Rigg was making a supreme effort to stay charming. ‘We appreciate that,’ he said to the solicitor. ‘We’ve got to be careful.’ He turned to smile a warning at Alison. ‘We know all this, don’t we darling. But it’s only three grand. That’s hardly going to break the bank, now is it? I can repay it in three months. Or less. Probably less.’
‘But if the worst came to the worst,’ the solicitor insisted.
‘If the worst did come to the worst,’ Rigg said grandly, ‘and we did get into trouble, we could always sell the car.’
‘Yes, of course we could,’ Alison agreed, supporting him. What a sacrifice he was offering! That car was his most precious possession, the love of his life.
‘It’s a BMW.’ Rigg ticked off the details. ‘A 325i. Touring. Power steering. We’re talking sixteen grand’s worth of car here. So the bottom line is there really isn’t any problem. That’s the bottom line.’
Mention of such serious money did the trick. The solicitor was reassured, Rigg got his way, the forms were signed. After all, what was a mere three thousand pounds compared to sixteen grand’s worth of car?
Surprisingly, when they were out on the pavement again, Rigg seemed distant and preoccupied. ‘Sorry I can’t give you a lift,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got an important meeting. You know what it’s like. You can catch a bus, can’t you?’
Alison was disappointed that he wasn’t going to drive her home but she tried not to show it. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All right.’
He was so eager to be off that he turned on his heel as she was speaking. He didn’t kiss her goodbye and he didn’t look back.
Still, she comforted herself, as she set off down South Street towards the bus station, at least the VAT man can be paid and that’s what is important. She might not know much about business but she knew you didn’t cross swords with VAT men. They had such power. They could walk in any time they liked and take your goods or your furniture or anything. She remembered hearing about one family where they took all the children’s toys. She crossed the road and quickened her pace. There wasn’t really any risk in signing this second charge. Not for three thousand, She’d been a bit surprised when Rigg hadn’t told the bank manager what he really wanted the money for, but that only went to show how worrying pressure from the VAT man could be. It was a good job done. Really. A very good job done. The only snag was that she was going to be late back. If only the buses weren’t so few and far between. And if only it wasn’t such a long way home.
Rigg reached his destination long before she did and it wasn’t either of his shops. After two sticky interviews, he needed a drink and the reassuring company of his friends, so he went straight to Ernie’s Wine Bar.
Most of the crowd were already there and well away, flushed and cheerful with booze. ‘Rigg!’ one of them shouted. ‘There you are. We thought you were dead. Where’ve you been, you old bugger?’
‘Around,’ Rigg said vaguely, heading for the bar. ‘Here and there. What’s your poison?’
Bragging voices swirled round him, cigar smoke spiralled into the rafters, the place smelt of beer, spirits and cheerful sweat.
‘Now that’s what I call a deal. Fifteen K and more to follow.’
‘A stone bonker. Can’t fail.’
‘So what you been up to Rigg?’
‘Nothing much,’ Rigg said, getting ready to brag in his turn. ‘Just secured a new loan, that’s all.’
‘Crafty sod! How much?’
‘About eighteen K, twenty if I want it. Depends.’
‘He’s a lad our Rigg,’ his admirers told one another. ‘If anyone can beat inflation it’s our Rigg. I dunno how you do it Rigg.’
Rigg stood at the bar, basking in the warmth of whisky and approbation. ‘Flair,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got flair, in case you haven’t noticed. First you’ve got to choose an advantageous position, then you’ve got to build up a good clientele. That’s how it’s done. Flair. That’s all it takes.’ Now the day could start again, and this time he could enjoy it. God knows he’d earned the respite. He’d had enough hassle in the last twenty four hours to last a lifetime. He drank his second whisky even more happily than he’d drunk the first, relaxing as it spread fire and confidence down his throat.
There was a stir of cold air at the door and, as if to set the seal on his recovery, there was his best friend Francis, tall, dark-skinned and formidable in his black biking leather, working his way towards him through the crush. His dark hair was still damp from his ride and he smelt of petrol and oil and hot metal.
‘That girl of yours at the shop is a moron,’ he said, flinging his gauntlets on the counter. ‘Said you were out of town.’
‘She knows nothing,’ Rigg said. ‘How long you down for?’
‘Couple of hours,’ Francis said. ‘Got to be back by two. Partying tonight. Large scotch, since you’re asking.’
‘Partying?’ Rigg asked, passing a fiver to the barman.
‘Yep. You on?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why not?’ Rigg said. It was just what he needed. Frankie’s parties were always a riot. He’d never known one to fail. Endless booze, constant music, disco lights to dance to and darkness to cover everything else, lots of pretty girls to impress. There’d been a page three model there last time. ‘I’ll just have to grab some readies.’
It took Rigg less than five minutes to charge down the road to Rings and Things. Despite his boasts, it was actually a small unobtrusive shop in a narrow, two-storey Georgian terrace at the least prestigious end of East Street. Its clientele was nothing to brag about either. It consisted mainly of factory workers and shop assistants on the look-out for costume jewellery or a ‘nice little ring’, or local husbands after a cheap piece of jewellery for a birthday present or to salve a guilty conscience. Consequently, the stock was designed for impact rather than style and was made of silver, marcasite or very thin gold and set with cheap, pale stones. But he ran up huge electricity bills lighting his limited wares so as to produce as much dazzle in his window as he could, and, sometimes, he would allow one of his drinking cronies to haggle over the price of some ‘choice piece’ so that he could be persuaded that he’d struck an amazing bargain.
Not that there’d been many bargains struck in the last few months. In fact more often than not the shop was empty – as it was that morning.
Norrie was perched on a stool behind the counter, reading a magazine and twiddling her hair.
‘’Lo,’ she said vaguely. But Rigg was already through the shop and half way up the stairs to the flat, leaving a waft of stale cigar smoke, burped brandy and excited sweat behind him.
‘No time! No time!’ he called back to her.
She listened as he trampled the floor boards above her head. He’s packing, she thought. Had to be. There was nothing in the flat except a bed and the wardrobe where he kept his flash clothes – all those Gucci loafers and Armani suits and things like that. So where’s he off to now? London again? Or will it be abroad? You never knew with Rigg. Sometimes he’d be away for absolutely yonks and come back with such a tan you knew he’d been somewhere glamorous.
‘There’s a lot of letters,’ she said, when he reappeared with his hold-all.
Rigg snatched the pile from the shelf under the counter and flicked through them. All bills – surprise! surprise! – and one looked as though it was a final demand from Jaffa Jewels. Well they’d all have to wait. He hadn’t the energy for any more hassle. Or the time. He opened the till and scooped out all the notes except two, scrabbled a handful of coins into his back pocket and strode through the shop towards the back entrance where his BMW was waiting.
Ten minutes later he was driving at speed along the dual carriageway towards the M23 and freedom.
After a cautious interval, Norrie nipped out to the back of the shop and opened the stable door to see if the BMW was gone.
Then she phoned Baubles to tell Kevin that Rigg had emptied the till and to ask him wh
at they were going to do about wages. Kevin didn’t have anything to offer on that except to suggest that they should ask Mrs Toan.
Norrie snorted. ‘Mrs Whimpy Toan!’ she said. ‘She knows nothing.’
Which was true. At that precise moment Alison knew less about her husband’s whereabouts than they did.
Her day had been so rushed she was quite relieved when he phoned her late that evening to say that he was in London and wouldn’t be back ‘for a day or two.’ Well at least I can get cleared up, she thought, gazing round her untidy living room. It was littered with toys and dirty tea things again.
‘You’ll be all right won’t you,’ he said. His voice was distant and off-hand so she knew she wasn’t to complain or ask for help.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit short of cash, that’s all. You haven’t given me any housekeeping for quite a long time.’
‘Well you won’t need housekeeping now, will you. Not while I’m away.’
‘Well…’ she pondered. She was always chronically short of money what with feeding the kids and buying their clothes and paying half the bills and that awful mortgage. ‘I suppose I’ll manage.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I might have to pop over to Spain for a few days to see about the flat.’
She only just stopped herself saying, ‘That damn flat.’ It had been nothing but trouble ever since Rigg bought it and he was always having to pop over ‘to sort something out.’ ‘Oh dear,’ she said instead. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing much,’ he said airily. ‘I’ll sort it out. Leave it to me. It’s a nuisance but I’ll do it. I’ve got to, haven’t I? Part of the business. You can see that, can’t you?’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ she said, trying to sound understanding and failing. She gazed round her child-wrecked living room. It’s a man’s world, she thought. He goes shooting off to Spain and all that lovely sunshine, and I’m stuck here with the dirty nappies, hours of washing up and chocolate stains all over the settee.
‘I want to talk to Daddy,’ Jon said pulling at her jersey when she put down the phone after Rigg’s hasty goodbye.
‘Daddy’s at work,’ Alison comforted because the little boy’s mouth was going square with distress. ‘You know he can’t talk when he’s working. Tell you what, let’s have fish and chips for our supper. You’d like that wouldn’t you.’
‘Ships,’ baby Emma said, smiling hugely. ‘Ships.’
‘Yes,’ Alison laughed at her, as she pulled Jon on to her lap for a cuddle. ‘We know you like them, don’t we Jon. You’d eat chips till they came out of your ears.’
‘Ears,’ Emma said, putting up both hands to feel them.
‘Have you got a nose Emma?’ Alison said, leading them both into the familiar game.
The nose was touched and named.
‘Have you got eyes?’ Jon said.
‘Eyes.’
Thank God for children’s games, Alison thought as Jon’s disappointment was played away. But, loyal though she was to her absent husband, she couldn’t help feeling that it wouldn’t have hurt him to spend a few seconds talking to his children, no matter where he was or what he was doing. If he’d wanted to, he could have taken them all with him to that flat in Spain and given them a holiday in the sun while he sorted out the problem. If he wasn’t so secretive and touchy about his work, she might have suggested it. But it was no use thinking that way either. Rigg was a free spirit. He always had been. An entrepreneur. Once he’s made his first million, he’ll calm down, but nobody will ever change him. It was part of his charm, something she had to accept along with everything else about him – early morning ill-temper, floral apologies, boundless dreams, unexpected presents and skill in bed. And he could be wonderful when he liked. Look how he’d offered to sell his car. Asking no questions was a small price to pay in return for love like that.
‘I got my coat,’ Jon said, tugging her elbow. ‘Are we going?’
A hundred and fifty miles away in Birmingham, in the offices of Jaffa Jewels, Mr Jefferson Fehrenbach was beginning to think that there were several questions he ought to be asking Mr Rigby Toan – to say nothing of the twenty other customers who were equally tardy in settling their accounts. He and his accountant were working late that night, filling in the VAT returns for Jaffa Jewels and checking the books. As they worked, they’d made a list of defaulters.
‘If you’ll take my advice,’ the accountant said, ‘you’ll send someone off to make a few discreet enquiries. A salesman perhaps.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ Mr Fehrenbach decided. One or two of his better salesmen were capable of a bit of sleuthing but the feller in Sussex wasn’t one of them. ‘I’ll put Alexander Jones on to the worst offenders.’
‘Start with the six who owe you the most,’ the accountant advised and he drew neat lines under six names and addresses.
Which was how Morgan Griffiths of the firm of Alexander Jones (Investigation and Security) found himself dispatched to Chichester and Hampton-on-Sea to investigate the trading prospects of Mr Rigby Toan.
Chapter Three
It was a beautiful day for a drive – an Easter-egg day, full of hope and innocence, the sky heaped with flamingo cloud, the trees and hedgerows laced with new leaf, the long smooth hills of the South Downs richly green on the horizon. Just the sort of day Morgan Griffiths enjoyed.
He’d just returned from a fortnight’s holiday with his family in Port Talbot, where he’d been rather cast down by the things he’d heard while he was in Wales. More pits were due for closure, two more of his cousins were out of work and Granddad was very ill with ‘the dust’, too short of breath to get upstairs and coughing incessantly. It was a relief to be back in Guildford, with plenty of work to do.
It had taken him a long time to settle into a new occupation after the accident. A broken collar bone, three cracked ribs and a fractured arm left him in too fragile a state for any heavy work – not that there was much available. In fact, he spent the first twelve months taking anything he could get; stacking shelves in a supermarket, driving a taxi, night watchman at a local cardboard factory. Then, just when he’d resigned himself to a life of ill-paid manual labour, he saw an advertisement for a ‘strong-arm man’ in a London security firm, and as both his arms had returned to full strength he applied for it and got it. It was a wrench to leave the family, but it was the right move to make. That job led to another and better, which in its turn led to Mr Alexander Jones, where he’d been ever since.
The assignment he’d been given that morning was going to be a doddle. Making enquiries about the credit worthiness of a small town shopkeeper was something he could do in twenty minutes. He would have preferred a difficult case, like his last one which had been a large-scale fraud and had taken him to central London for more than three months among seedy streets and never-ending traffic jams – and some very sharp operators. But work was work and there were always compensations. When he had sorted this one out, he planned to spend the rest of the day by the sea. It was just the weather for it.
He’d been to Chichester once before, when he first started work with Alexander Jones. He had a vague memory of a neat market town with a theatre at one end, a station at the other and a cathedral somewhere in the middle, rather impressive, with a green roof and a very tall spire. And there it all was, almost exactly as he remembered it, except that there were rather more shops shut down and the four main streets had been pedestrianised.
Rings and Things was easy to find and that was pretty much as Morgan expected it too. He stood outside the shop front and made his first notes – ‘well-stocked window, paint in good order, cheap jewellery, no customers.’
Then he went in to pretend to be looking for a bracelet and to talk to the assistant.
It took less than ten minutes to find out what he needed to know. The assistant was affable, if a little vague. She informed him that trade was ‘up and down’, that she hardly ever saw the boss and that he was off in Spai
n at the moment, taking a holiday.
‘All right for some,’ Morgan said, in his laconic way.
‘’E’s got a flat out there.’
‘Time-share?’
‘Don’t think so. I think he owns it.’
Morgan put the bracelet back on the counter. ‘Not quite what I was looking for,’ he said. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Norrie said. ‘You could try our other shop if you like. You might find something there. Baubles in the Bellingham Arcade.’
A perfunctory glance was all that was needed in the arcade. Morgan made a few more notes. ‘Similar stock, well-lit, three customers. All signs of a business ticking over.’ Now he only had to take a quick look at Mr Toan’s house and the job would be done.
But where Chichester had been predictable, Hampton was a surprise. For a holiday town in springtime it was very run-down. The main shopping street was virtually empty, and except for a large Boots next door to an equally sizeable W. H. Smith, the shops in it were mostly down-market. There were several that were struggling on with very limited stock and plainly wouldn’t last much longer. The rest of the town wasn’t much better. The pier ended in a row of broken spars, the railway station was falling to pieces, and there was litter everywhere; trodden underfoot at every kerb, spewing out of every litter bin, blowing and tumbling along the promenade. The recession was really biting here.
Rigby Toan’s house was the biggest surprise of all. ‘Turn-of-the-century fisherman’s cottage, about 40K, possibly less, poorly furnished,’ Morgan noted from the car. ‘Kid’s bike outside, secondhand. Not the home of a successful shopkeeper.’ Perhaps there was a reason for this enquiry after all. Then he got out of the car to knock at the door.
An elderly woman in an apron threw open the upstairs window of the house next door and leaned out to see what he was doing.
‘You looking for someone?’ she said.
‘Mr and Mrs Toan,’ he told her politely. ‘I have rung.’
‘He’s in Spain,’ the woman said. ‘She’s on the beach if you want to find her. Went off about half an hour ago with the kids. They’ve all got their red bobble hats on. You can see ’em a mile off.’
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