by Peter Helton
Morton had finished his starter, sipped water and smiled indulgently. ‘They didn’t have to; we knew that already. I know quite a bit about you. You do eat a lot of fish, drink Pilsner Urquell, live with a lady and ride a motorcycle. You’re also broke.’
You can go off people so quickly sometimes. ‘You don’t need a detective, after all.’
‘You shop at our store, remember? You pay with plastic, so we know about every item you’ve ever bought. Our computers work this up into a customer profile. You also buy petrol from us and the amounts suggest you ride a motorcycle. You buy items of female hygiene and the rest is self-explanatory. Lately, you have spent more money on special offers and less on luxuries, suggesting you are feeling the pinch. Many do right now.’ He had reached into his pocket and extracted a thick business envelope bearing my name in typescript. ‘You’ll find a photograph of Miss Biggs and contact numbers inside, as well as a thousand pounds to speed you on your way.’ He set it delicately next to my beer glass.
I parried his move by extricating a slightly crumpled sheet of densely printed A4 from my jacket pocket. ‘Standard contract; sign at the bottom.’
‘Of course.’ He produced a Mont Blanc ballpoint pen and made a squiggle on the bottom without reading a line of it. ‘I’m afraid I must leave you to your main course; I have a car waiting. Please contact us as soon as you know anything at all.’ He stood up to leave.
I rose too but hesitated when he offered to shake hands. ‘There’s just one thing I should perhaps mention: I don’t fly. I never use planes. Ever.’
Morton’s expression changed from businesslike to mild amusement. He grabbed my hand and shook it. ‘Then I suggest you don’t linger over dessert. Goodbye, Mr Honeysett.’
Ten seconds later he had disappeared and been replaced by one waiter who cleared away the plates and another who asked if I was ready to order my main course. I fingered the sealed envelope by my beer glass. Could this be an elaborate hoax? If this was full of bits of newspaper, then I would get a chance to put my considerable experience as washer-upper to good use. I dismissed the thought. Morton had judged me correctly: I was the performing seal of the private eye world and he had thrown me a fish.
‘Yes, I’m ready.’ There was Cornish turbot on the menu, surely worth a shift of washing-up in any man’s life. The food arrived so soon I wondered if the kitchen too had known what I would order. Only when the waiter had placed the dish in front of me and had retired did I run a casual fingernail along the length of the envelope exposing the joyous pink of a wad of fifties. The sight made me breathe more easily. I extracted the three-and-a-half-by-five-inch photograph of my quarry and propped it against a water bottle from where Miss Biggs watched me eat in black-and-white aloofness. The turbot was cooked to perfection; the herb risotto was sheer bliss.
In her head-and-shoulders picture Kyla Biggs wore short and stylish hair, a business suit and fashionable glasses. She looked as if she knew where she was going and the gaze she directed at the camera was one of energetic confidence. Shacked-up with some hairy Greek waiter she wasn’t, unless she had suffered a breakdown due to a moussaka overdose.
I attracted my own waiter’s attention – not at all difficult – and asked for the bill. ‘That has been taken care of,’ he informed me neutrally. Did I care to peruse the dessert menu?
It was painful, but Morton’s advice on not lingering seemed sound since I had a trip to plan which I’d find difficult with a dessert spoon in my hand. I managed an almost decent tip without having to pull out a wad of fifty-pound notes and walked back to the car feeling quite the bon viveur and at one with the world. They were paying me to go to where the sun was hiding, I thought jubilantly; just how good was that?
And they say fish is good for the brain.
TWO
‘Greece? Even jammier.’ Annis stirred the cauldron of soup I had left on the stove and tested the pasta for doneness, which, according to her, was a word. ‘Of course it’s a word, I just used it, and anyway, it’s done, so there.’ She heaved a steaming ladleful into a shallow bowl, broke a hunk of bread off a crusty loaf and smothered it in Somerset butter. Real Good Life stuff. I followed her example.
‘You unbelievable glutton – you just had lunch at the Olive Tree.’
‘I deliberately skipped dessert to leave room for this.’
‘And they pay you to go to Corfu. I can’t believe it. I went there, years ago; it was brilliant. So that’s your prayers answered; what about mine?’
‘Perhaps we’re praying to different deities.’ I shrugged. ‘Come with me, of course.’
‘How? What with? Your thousand pounds won’t last us long.’ She shook her head, but with a certain reluctance. ‘Anyway, I’ve just started a painting. If I leave it now, it’ll never happen.’
‘True. But the cheque from Simon Paris would do it. You could always get a cheap flight out when it comes.’
‘It’s an idea, anyway. Perhaps once I’ve finished the painting, but by that time you’d long be on your way back, wouldn’t you?’
‘All depends on what I’ll find when I get there.’
‘Are you going to look up your old painting pal while you’re down there? Does she still live there?’
‘Morva? As far as I know. I haven’t heard from her for a couple of years. I’ll see if I’ve still got a phone number for her. She might be able to help. Especially if she’s learnt a bit of Greek. Someone told Morton and Co. I spoke Greek.’
‘Did you tell them you didn’t?’
‘Forgot to mention it.’
‘Wise move. Did you mention your fear of flying? And the fact you haven’t – still haven’t – any transport of your own? How are you going to get down there, then?’
‘Good question. First I thought train, but that would leave me without transport once I arrive.’
‘You could rent a car or a bike down there, but they’ll charge tourist rates. It’s bound to cost you a bomb, especially if it takes a while to find her. Unless they’ll forward you more money, you could be in trouble there.’
Driving down was the obvious answer, yet neither of our antique conveyances would make it that far.
There was always Tim, of course. Tim Bigwood was the third leg in the shaky tripod that propped up Aqua Investigations. He helped with all things locked, anything to do with computers or gizmos, since I’m useless with those. (I can just about fiddle a lock open but I always make sure to take sandwiches.) A reformed – or so he said – safe-breaker and now IT specialist in the employ of Bath University, he completed our triangle in more ways than one. It was about three years ago now that Tim and I found we shared more than just an interest in strange ways of making a living, when we discovered that Annis bestowed her favours on us in more or less equal measure. For reasons that may have less to do with our broad-mindedness than with her persuasiveness, this triangle still survived intact. Since Annis lived with me at Mill House, it was hardly an equilateral one, so I wasn’t complaining. Much. And it did seem to work, most of the time.
I called Tim at work. His shiny black Audi TT would, of course, make short work of the journey to Greece. Tim made short work of my delusions. ‘There’s a really good reason why you haven’t got any transport, Chris, and that’s because anything you drive tends to disintegrate beneath you.’
‘That’s only because they’re usually ancient to begin with.’
‘True. But if anyone can turn a three-year-old Audi into something ancient, it’s you. You didn’t really expect to borrow the TT, did you?’
‘Not really. You don’t fancy a trip to Corfu, then?’
‘Not on what you’re paying me. Only kidding. But I do have a real job, you know? The bill-paying kind. And I can’t take a holiday for another age now. Can’t you try Jake again?’ he suggested fatefully. ‘He can usually come up with something.’
Tim was right: Jake was the obvious answer, though I probably owed the man so many favours by now that I might one day have to start wo
rking for him. Should I call him? I decided on a visit. Why give him the chance to hang up on me?
A fine mist of moisture drifted on the wind as I kick-started the Norton. There were so many layers under my leathers that had I come off the bike I might have just bounced along the road. This illusion of protection wore off less than three miles into the journey. My face was frozen by the stinging rain, my fingers went numb and the rain had found its way under my jacket.
Jake owned a smallholding a few miles outside Bath towards Chippenham, where he had originally tried to make a go of breeding ponies. The business had failed, so, with a little lateral thinking, he switched from pony power to horse power and turned his hobby – restoring classic British cars – into a business. It took off and is still flying. Jake had looked after a succession of automotive ancients for me that, according to him, could only be described as classics in the sense of ‘classic mistake’.
By the time I got there I was frozen numb. Wind and rain were much wilder up here. I was relieved to see the bright light spilling from the workshop doors and hear the sound of growling power tools. Jake’s place looked even more ramshackle than my own, though appearances were deceptive. Unlike me, he had a complete mental map of where was what and could always lay his hands on what he needed. At least, that’s what he tells me. Every available outbuilding was crammed with cars – some complete, some quietly rusting, awaiting attention. The perished concrete of the yard was littered with cars and car parts, under tarpaulin or seemingly abandoned to the elements. By now I felt pretty abandoned to the elements myself. I parked the Norton under the eaves of a corrugated iron shed and walked into the workshop. The warmth from an enormous space-heater instantly steamed up my goggles.
Jake looked up from where he was grinding showers of sparks off some car part or other, held in a vice. ‘Ha, look, it’s Biggles. Sorry, we stopped doing biplanes. You can’t get the parts, you know?’ One of Jake’s mechanics, a factotum with electric hair, nodded at me from under the bonnet of a curvaceous Bristol car and went back to work. I ignored both of them and stood in front of the roaring space-heater until I was once more in command of a full set of limbs.
By that time Jake had made tea and handed me a mug. ‘You still running round on the Norton? In this weather? You must be madder than I thought. Or are you in fact here because you have come to your senses?’
‘Well, it is and it isn’t. I’ve got a job on and the Norton just isn’t up to it.’
‘I always said a classic bike’s no transport for a private eye. It’s hardly inconspicuous, is it? And far too noisy.’
‘It’s not even that. I don’t think the bike’s going to get me there. The job’s in Greece.’
‘Nice work if you can get it. Better off on four wheels, then, I agree, but I still think a classic car isn’t a good idea . . . oh, I get it. What was I thinking? You don’t want to buy a classic car.’
‘Not really.’
‘You mean you want to borrow one. To go to Greece? You must be kidding.’
‘A woman went missing in Corfu and they want me to find her. Naturally, I want to help but, as you know . . .’
‘You don’t fly – yes, I know. Also can’t stand heights and you’re scared of dogs. You’re lucky mine have enough sense to stay indoors in this weather. So it’s the usual: you’re broke and need transport. When will you manage to hold on to enough money to buy a decent motor?’
‘Don’t know, but this could be the one. Big corporate client.’
‘Anyone we know?’
‘Can’t tell you; it’s confidential.’
‘Yeah, right.’
So I told him. I was always going to anyway.
Jake approved. ‘Hey, nice one. Perhaps they can pay you in roast beef and vintage cider.’
Each to his own. ‘Would that get me transport to Greece?’
Jake slid the grimy baseball cap off his bald head and scratched at a welding scar. ‘It just might. Times are hard and getting harder. There’s quite a few people who are mothballing their classics because they’ve turned into indefensible luxuries. Fortunately, not all of my customers think so. But everyone’s struggling. Remember my mate Charlie, the builder-stroke-brickie-stroke-handyman? He’s never been out of work since he was sixteen. Well, he is now.’
I made sympathetic noises. Whenever the economy takes a dive, sales of my paintings go down and the detective business picks up. More divorces for a start, and half of all divorces involve private detectives.
Jake brightened up. ‘But roast beef gave me an idea. An idea that means you can avoid having to eat all that foreign muck on the way, too. Follow me.’
I didn’t bother telling him that I considered foreign muck a definite bonus of this job and that my main worry wasn’t how to avoid it but how much of it I’d be able to snaffle on my meagre budget. Jake led me out of the workshop, back into the rain, across the yard and past several outbuildings. We skipped puddles in the crumbling concrete hardstanding between them until we reached what might once have been a milking shed. In its lee stood a mobile home. At least, it did if you used your imagination.
‘You can certainly borrow this. I took it in part exchange last year. It’ll be ideal for the job, don’t you think?’
Did I? The vehicle in question was a large Ford motorhome and had probably seen better days in the last century. It was whitish with broad brown stripes running around the body. ‘Does it go?’
‘Of course it goes. I wouldn’t be offering it to you, knowing what you’re like as a mechanic. In fact, the engine is sweet; I worked on it last year. Yeah, we even took her to the Lake District last autumn.’
There was a definite ‘but’ in his voice. ‘But?’
‘Sally hated it. Her idea of getting away from it all apparently doesn’t include taking the kitchen with her. It also rained and we trod on each other’s toes a lot, being stuck in the van. I’d never get her to do it again.’ He opened the side door for me. ‘Which is why I never finished doing up the inside.’
That was patently obvious. Inside, the van had everything; only the fittings had not worn well. Gift horses being what they are, I didn’t quibble. I thought it had potential. As a death trap.
‘It’s basically all here. You’ve got your bed that converts into the table and benches you see there. There’s a shower in there, quite nifty –’ he slid open a narrow door – ‘which I admit is a bit small for a grown woman like Sally, if you know what I mean.’ He opened the cupboard next to it. ‘I installed that myself – the Fretford Porta Potti Three. Actually, I’m not sure I ever emptied it.’ He hastily shut the door on it. ‘This is the fridge, which is new, and the cooker with oven and grill. Gas bottle down here. It’s all there, basically.’
The cooker proudly proclaimed its pedigree on the front of the grill: The Leisure Princess 6. I pulled out the grill pan and hastily returned it. ‘It’s great, Jake. You think this will take me to Greece?’
‘No problem. Once you put some wheels on it.’
Which is what I did in the squelching wet for the next freezing hour. Jake helped me with the last bit, getting her off the bricks. The van looked more of a viable proposition now with a wheel at each corner. Under Jake’s ministrations, the engine coughed and backfired once, then ran smoothly, sounding normal. As I started to familiarize myself with the controls, an unusually cheerful Sally turned up. Never had her eyes looked so friendly upon me. The prospect of seeing the back of the motorhome – with my track record, possibly for good – had brought her out into the rain, frizzy dark hair stuffed under a plastic hat, carrying a large cardboard box full of camping gear.
‘You’ll want this,’ she said, shoving it under the table with a gleeful expression. She didn’t hang around. ‘Say “iássu” to the Greek islands for me, Chris. Have a good trip,’ she called as she walked back to the house, with a definite rather-you-than-me inflection to her voice.
Jake had already stowed a cardboard box under the bench with the words ‘Bi
ts and bobs you might need – spare bulbs and stuff’, and now he handed over the papers. I called the classic insurance people and insured the van for a laughable sum against third party, fire and theft – the most likely being fire, considering the state of the grill pan – then stashed the Norton in the back and drove home a happy camper. I had never driven a motorhome and found that it took a lot of gas pedal, gear shifting and thoughtful cornering, but by the time I got it to Mill House I had warmed to the thing, though not literally; it was perishingly cold and I couldn’t get the heater to work. On the passenger side the seal around the windscreen appeared to be leaking, which explained the miniature lawn of algae spreading across the dash in that corner.
As I was parking the van in the yard near the kitchen door, for some reason I decided to call her Matilda. I didn’t know at the time that the name meant ‘strength in battle’. With a little more foresight, I’d have chosen a different name, perhaps one that meant ‘not so good uphill’ or ‘what are you laughing at?’
Annis stood in the kitchen door and laughed for longer than I considered polite. Derringer, the resident feline villain, appeared beside her, eyeing the new arrival with suspicion.
I felt protective towards my new charge. ‘There’s nothing much wrong with her; the engine is sound and the rest is cosmetic. Tax exempt, too.’
This brought on a fresh wave of mirth. She grabbed a raincoat off the hook by the door and ventured out for an inspection. ‘Tax exempt! It should be drawing a pension. There’s classic vehicles and there’s . . . this. I bet you a fiver it won’t make it to Dover harbour on its own wheels.’ She gave one of them a speculative kick. ‘Tyres look new,’ she grumbled, then tried the passenger door.
‘That’s stuck,’ I admitted. ‘The driver side works, though.’
‘That’s always handy.’ She opened the side door. It groaned reluctantly on its hinges. ‘We could use it as a shed, I suppose. Go park it by the barn. We’ll keep chickens in it.’
