Past Imperfect

by Michael Parker

  ‘You work for me.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whatever I ask you to do.’

  ‘There’ll be a limit,’ Paul warned him.

  Finnegan shrugged. ‘You set your own limits, but progress in my organization is determined by loyalty. You show that to me and you’ll do well out of it.’

  ‘So what’s in it for me?’ Paul could feel the excitement building in his chest.

  ‘A thousand a week to start. And you can get rid of that cannon of yours and I’ll give you a decent piece.’

  Paul thought immediately of his responsibility to Kate and Clanford. ‘I can’t work full-time; I have other things I have to do.’

  Finnegan shrugged. ‘We all do, but I’ll fit in with you for now. Maybe later we can figure out a different schedule.’

  Paul liked the sound of a thousand pounds a week. He also liked the idea of the excitement and action he would experience working for someone like Finnegan. He slid the bolt gun carefully away from the boss and slipped it into his coat pocket. For a moment he wondered if he could trust the man: would he suddenly produce a gun from somewhere and shoot him dead?

  Finnegan stood up and offered his hand across the table. Paul shook it.

  ‘Remember this: if you ever pull a trick like that again, I promise I will kill you.’

  Paul got up from the chair and was about to say something when Finnegan stopped him. ‘Tell me, did you plan to threaten me with that bolt gun?’

  Paul let out a short laugh. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to use it on Ringo.’

  It was late evening when Paul drove into Horndean and headed straight towards Ringo’s club. There was not much to the small town other than the main A3 trunk road running through it and conurbations along the length of the small metropolis. It was a reflection of out-of-town development, so common in rural areas that sprang up close to main cities like Portsmouth, but Horndean was not without its charm, and property prices were still relatively high. The operation being run by Ringo was not something the townsfolk would appreciate, but there was never any time when people like Ringo or Finnegan cared too much about that. It was something that had crossed Paul’s mind, though, and he believed it was necessary to change the operation into something a little more sophisticated that catered for the majority in the town. Falling in with Finnegan was a bit of luck as far as Paul was concerned, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he didn’t have to cover his back. He was sure Finnegan would turn on him given the right opportunity. Paul’s reasoning took him to the conclusion that people like Finnegan and Ringo had to be displaced, but it had to be done in such a way that no one could connect it to him.

  Paul pulled up about fifty yards away from the club entrance and switched the motor off. He doused the lights and sat watching the club entrance for some considerable time until he saw Ringo clamber out of a car and walk into the club. Paul got out of the Jag, closed the hood and set the immobilizer. Then he locked the car and walked over to the door he had seen Ringo use. What Paul didn’t see, though, was two men sitting in a parked car watching the club.

  Paul tried the door, which was locked. He rattled on it with his knuckles and a small panel slid open at face level. A pair of eyes peered out at him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I have a package for Ringo,’ Paul told him. ‘Should have been delivered last night.’

  ‘Wait here.’ The panel slammed shut.

  Paul waited several minutes before he heard footsteps behind the door. The panel slid open and the face appeared.

  ‘Give me the package.’

  Paul shook his head in the dark. ‘No way. I hand it to Ringo or I go home.’

  The man laughed. ‘Listen, shit for brains, you hand me the package or I come out there and beat the living daylights out of you.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Paul. ‘If Ringo doesn’t come to this door, or you don’t let me in, I’m off; simple as that.’

  ‘Just give me the package, dummy.’

  Paul told him to fuck off and turned away from the door. Immediately he heard a bolt slide back and the door flew open. The guy came hurtling out of the door and walked smack into the end of Paul’s bolt gun.

  ‘Don’t tempt me, big shot,’ Paul warned him. ‘Just back away nice and easy.’

  Paul could feel the man’s uncertainty and a resonance of fear emanating from him. Once again Paul felt an adrenalin rush that made him feel like he was ten feet tall.

  ‘Now turn around.’ The man did as Paul asked and kept his hands in the air. ‘Now walk forward, slow.’

  He followed him in through the open door and back-heeled it shut. They were in a dimly lit passageway, and on either side were old posters of acts long since gone: names of performers from the days of variety and music halls. Paul wondered what he was walking into.

  The man stopped by a door containing a half-panel of frosted glass; emblazoned on the glass was the name William Chapman. This, Paul assumed, was Ringo.

  When he heard the sound of someone rapping their knuckles on the glass, Ringo looked up from his desk and bellowed out for whoever it was to come in. He didn’t expect to see his doorman being bundled into the office by someone holding a gun to his head.

  Paul leaned back on the door so that it closed, lowered the bolt gun and smiled at Ringo.

  ‘Why is it so difficult to deliver a package to you, Ringo?’ he said. ‘Last night two heavies kicked the shit out of me and tonight your gorilla wanted to beat my head in.’ He pushed himself away from the door and walked over to Ringo’s desk. ‘What do I have to do to hand you this?’ He dropped the package on the desk and slipped the bolt gun into his pocket.

  Ringo looked carefully at Paul before picking up the parcel and placing it in a drawer in the desk. He locked it and put the key into his waistcoat pocket.

  Suddenly the office door flew open and crashed back against the wall, as the two men who had been watching from the parked car burst in. They were both holding guns and looked as though they wouldn’t be afraid to use them.

  ‘Police! Nobody move.’

  They all looked stunned. One of the coppers spun the heavy around and slapped handcuffs on him. Then he did the same to Paul. And once Ringo had been cuffed, they herded the three of them over to the far side of the office, making them stand facing the wall. Then one of the policemen picked up the phone and dialled a number. After a minute or so he had called in to the local police station and a Black Maria was on its way.

  Kate stormed away from the police station and stomped across to her car. Paul followed in her wake, having to run to keep up with her. She unlocked the car door and clambered in, firing the engine up as Paul was getting in on the other side.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ she snapped as she pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Horndean,’ he told her. ‘Turn your lights on,’ he added.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ she shouted angrily, turning the car’s headlights on. ‘Bloody midnight and I have to drag you out of a police station.’

  ‘Kate, Kate.’ He put his hand up. ‘Don’t go on.’

  ‘Don’t go on?’ she slammed back at him. ‘I’ve every right to go on. Do you realize the shame you are bringing down on this family?’

  ‘There’s no shame at being found in a club when the police raid the joint.’

  ‘What were you doing there in the first place?’ she asked, her voice tight and high-pitched.

  ‘I was touting for business.’

  ‘In a bloody nightclub? What kind of business?’

  ‘Delivery,’ he told her truthfully.

  ‘Delivery,’ she repeated under her breath as she fought to make sense of what had happened.

  ‘Why didn’t they charge you with anything?’

  He shrugged in the half-light. ‘What with? I wasn’t doing anything: I just happened to be there.’

  ‘Well, I still think you shouldn’t be in places like that,’ she told him. ‘What was I supposed t
o think when the police rang?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Kate.’ He was too: any other result and he would have had a hard time explaining himself. But beneath that, Paul couldn’t help but feel a tremendous lift because of what had happened. He had even managed to talk his way out of a tight spot when the police found the bolt gun on him. He told them the gun was licensed to Clanford Estate, and in that respect he was covered. It was a misrepresentation of the truth, but the police bought it. And as far as him being at the club looking for business was concerned, Ringo confirmed that was the case. All round it was a concoction of lies masquerading as the truth, but the police had nothing to hold him on and they were obliged to let him go.

  The journey back to Horndean didn’t take long, although it didn’t go exactly peacefully for Paul: Kate battered him verbally for most of the journey. He switched off and began planning other things: things that would turn Kate’s hair grey if she knew.

  She pulled alongside Paul’s XK 140 and stopped. Paul reached over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Kate. I’ll see you back at the house.’ Kate ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the windscreen. Paul smiled and let himself out of the car. He watched it roar away as he climbed into the Jag. He fired the motor up and pulled out into the road. And all he could think of on the drive back to the estate was how he was going to get back to Finnegan and build his own future on that man’s business.

  ELEVEN

  Emma and Max, 2010

  Max put the binoculars to his eyes and turned the focus ring until he could see the front entrance of Clanford Hall quite clearly. He swung the binoculars from right to left hoping to see something, but the truth was he really didn’t know what he was looking for. He was probably wishing idly that he could see Billy Isaacs and find some excuse to confront him. He had received a preliminary report from Jack Rivers but it was chickenfeed compared to what Max needed to stop the sale in its tracks. Isaacs’s lawyers had been instructed to investigate Clanford Estate’s finances, conducting due diligence and amortization checks, and it was obvious that the estate was ripe for plucking. All Isaacs needed was the final nod from the Gambling Commission and there was nothing to stop him.

  He put the binoculars away and headed into Petersfield. He had phoned ahead earlier to the local newspaper who had run the story of Isaacs’s intended purchase, and had asked to speak to the journalist who had compiled the report. During the brief phone call, Max learned that the journalist had never met the owners of Clanford Hall personally, which made him wonder just how efficient and probing the man could have been.

  They met at the same pavement café Max had been to with Emma. The journalist was about Max’s age, a little overweight, greying hair and signs of breathlessness as he practically fell into the chair opposite Max. When he made himself comfortable, the journalist peered closely at Max and pointed his finger at him.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re Max Reilly.’

  Max smiled as humbly as he could. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I’ve read all your books.’ He shook his head. ‘Brilliant. Oh, my name’s Badger, by the way. Morris Badger.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Would you like a drink?’ Max asked him.

  The man looked at his watch and then up at the sun, which had managed to disappear behind a cloud. ‘Time for a short one, I think. I’ll have a whisky.’

  Max ordered the drinks and began the questions before the drinks arrived. ‘Did you find any connection between Clanford and Billy Isaacs?’

  ‘No, strange one, that,’ Badger answered. ‘There’s usually some kind of link, even if it is a bit tenuous. Isaacs is a villain, done time for some awful stuff. I can understand why he went into gambling.’ He laughed. ‘What’s your interest in this, by the way; do you have a connection?’

  Max shook his head. ‘No, I’m researching a book and I need some spirited stuff to do with gambling and country houses. That kind of thing.’ The drinks arrived: whisky for him and tea for Max. ‘What puzzles me,’ Max went on, ‘is why Clanford Hall? I can understand someone wanting to buy a casino in a town, but out here in the countryside?’

  ‘It might not have anything to do with Clanford Hall per se,’ Badger responded, ‘but the land.’

  ‘In this day and age?’ Max challenged. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Depends what you want the land for,’ the journalist pointed out.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be for farming, not if playing cards is your game.’

  Badger laughed. ‘Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?’ He leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose. ‘But I did find something out,’ he told Max.

  ‘What’s that?’ Max asked as he raised the cup to his lips.

  ‘Have you heard of “fracking”?’ Badger asked him.

  Max frowned. ‘Shale gas deposits. You get the gas out by injecting water under pressure.’ He shook his head. ‘Isaacs isn’t big enough for that, and the licences are only granted to the large, energy corporations: the professionals.’ He laughed. ‘They’d gobble Isaacs up, no sweat.’

  Badger grinned. ‘It isn’t about that,’ he said after another mouthful of whisky. ‘It’s about owning the land on which the licences are granted. Communities where wells are dug have been promised £100,000 compensation, plus one per cent of the profits. If Clanford Hall is close enough to those deposits, Isaacs could be sitting on a proverbial goldmine.’ He sat back triumphantly. ‘That’s what I think he’s is after.’

  Max disagreed. ‘If there was any suggestion that Clanford Estate was sitting on a goldmine, the owners would not need to go to auction or even sell it: the loans would pour in.’

  Badger snorted. ‘Whatever; it makes a good story, though.’ He drained his whisky and banged the glass down on the table. ‘And even if Isaacs loses out on that, he’ll make a killing with a country casino.’

  Emma opened the front door and walked back into the house. Laura followed her in, closing the door behind her. Emma had been expecting Laura, but wasn’t sure if there was a purpose to her visit or if it was just a courtesy call. Not that Laura needed a reason to drop in. She went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  ‘You want coffee, Laura?’ she asked.

  She didn’t wait for an answer but began getting the cups out. Laura came into the kitchen and propped herself against a work surface, arms folded, watching Emma.

  ‘Heard from Max lately?’ she asked.

  Emma glanced at her sister, curiosity spreading over her face. ‘Yes, why?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘Oh, just wondered.’

  Emma spooned coffee and sugar into the mugs. ‘No you didn’t, Laura. Why did you ask?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t seen much of him lately. I wondered if the affair is burning itself out.’

  ‘It’s not an affair, Laura,’ Emma retorted. ‘We haven’t slept together and we haven’t had a quickie in the back of his car. OK?’

  Laura expelled a puff of air. ‘No, I suppose it would be wrong to call it an affair. When are you seeing him again?’

  Emma poured the boiling water into the mugs, stirred them and handed one to Laura. ‘He’s away at the moment. He sent me a text saying he would be out of the country for a while.’

  ‘He didn’t phone?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Sometimes a text is much simpler. He might have been busy doing something at the time.’

  Laura despaired of her sister. ‘You don’t sound too bothered, Emma. Is the flame going out?’

  Emma smiled and sat down at the table. ‘The truth is, Laura, I would like to spend my life with him, but I’m scared of falling in love again.’

  ‘Because of Ian?’

  Emma nodded. ‘The divorce should be granted next week and I’ll be a free woman.’ She looked sad. ‘I should be jumping through hoops, but I’m not.’

  Laura gasped. ‘Surely you’re not still in love with Ian?’

  Emma shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. ‘No, nothing like that
; I hate the man.’ She said it without any venom in her voice. ‘I said I was scared of falling in love again. I think it’s the commitment.’ She looked up at Laura. ‘Do I want that again?’

  Laura sat down and put her cup on the table. ‘Do you know Max, Emma? Really know him?’

  Emma frowned. ‘What do you mean: do I really know him? I’ve seen very little of him, but when I’m with him I feel so relaxed. He has always shown me consideration; something I’m not used to.’ She sighed. ‘I could happily spend my life with him, but when I’m on my own, I begin to think of how unhappy I was with Ian.’

  Laura put her hands round the mug and began twisting it back and forth. Emma noticed this and knew something was coming.

  ‘Emma, I don’t think Max has been truthful.’

  Emma’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He told you he was a journalist with the Cambridge Gazette, right?’ Emma nodded. Laura wasn’t sure how to say it, but she knew she had to. ‘I phoned the Gazette last week and asked to speak to Max.’

  Emma felt herself shrinking. ‘Why?’

  Laura looked at her sister with sympathy. ‘Why doesn’t matter, Emma, but they told me they’ve never heard of him. I’m sorry.’

  It was some time before Emma could speak, as she tried to fathom the implication of Laura’s words. There was a moment of instant rejection, denying what she had heard. Then wondering if Laura was being vindictive and deliberately trying to sabotage her relationship with Max. A lot raced through her mind until she was able to make sense of what Laura had just told her.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked her sister. ‘What for?’

  Laura twisted her mug back and forth. She couldn’t look at Emma straight away, but then she lifted her head. ‘There was something about your man that puzzled me, Emma.’ Her voice was soft but steady. ‘You told me he drove a very expensive car. You said how well he dressed. Even his casual clothes looked expensive. Now we know he lied about being a journalist. And this business about Ian calling off his threat over the divorce; you told Max and suddenly Ian changed his mind.’ She looked steadily at her sister. ‘Would a provincial journalist be able to do that? I don’t think so,’ she added.