by H G White
‘Yes, so you keep telling me. Do you think I'm stupid or something?’
‘No, I just know what you're like.’ On that note, we all got out of the car.
The meal was a very commendable effort from Denise. It wasn't quite up to the standard of something Peachy Craddock would have prepared, but then his cooking was exceptional. I had a sneaky feeling Denise had bought some of the grub from Marks and Spencer.
Surprisingly, not once during the entire evening did Tegan mention the trip to London. Curiously, neither did Denise, which I found hard to comprehend, because I was certain she must’ve known we'd gone away. If I had been a betting man, I’d have wagered on there being some conspiratorial chicanery between the two of them.
***
The next morning we did the early romantic walk. The dogs were chasing each other in and out of the sea and getting in a right old state. When I got them in the car they stank. Pugs had smeared dog-dribble all over the back window and rear seat headrests. I'd have to clean the back thoroughly and give it a liberal spray of pet deodoriser before I allowed my discerning customers to enter the vehicle.
Friday 5.15 p.m. South Wales
As well as the dayshift, I would be working the night. I had to try and rack up some cash as Peach’d suggested. The day passed without incident. After a short break, I was out for the evening. It had been quiet; most people had their payday the following week. Not many arseholes but then not much business either.
At night, the taxis would form a slow-moving queue that the punters could walk along, select the cab of their choice and make their way home. Because it wasn't an official council rank there was no rule that you had to send the fare to the first car. If someone came to your cab, you just took them (that's assuming you wanted to).
As I pulled into town about 3.30 a.m. there were very few party-people left to pick up. If I was lucky enough to get a fare it would probably be the last one of the night. I was about four cars behind the first car in the queue, when I was approached by a bloke with ginger hair. He looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties. I wound down the passenger side window.
‘Can you take me to Coombe mate?’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Jump in.’ This was a result. A quick twenty pounds to finish the night and I'd be home in less than half an hour. He opened the door. As he was about to get in he gave me a crucial piece of information he’d omitted during our earlier conversational exchange.
‘I think I should be honest with you before we set off mate. I've shat myself.’
‘Close the door and get away from the car, now!’
‘It's OK mate, I did it hours ago. It's dried on!’
‘No! Close the door, stop calling me mate, and get away from the car!’
‘I'll give you thirty quid up front.’ He showed me three crisp tenners. They looked rather inviting. I thought for a moment.
‘All right then, but you'll have to sit on this newspaper.’ I grabbed a copy of the Daily Mail that was in the driver's-door map-pocket. Someone had left it in the car earlier during the day. I spread the newspaper across the front passenger seat. The Ginger Shitter from Coombe got in.
‘Listen, I'm going to have to drive with the windows down. You're so cheesey, my nostrils are twitching.’ It wasn't a lie; the man was walking sewage. As we pulled away from the queue, the odour of human Stilton, like an almighty evil cloud, permeated every nook and cranny of the car.
I was a prostitute.
We made our way towards Coombe. I pressed the accelerator flat down, the motor was groaning as it worked harder than ever before. To get to Coombe we had, if truth be told, to travel up a steep incline called Crack Rise (spot the irony there)!
Windows down, with the car travelling along at eighty-plus mph, it meant the winter air circulating inside turned into a mini-tornado. This taxi-twister was making our heads so cold that I was in mortal danger of passing out due to cranial frostbite. Even so, this mind numbing experience was a far more preferable option than windows up and risk of death by ginger shit-fumes.
As the journey continued, my passenger introduced himself as Rod. Rod and I didn't shake hands (I made sure of that). Even though he was making me feel ill, Rod seemed like quite a good egg. He told me that he hadn't had any food before he'd started drinking that night. He'd been on Guinness and Aftershocks during the early part of the evening. He'd sunk a fair number, had gone for a pee and unfortunately the step up to the gents’ toilets in the pub where he'd been drinking had proved his undoing, literally.
It had opened up his not quite fully-tensed sphincter and whoosh – instant loss of friends, a long wait and an expensive ride home. I asked Rod if he'd considered wearing a butt plug. He said that the unscheduled mishap wasn't something that occurred very often. I told him I was glad to hear it.
‘Next time you're out and you decide to go drinking on the heavy stuff make sure you've got some Imodium with you. At least if you start to feel your guts going slightly runny, you could firm things up a bit. I know a bloke that works in a nursing home. He isn’t fussed on changing nappies and wiping arses so he puts it in the residents’ meals. When they do the business his shift has long since finished, so he’s at home having a couple of beers watching telly and the messy chores become someone else’s problem. This bloke swears by it.’
Rod agreed that in future, he would be carrying a tablet or two inside his wallet. A few minutes later I dropped him off. I gave him some tissues so he could make an effort to clean himself up.
‘If I was you, I'd get those clothes in the washing machine pronto, before your missus sees them. That way you can just say you were sick over yourself. You'd be bending the truth slightly, but at least it'll save you a few blushes.’
‘Good idea, I'll do that. Thanks for the lift, I'd give you a few quid more but I’ve done all me money.’
‘Don't worry about it. Have a nice night.’ Rod waddled off, looking like he was chewing gum between his butt cheeks. I binned the tainted Daily Mail, checked the seat and gave it quick wipe just in case he'd sieved some unmentionables through the newspaper. No worries; even though it was night-time I could see it was clean.
During the drive back, I could still smell Rod; it must’ve been the last plume of that evil cloud, reluctant to leave the new but temporary home it’d been occupying. As I approached town, my two-way radio suddenly burst into life.
‘Car 23.’
I responded, ‘Car 23.’
‘Pick up at 16 Woodland Close.’
Having accepted the job, I drove to number 16. I wondered whether the next punter would notice Rod's lingering musk and, if that turned out to be the case, whether they would attribute that mature, unsavoury aroma to me. I needn't have worried. When the couple that had ordered the cab appeared from the doorway of number 16, a quick glance was all it took to assess their state. They were absolutely steaming, and they were mingers. Had their senses not been so seriously impaired that they could detect Rod's legacy, they’d have probably concluded that the funk was theirs. C'est la vie – the joys of taxi-driving.
I dropped the steamin' mingers off and pocketed another tenner for my trouble. Time for home. Arriving back in the street and not wanting to disturb Tegan, I made for my own house. Before I locked the car up for the night I went totally over the top with the air freshener. Hopefully that would remove all traces of Rod before the next day's business. I was tired. It was about quarter to five when my head hit the pillow. I must have fallen asleep almost immediately.
Saturday 9.30 a.m. South Wales
I woke up still feeling a little fatigued; Neil had already left for work, having had an earlier finish than me the night before. I went through my normal routine of sorting dog out, breakfast etc.
By 10.15 a.m. I was unlocking the door to the cab. I jumped in and started to drive off, heading towards one of the taxi ranks in the town centre. As I pulled up at a set of traffic lights, suddenly the spectre of Rod was still frighteningly close. W
as it my olfactory sense playing a cruel joke, making me suffer some nasal déjà vu? or had I not wiped the seat as thoroughly as previously thought?
Further investigation was needed. I parked the car on the back of the rank, got out and went to the boot for my cleaning products. I opened the passenger door and inspected the seat. It looked OK. There were no smudges or stains. I decided to move the seat. I leant over, took hold of the catch that allowed the seat to slide back and forth and pushed the seat back till it could go no further. Eureka!
Nestling on top of the rubber mat in the front passenger footwell were about half a dozen sheep-currants, or should I say 'Rod-currants'. These little cling-ons had obviously not clung-on hard enough and had thus fallen down Rod's trouser legs during the journey. No wonder I couldn't totally remove all traces of him from the vehicle. The little buggers were still keen to make their presence felt – and they were succeeding. If Rod's arse had been a goose, then the little currants were the goose eggs that Mother Rod had laid. It was an odds-on certainty that the overnight incubation period would’ve been sufficient for Rod's eggs to hatch. In my mind they had hatched and become goslings. It was time for them to make their maiden flight, and my job to help them do so.
I lifted the mat up and gave it a quick, hard flick away from me. Suddenly the fledglings were airborne. Something was wrong? I had a reality-check, and snapped out of my imaginary gosling-infested fantasy world. What had I been thinking? They weren't fledglings at all. They were Rod's arse-currants!
I watched, hypnotised as the little currants flew through the air, a couple of them landing on the windscreen of a metallic blue Ford Mondeo that was parked nearby. The moment was microscopically tinged with sadness as the exorcism of the cab finally removed all remnants of Ginger Rod, the Shitter from Coombe.
Placing the rubber mat back down on the floor, I reflected on the gravity of this touching event and thought: I won't forget you and your currants Rod, or your thirty quid.
For some inexplicable reason, during the whole of that day and most of the evening that followed, I just couldn't get the song Private Dancer out of my head. I really hoped it wouldn't be too long before Peach completed his master plan.
Over the next few days, Neil and I worked like madmen trying to get money together in order to sustain ourselves during the time we would have to take off. Tegan became a little moody with me. We seemed to be like ships that passed in the night. Sometimes I'd just be finishing work and coming home as she was leaving. I sent some flowers to the gallery. It softened her up and she was soon back to her usual smiling self.
Chapter 15
Thursday 10.25 a.m. South Wales
It was morning. I was sitting with Neil having a pot of tea. Neil was quiet. ‘I've been thinking Will.’
‘I wondered what the whirring sound was.’
‘No, seriously, I have. How do you feel about Peach and this whole master plan-burglary thing?’
‘Well I haven't heard it yet.’ It was true, I hadn’t.
‘I know Peach is an expert in his field, but I'm worried this plan to burgle could be the part where we all come unstuck. I don't want to go back to jail.’
‘Do you think I want to do a stretch, or Phil, come to that?’
‘No, I'm sure you don't.’
‘So if you're worried about it, then talk to him.’
‘No, you know what he's like. He'll probably fly off the handle if he thinks I'm questioning his plan. It's the fish-out-of-water thing.’
‘Fish-out-of-water?’ What was Neil talking about?
‘Yeah. What I'm trying to say is. Don’t you think we might be better off enlisting the help of a professional?’
‘You mean, like search through yellow pages for Villains ‘R’ Us?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm Will. Look, there's someone I know that might be able to help us.’
‘Who exactly did you have in mind?’
‘While I was inside, I shared a cell with another inmate. He wasn't your ordinary crim. He was … a little bit ‘different’ shall we say.’
The mind boggled. I was now starting to wonder about Neil. What had he been up to during his holiday courtesy of Her Majesty?
‘Different you say. In what way?’
‘For want of a better word, eccentric.’
‘You mean he's a nutcase?’
‘No, he's not mad or anything. Just unusual. The make-up of cons I came across throughout my sentence seemed to be drug-dependent petty criminals, drink-drivers, sex offenders who were isolated for their own safety and hard cases. You know – armed robbers etc. OK, there was the odd fraudster or two but they never seemed to stay in our prison long, always getting moved to lower-risk category jails. Vaughan was different to everyone I met in there.’
‘Vaughan?’
‘Yes, Vaughan Buchanan. That's his name.’
‘Unusual name.’
‘He is quite unusual. An ex-university physics professor turned safecracker.’
'A crooked academic then?’
‘Not really that crooked. Vaughan just did it for the excitement. He didn't need the money.’
I had my doubts. Didn’t all criminals do it for the money? ‘Come on Neil, how do you know that?’
‘Trust me I know. If you met him you'd realise it straight away, especially if you went to his house.’
‘His house?'
‘Yeah, in the Cotswolds. He's got a beautiful place not far from Stroud.’
‘All I can say is he can't have been very good if he got caught.’
‘Vaughan didn't get caught. He had a mega fall-out with his wife and she informed on him to the police.’ I was becoming intrigued by this Vaughan character.
‘Would you like to meet him?’
‘I don't know if that's a good idea. We're not supposed to discuss this with anyone. We've already confessed all to Tegan and it's a safe bet Denise knows. There’s a danger of us fucking up the greatest chance we'll ever have in our lives of making any serious money.’
With no guarantees that an excited Steadman could keep his mouth shut, the Circle of Distrust was potentially growing. Bringing an ex-con into the equation, especially one who was a safecracker, could be risky. Who's to say he wouldn't go after the note himself?
‘Look Will, why don't we go and visit him? I haven't seen Vaughan for years. We don't have to mention robberies or anything. It's just a chance for you to see what he's like and then, if you agree, make a suggestion to Peach. What do you think?’
‘I'm not sure.’
‘Go on. We could have a drive up there this afternoon. Then, either come back here or spend the night at Phil's. Stroud's not too far from Bristol.’ I had to admit that sounded good. It would be nice to have an evening in Bristol again.
‘I've got a better suggestion. Why don't we drag Phil along.’ My thinking was that if both Phil and I agreed with Neil that Mr Buchanan could really help us (assuming he was willing) it’d be a very strong case to put forward to Peach.
I phoned Phil and repeated Neil's misgivings about us being burglars and his thoughts about Vaughan and a possible meet. I explained we wouldn't divulge anything to him; it would just be three friends having a nice afternoon out.
‘So what do you think Phil?’
‘Well, it's a great idea but ...?’
‘But what?’
‘Peachy's here.’
‘You are joking? What's he doing there? We weren't supposed to be meeting up till tomorrow.’
‘I know but there're some bits and pieces in his plan he wanted to go through with me. Deactivating computerised alarms for one.’
‘Can he hear us talking?’
‘No, he's upstairs typing out briefing notes on one of the PCs.’
‘What do you think he’d say if you suggested all four of us went to meet this mate of Neil's?’
‘Between you and me, I think he’d be up for it. I haven't said anything to him yet, because the plan's not complete, but I think he may
be out of his depth with the burglary. From what I've seen of the plan so far there are too many things that rely on chance.’
‘Can you persuade him to come this afternoon do you think?’
‘Ring me back in fifteen minutes. I'll see what I can do.’
I hung up and poured some more tea. I sat there with Neil drinking it and winding the dog up, teasing him with biscuits then, at the last moment putting them in my mouth and eating them – much to his disappointment. In the end his sad little face got to me and I had to give him some. Twenty minutes had gone by. I was just about to give Phil a call back when the phone rang. He'd beaten me to it.
‘Will, it's me. Pick us up around one.
‘No probs. By the way, how's the face looking?’
‘It's virtually clear now.’
‘Excellent, see you at one then.’
I looked at Neil. He was happy. Tegan wouldn't be though. I left her a note saying something urgent had come up and that Neil and I would hopefully be back in the morning. I put Pugs and his food in her kitchen. He was quite content; he had Maude for company. I knew this little expedition would cost me more than a bunch of flowers. I'd probably have to book a table at a decent restaurant to placate her. As we were now going to stay at Phil's for the night and Peach was already there, I could see no good reason for not bringing the planning meeting forward a day. That would free up Friday night and I could take Tegan out somewhere nice.
An hour and a half later we pulled up outside Phil's. It was 12.42 p.m. A few minutes more and the four of us were on our way to meet Vaughan Buchanan, safecracker extraordinaire.
***
Winding our way through narrow roads, the beautiful Cotswold countryside was a joy to behold. I’d have a serious think about relocating if ever we succeeded in our quest to find the missing note. Even in winter it looked glorious, a far cry from my local scenery.
