers, was a fine spot. There was a young couple at one table and the man was sitting back with a pint of lager while the woman leaned forward to interact with a baby in a pushchair. The only other person in the garden was an older man, sitting alone and reading a newspaper.

  Graham moved towards him.

  ‘Hello. Doug?’

  The man responded. He had a heavily lined, well-worn face the colour of old leather with grey hair combed back. There was a fading bruise and healing scar by his left eye. He was wearing a checked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbow and stood to a height of around six feet as he reached out a sinewy arm, well covered in thick grey hair, to offer a handshake.

  ‘Aye,’ was his simple confirmation that Graham had found his man.

  He put down his beer on the table between them and took the handshake. Bentley gave the hand a strong squeeze and released it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Graham.

  Bentley lowered himself back into his chair.

  ‘Sit yourself down, lad.’

  The older man took a mouthful of his pint and surveyed the figure opposite.

  ‘Now, what did you want to see me for?’

  ‘It’s as I said to you on the phone,’ Graham replied. ‘I wanted to draw a line under this fall-out between yourself and Andreas because it’s no good for anybody. He asked me to apologise for coming on so aggressively when he came to see you but I wanted to explain to you what caused him to act like that. We’ve had a bit of trouble, as you’ve probably heard.’

  Bentley raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye. I heard.’

  ‘I know you had a bad experience yourself recently.’ Graham nodded towards the bruised eye. ‘I hope you’ve fully recovered now. I saw they think it was this person who’s been stealing dogs.’

  He was glad to have the early chance to get that well-practised line into the open straight away. He judged that it made him sound concerned for Bentley’s well-being while, at the same time, serving as a reminder that he had also done his bit to stoke the fire of mistrust between him and Andreas by indicating to the police that his rival might have been behind the attack.

  Bentley stroked the area around the bruise.

  ‘Back to normal now,’ he said. ‘I gave as good as I got but the bastard had some sort of bat and I took a few whacks from it. They made me spend a night in hospital.’

  ‘What happened?’ Graham took a sip of beer. He wanted to hear the full story.

  ‘Well, I could see this bloke coming towards me with his hood up and then, when he got closer, I could see he had a scarf to cover his face as well, so I knew it was trouble. When I saw him take the bat from around his back
I thought I had to get my retaliation in first, so I let go of the dog’s lead and lunged at him, tried to take him by surprise.

  ‘I don’t know if he was expecting me to be just some doddery old bloke or what but I don’t think he was expecting that. I smacked him a couple of times but then he swung and hit me on the arm. That went numb and useless, so I carried on going for him with the other hand but he caught me a few more times with the bat and I went down. He ran away and left me there.

  ‘If I’d known he was after the dog I’d have let him have the bloody thing. It’s the wife’s, one of those pugs. Ugly little bastard. Not even a proper dog, if you ask me. It ran away when the punches started flying and came back when it was all over. What kind of use is that for a dog, I ask you?’

  Graham smiled back, amused by the end to the tale. It corroborated the version of events as he hoped it had been.

  ‘I’m sorry that Andreas ended up getting a visit from the coppers but when they asked me if anybody had a grievance against me I ended up giving them his name. I was still a bit pissed off with him, to be honest, for coming around to my place and shouting the odds about me having petrol bombs thrown into his yard, telling me I was going to pay for it. Who the bloody hell does he think I am? Bloody Al Capone?

  ‘I always got on very well with Harry. He was a proper gent and a good man. I never had a cross word with Harry and I always quite liked young Andreas but when he came over bloody ranting and raving and accusing me of all sorts he was lucky he didn’t get my boot up his arse. There was no call for it.’

  Bentley reached for his glass and a soothing gulp. Graham gave him a second to cool down.

  ‘As I said, Andreas regrets what he did now but somebody caused the fires and we know it wasn’t just vandals because there was a note.’

  ‘A note?’

  ‘It was a warning, saying the fires were a consequence of something that was clearly irritating someone. Andreas knew he’d been trying to move in on some of your customers, put two and two together and, well, made 58.’