by P. R. Black
‘Gangsters?’ Vonny’s tone was comical. But she wasn’t laughing, and neither was Prill.
‘In a manner of speaking. He was a businessman, Dan Grainger – legitimate business, anyway. His horses, of course. He bred them around here – plenty of room on the meadow to let them roam. But there were always rumours about him. His elder son, Stuart, he was killed on the street – stabbed. Happened in London. I’m not sure if they ever caught the person who did it. He was coming out of a nightclub, and someone knifed him. I think it was on the news, but not for long. The second son, Mark – he died the same night as Dan. The inquest said it was murder-suicide, that Mark owed Dan money, Dan killed him, then himself. The other son hanged himself.’
‘You what?’ They were close to the house, now. At the sound of Vonny’s voice, carrying across the front lawn, Devin’s hard-hatted head shot up from the balcony. ‘Killed himself? Where? The woods?’
‘I’m not sure which tree,’ Prill said, quickly. ‘And you’ve got a few to choose from. Put it out of your mind, Vonny.’
‘Jesus. I didn’t know this… The raffle was run by an estate agent, but we heard nothing about that stuff. Isn’t there a law, that they have to tell you when someone got murdered on the estate?’
‘Not that I know of. Maybe in America. But yes, there were rumours that Dan might have been murdered. He had powerful friends. The police turned a blind eye to a lot of things. There were raves, years ago – you remember raves? Hundreds of people on the meadow. Lights and noise all night. I don’t know how the horses could stand it. My husband went over to warn them off, and was given short shrift. Now my husband’s no shrinking violet, I can tell you that. But he knew when to back off with Dan Grainger, and he did.’
‘What was he involved in?’
‘There was a rumour he had killed people…’ Prill shook her head. ‘This is silly. I’m trading gossip. I could attach any rumour to him, and you’d never know the truth. Drugs, of course. He was connected to people in London – that’s as much as I heard. I’m inclined to believe it.’
‘You said you wanted to give me a warning.’
‘It was the car. That’s what got me thinking. You know, the one you found, the one in the paper. I think I saw him driving it now and again. Very distinctive colour, and a very distinctive type of car. You saw it around here… He used to speed up and down the road, and his sons after him. It’s just that, well… given how the car was hidden…’
Vonny felt like she’d been punched. ‘Jesus. I might as well have been putting out an advert.’
‘There was nothing in the car, was there? Nothing interesting or unusual?’
Vonny shook her head. ‘Pretty sure there wasn’t. If there was, it’s the vintage car dealer’s problem, now.’
‘Good. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. You’ve got a wonderful house.’
‘It’s a pretty simple build at its core, for all the cosmetics.’ Vonny knew this wasn’t quite true, though. There had been ego involved in this project, in getting the house just so. Vonny had ordered and constructed her dream home, using her own inheritance and Seth’s funds. It hadn’t been simple, it hadn’t been cheap, and the results were clear to see. The idea of someone turning it around, as crudely as that, with the décor she’d spent a long time designing torn apart by the new owner, caused her to twitch. One shot. Chance of a lifetime. And it has to be right.
‘Not at all. It is a grand house. You should be proud. It’s something a rock star might live in.’
‘And they might, at that! Elton might use it for a country getaway! Hey, if you were worried about raves before…’
Prill laughed, but the sound was remote, and held something in reserve. Vonny realised that she must have actually voiced a fear of her neighbour’s. ‘Well, so long as it’s not The Rolling Stones.’
As she considered the glint of light on the windows of the upper floor, something occurred to Vonny. ‘Do you remember the night the old house burned down?’
‘Yes,’ Prill said quietly. ‘We phoned the fire brigade, of course. We didn’t want to go onto their land. I wouldn’t say we had bad relations with them. They were distant, and that was fine with us. But we knew not to mess. The fire started so quickly… You could see the flames from our house. And then the paddock and stables went up…’
Vonny clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Please tell me the horses weren’t killed.’
‘No – they were found loose.’
‘Thank God.’
‘It always struck me as curious that the house was torched. The inquest found that Dan had done it, after he killed Mark. The other son, well, they think he hanged himself out of despair. No one knows why he was there that night. Mark had not long been divorced, if you’re wondering. Not the mother of the two sons, she was off the scene before he moved onto the old farm. The new wife, younger than him. Beautiful-looking girl. Maybe not the brightest. Didn’t last long. Took a lot of his cash. You can imagine. Older man, younger woman… So anyway, he was on a downward spiral. Taking lots of drugs. He’d become erratic in racing circles, too. Persona non grata, here and there. Given what they say happened to him, some of it added up, but… The second son’s suicide never quite made sense, you know. Hanging himself, when the gunfire happened… We’ll never know what happened on that night.’
Prill shook her head. ‘Anyway. I’ve said what I came to say. Dan Grainger wasn’t a nice man. He died in a terrible way, and his sons are gone, too. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. But you have to be careful. If you find anything strange on the property, anything untoward…’
‘We’ll tell the police.’ Vonny touched the older woman on the shoulder. ‘It was kind of you to come over. Why don’t we have drinks? You can come around, once the house is finished? You and your husband. The decorations will be up soon. Make it festive. Port, sherry, all the calories.’
‘That’d be lovely.’ She smiled primly. ‘Well, I’ll be off. I hope you’re happy here. I am.’ Vonny watched as Prill vanished along the track. Her tone had cooled at the end. Here was the lady Vonny had first seen directing the builders outside the house. Vonny wondered which of the pair of them had said too much.
16
Harold Dakins was lost in his work, attempting to fit a new chassis on the car, with the radio blaring in the corner of the garage, so he didn’t know he had company until he spotted a pair of shoes somewhere over his shoulder.
With his back resting on a trolley, he wheeled himself out from underneath the car, with only his head visible. ‘Hello?’
A young man with thick black hair grown a little too long appeared. He had on a biker’s jacket, at least thirty years out of style, and possibly twice as old as its wearer. The boy waved, and smiled brightly. ‘Hello there. Sorry to startle you. I was looking for Harold Dakins?’
Harold scrambled to his feet. He was a squat, broad man in his fifties with twin patches of hair clinging on above his ears, which he really should have shaved off long before now. He had on a Blake’s 7 T-shirt, bought semi-ironically at first but which was now so worn it looked like the real thing, bought by a real fan. Ancient, oil-stained jeans – which he referred to as his ‘working trousers’ – completed his look. The yellow Datsun suspended three feet off the floor by a hydraulic lift was a shrieking counterpoint to the brown-toned clutter of the rest of the garage, a riot of ancient car parts long robbed of their shine.
‘That’s right – Harold Dakins,’ he said, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘There’s a bell on the front, lad – you must have seen it.’
‘Ah, sorry, I must have missed it.’ The young guy came far too close, his hands on his hips. The boy’s biker’s jacket reminded Harold of a boy he’d hated at school.
‘Then it’s polite to knock.’
‘In actual fact… Wow. There it is.’ The young guy pointed towards the Datsun. ‘I read about that, you know. In the papers. I’m a collector.’
‘Oh.’ Harold brightened a little. ‘Yeah, I’m
just getting started on that one.’
‘It’s a beauty isn’t it?’ The young man cocked his head. ‘I mean I just love that colour. Tell me you’re going to keep the colour?’
‘Yeah, I think I will. You into the Cherry?’
‘Cherries are the best, the absolute best.’ The boy came forward, gazing at the vehicle in awe. ‘I always had a thing for Cherries. I knew a Cherry, at school. Maybe that’s the reason. We’ve all got these hidden motivations. And, my God – it’s in great trim as well, wouldn’t you say?’
‘For sure. Best I’ve seen. It was kept outdoors, would you believe, but it had been in a garage before that. Not as much rust as you’d think. Cracking piece of work for an E10.’
The young man nodded, ponderously. ‘I was just thinking that! I’ve seen some classy E10s around but this one… This one…’ He tutted and stabbed an admonitory finger at the car. ‘It’s almost naughty how good it looks, eh?’
Harold’s smile vanished. ‘It’s not an E10. It’s an F10. Quite clearly – 1977, UK model. I don’t even know the Cherry that well, but I could have told you that from about a hundred yards.’
The young man continued to nod for a few seconds, then chuckled. ‘Yep. You got me. I couldn’t have told you squat about this car a day ago. That’s a useful little nugget you’ve given me, though. I will bear it in mind. I will file it away for later use. Cherry is the name of my favourite girl at school. You never forget a crush, do you?’
‘She sounds great.’ If Harold was a little bit pleased with himself at having caught someone, anyone out, he was more than happy to display this. ‘Now. How can I help you?’
‘I am here about the car. I’ve got an interest. I mean, I am interested in buying it from you.’
‘It’s not for sale at the moment.’
‘But you do sell cars?’
‘Hey, son – the sign’s out the front. I restore cars. I get them back on the road, and looking good. After that, yes, I sell them. Probably at auction, but I could do a deal before that. I’ve got one or two potential buyers lined up already. People who love the model. That’s who I sell to. People who know an E10 from an F10.’
‘So, if I offered you market value, cash in hand, right now, that wouldn’t interest you?’
Harold licked his lips. ‘I already started the job, so I’ll see it through. But yes, I’ll listen to any offers. Once it’s done, you can take it off my hands, for the right price. Just not today.’
‘Whereabouts did the car come from?’ The young guy had gone very close to it, now, bending over to inspect the inside, through the window. This made Harold more nervous than anything; proximity to his prize. Physically, the boy was nothing to worry about. Too pretty to be a tough guy. The leather jacket was a prop, a bit like some of them used beards, these days.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘That’s not an answer to my question.’
‘Look, son, I’ve got a lot to do this morning. What to do is, take the number on the sign at the front of the garage, and give me a call in two weeks’ time. Or even better, drop me an email. You want to talk business, that’s the time to do it.’
The boy looked upset, as if he wanted to cry. He ran both hands through his longish black hair. ‘I mean, I just don’t get it – the rudeness. This is what I struggle with in people. The rudeness. We could sort all this out in two minutes flat, and yet – you’re rude. It’s a big problem in society. Big, big problem.’
‘What did you just say?’
Before the answer could come, Harold’s garage was full. Two other men appeared – one with blond hair and a piercing through his eyebrow and orange and red flames inked on his neck, the other a bulky nightmare, a lump of muscle and bone poured into a human mould and squeezed into a suit. The latter’s big ball face loomed like a wraith set loose from a cave. They had their hands on him in seconds.
Harold wasn’t much of a fighter; but it was only in the following few moments that he clearly understood this. The two newcomers pinned him to the floor. The lad with the black hair placed his boot on the side of Harold’s jaw and turned it into the floor with only a little pressure. Breathing hard, sniffing boot polish and dogshit, Harold inhaled some of the dust coating the concrete. He sneezed, so far as the boot would allow.
‘Bless you,’ said the dark-haired boy. ‘Now, where were we? Where did you get the car?’
Harold wasn’t much of a stoic, either. Or a bluffer. ‘I got it from a guy who found it in the middle of the woods, somewhere. He owns the property. He gave me a call. Asked a fair price.’
‘What’s the name? What’s the house?’
‘Guy’s name was Seth. Owner’s Vonny something. Black girl, it’s an African name. French-African, sort of, you know…’ he gibbered. ‘Kouassi, that was it, Vonny Kouassi.’
‘Vonny Kouassi,’ the young guy said. ‘I will make a note of that. And was there anything unusual in the car? Any bags, boxes… that kind of thing?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Definitely?’
‘There was nothing.’
A new voice cut in – a pleasant, almost melodic Scottish accent. ‘I think Mr Dakins needs a helping hand here, lads. Stick him on that trolley and put him under the car.’
‘Hey!’
Harold Dakins might have imagined a scenario like this a hundred times, or a thousand, in his life. He might have modelled it ending in a variety of ways. He might have thought to lift the wrench that was two feet away on top of the toolbox; he might have thrown any number of ridiculous punches or kicks. In actual fact he simply whimpered as they bore him down on the trolley, holding his legs steady, and then wheeling him head first under the car.
‘Amazing piece of kit, this,’ came the Aberdonian accent. ‘Thought you could only get these kind of lifts in garages. This is a kind of a garage, though, I suppose. Controls straightforward, aye?’
The smell of oil and grime were usually pleasant things for Harold Dakins, as was the pungent tang of petrol in the air. Now he only knew fear as the underside of the car remained poised above his head. ‘I didn’t find anything in the car. It was bare. I swear to it,’ he gibbered.
The hydraulic platform grunted. The Cherry rose an inch or two.
‘It’s responding to my touch,’ the Scottish man said, drily. ‘Don’t mind, mate, do you?’
The platform grunted again. This time, the car descended. Not by much; it seemed a test, more than anything. After one or two further coughs and stutters, the man at the controls had their measure.
He grinned, then began to whistle the bassline to ‘Under Pressure’. He punched a button, and the car descended, far too fast, the outer edge of the driver’s side door stopping an inch from Harold’s chest.
‘Christ’s sake,’ Harold said, openly weeping, ‘what do you want from me? I told you I don’t know anything about the car. If I did, I’d tell you!’
He couldn’t move. Fingers bit into the flesh at his knees and thighs. Someone else held the trolley steady. There was nowhere to go.
One more inch. The metal touched his chest. He gasped, then held his breath.
‘Promise?’ said the Scottish man.
‘Promise! Guy’s name was Seth Miller. I remember now. Seth Miller, Vonny Kouassi. It was at the old house, Brenwood Green, used to be Ryefields. You can take the car, if you want!’
‘We’ll take a look in the car, that’s for sure,’ said the Scottish man. ‘We’ll give it a good going over. You can watch, if you like. Share your expertise.’
A quarter inch; no more than the merest touch of the controls. Harold could feel it on his chest, now. The slightest pressure. An inch or two more would crack his chest cavity like a chicken carcass. He turned his head; the stink of rust filled his nostrils.
One of the other two men who had burst in said, in an obscenely excited whisper: ‘Shall we just do him in?’
There was a terrible silence. Harold imagined the finger at the button, poised.
17
The funny thing was, before the encounter, Vonny had delighted in the peace.
Even for such a bosky place, calm was unusual. Normally there was the activity of the builders, the odd shout, the tinny treble of their radio. But today was Sunday, and they had the day off. Barring the odd passing traffic on the road behind the trees and the old man’s hacking coughs of the magpies, there was nothing to disturb her.
Fears for Seth filled the empty space in her head. He had been somewhat abrupt when she’d asked him to be careful in going back to London to see for himself what kind of hole his brother Jake had managed to dig. That was unlike him, and this worried her; she didn’t think he would intervene in whatever his brother was dealing with – he simply wasn’t that type of man; he had a softness to him, no one’s idea of a hard case. However, he had his moments, usually when under stress, and she knew his background hadn’t been idyllic. She didn’t want to see him goaded. She could see him being drawn into something, provoked. Even though he gave Jake pelters, it was mostly a front; he was very protective of his little brother.
She didn’t let this trouble her. It was another chilly day outside. Vonny was a perennially busy person, but she knew when it was time to kick back. Besides, she was sick of the caravan, the tight spaces, the inevitable build-up of clutter on its limited spaces, the hair straighteners, the strewn clothes – both equally guilty, here – and the shower cubicle, either a microbiologist’s dream, or nightmare. Seth had begun to refer to it as The Tin Coffin, but this wasn’t even mildly amusing any more. She had been tempted to spend a night in the house by herself, while Seth was gone. But this seemed somehow more troubling than the idea of sleeping in the caravan alone. Besides, it felt like bad luck, seeing the night in without Seth beside her. Somewhat like spending the night before your wedding with your bride.
